“The Mask of Fire”

  I was born into a family where every child is a continuation of the bloodline.

  Not just a family—a fire dynasty, its roots reaching back to the era of the first kings.

  Five children.

  Five future heirs.

  And I—the youngest.

  My older brothers were examples for the entire Empire:

  — one was a knight whose name every swordsman in the city knew,

  — another managed the southern farmlands, a man whose word could silence an entire hall,

  — the third was our father’s right hand, the one who carried the family on his shoulders,

  — the fourth was a diplomat whose speech weighed more than any sword.

  All of them—strong.

  All of them—confident.

  All of them—worthy bearers of our flame.

  I grew up in their shadow.

  Our house often hosted guests—lords, dukes, generals, advisers.

  They sat in the great hall, drank, talked about politics, intrigue, land, wars.

  And every time, my father told the same story:

  about our ancestor, one of the twelve Knights of the Circle.

  — His flame, — Father would say, — burned so brightly that enemies were blinded by it. And his honor shone brighter than steel.

  I listened in awe.

  But he spoke of me the least.

  At eight years old, I entered a school where only children of the “properly born” were admitted.

  It was a world of masks.

  A world of shine.

  A world of falsehood.

  No one needed the real you.

  To be respected—you had to agree.

  To be feared—you had to be stronger.

  To be noticed—you had to be louder, brighter, higher.

  That’s how my mask was born.

  And over time, it became my face.

  He appeared suddenly.

  Ordinary.

  Clean, but simple.

  No jewelry, no entourage, no surname that made the floor tremble.

  His family—farmers, newly arrived.

  A na?ve smile.

  A quiet hope in his eyes.

  The class rejected him instantly:

  — not from here,

  — not like us,

  — filth among nobility.

  And I turned away too.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  That’s how I was taught at home.

  That’s how everyone around me lived.

  That’s how children of high blood behaved.

  But a week later, the impossible happened.

  He became the best.

  The best in history.

  The best in mathematics.

  The best in basic magic.

  He grew every day.

  And I stood still.

  And for the first time, I felt a strange, searing fear:

  What if he destroys my image?

  What if he’s better than me?

  What if blood means nothing?

  One day—me, three of my friends, and an older student—stopped him at the exit.

  We took his books.

  Mocked him.

  Said cruel things.

  Then my friends started beating him.

  Brutally.

  Painfully.

  Without remorse.

  And I…

  I stood there.

  And watched.

  Not out of fear—out of shock.

  It was so wrong that something inside me began to crack.

  But I didn’t stop them.

  And by that, I became the same as they were.

  The next day, he was expelled.

  They said he “attacked first.”

  We knew it was a lie.

  But it was a convenient lie.

  A week later, I saw him again.

  He was sitting on a hay cart—dirty, exhausted.

  His eyes were red with tears and rage.

  When he saw me, his gaze turned to fire.

  I approached to apologize.

  It was the only right thing I could do.

  But he didn’t let me.

  He kicked me—hard, with his boot, straight in the face.

  — That’s for everything! — he shouted.

  And ran.

  Not far—my brother saw the scene and got furious.

  He chased after him and beat the boy until he could barely stand.

  And the next day, that family’s farm burned down.

  They left.

  Forever.

  I don’t know if it was a coincidence.

  But from that day on, I knew:

  I know who I don’t want to be.

  But I didn’t know who I wanted to become.

  When I turned ten, I entered the Grand Academy.

  All my brothers studied there.

  None of them made it into the elite class.

  But I did.

  Father was proud for the first time.

  My brothers congratulated me.

  I felt like I had finally risen.

  But then I saw the list…

  Zenhald Helvard.

  Son of a minor baron.

  I frowned.

  How could a commoner pass where I stood?

  How could he stand beside me?

  It hurt.

  Hurt like someone had thrown mud onto our family crest.

  But water changed everything.

  I didn’t understand it.

  It irritated me.

  It felt alien.

  And he—Helvard—

  explained it as if he’d been doing it his whole life.

  Simply.

  Precisely.

  As if he already knew the answers.

  And it worked.

  For the first time in my life—something other than fire.

  In that moment, I saw in him:

  not a rival,

  not a threat,

  not a commoner—

  but a person.

  Capable.

  Knowledgeable.

  Intelligent.

  My mask cracked again.

  And with every lesson—another crack.

  He became someone you listened to without disgust.

  Someone whose words you wanted to hear.

  Someone worth competing with.

  Something else irritated me.

  The way the princess looked at him.

  How often she spoke to him in whispers.

  How much she trusted him.

  She—the future queen,

  a genius of four elements,

  the symbol of the Elyrian Empire.

  I wanted to be the one whose words she listened to.

  The one she respected.

  The one who stood beside her.

  Not for love—I was promised to another girl.

  But for recognition.

  To be seen.

  I wanted attention.

  I wanted pride.

  I wanted to stop being my brothers’ shadow.

  But then…

  Something strange happened.

  When we studied water magic—Zenhald helped everyone.

  When ice magic—he explained what even the instructor couldn’t put into words.

  When blood magic—he showed what we struggled with for weeks.

  Every lesson, he gave knowledge.

  But people stopped respecting him.

  They used him,

  smiled at him,

  as long as they got what they wanted.

  And then…

  They turned away.

  Dismissed his words.

  Laughed behind his back.

  Stopped listening.

  And I turned away too.

  Because that’s what everyone else did.

  And he…

  He didn’t seem to notice.

  He showed no anger.

  No pain.

  He simply kept moving forward.

  Not for praise.

  Not for attention.

  Not for recognition.

  And I understood:

  there was no mask on him.

  He was simply himself—and that was enough.

  He didn’t strive to be better for others.

  He strove to be better for himself.

  And then it hit me:

  that’s exactly who I want to be.

  Not the fire of my bloodline.

  Not my brothers’ shadow.

  Not a noble’s mask.

  But a person who walks his own path.

  And I stopped seeing him as a commoner.

  I saw him—

  as an equal.