Darion Veynar had always suspected that life had a personal grudge against him.
He never said it out loud, of course. He was far too polite—and far too tired—for dramatic complaints. But the evidence was everywhere.
Most children worried about scraped knees, failed exams, or angry parents.
Darion had cousins who treated humiliation like a hobby.
An uncle whose smile could probably melt steel.
And a universe that seemed to enjoy testing his patience in increasingly creative ways.
By the age of ten, when his father, Emperor Kael Veynar, fell ill, Darion understood two very important things.
First, the universe had a terrible sense of humor.
Second, "survive at all costs" was not a motto. It was a lifestyle.
⸻
It started subtly.
His cousins, who had mostly ignored him before, suddenly became very interested in his life.
They commented on everything.
His posture during training.
His sword grip.
The way his boots sounded on palace floors.
Even the way he held a cup.
Valen, his eldest cousin, was especially talented at being annoying.
One morning during fencing practice, Valen spun his blade dramatically and smirked.
"Really, Darion," he said, "are we supposed to believe you'll ever hold a weapon without cutting your own foot off?"
Darion didn't even look impressed.
"Better than cutting the empire in half with your stupidity," he replied calmly.
The training general, Thoren, standing nearby, grunted in approval.
For Thoren, that grunt basically meant a standing ovation.
⸻
As the years passed, the small jokes turned into bigger problems.
His cousins started "accidentally" misplacing his weapons.
His food portions were swapped.
Servants were told strange rumors about him.
Training equipment sometimes failed at very dangerous moments.
It was no longer teasing.
It was strategy.
Behind it all was his uncle, Lord Malvek Veynar.
Malvek didn't just bully people.
He orchestrated things.
Politics was his favorite game.
Bribes, threats, rumors, insults—he used everything like musical notes in a grand symphony of ruining Darion's life.
He also made sure Darion's tutors were… unhelpful.
Some were bribed.
Some were threatened.
Some suddenly decided Darion was a hopeless student.
Malvek would often smile and say things like:
"Darion, you look tired. I hope it isn't contagious. I would hate for the court to become weak because of you."
Darion would bow politely every time.
"I will try to keep my illnesses private, uncle."
Malvek always smiled wider after that, like a man enjoying a very slow and very expensive revenge.
⸻
By the time Darion was twelve, things had become dangerous.
Training platforms collapsed.
Practice weapons malfunctioned.
Threats were whispered where no one else could hear them.
Everything was carefully planned to make him look weak, unlucky, and incompetent.
Darion learned an important lesson very early:
Survival is not about being the strongest.
It's about knowing when to talk, when to act, and when to smile while someone is trying to stab you.
⸻
He did have a few allies.
General Thoren, a battle-scarred veteran who looked like he had fought every war in history personally, often muttered things like:
"Still alive, boy. Barely. But alive is something."
Darion once replied while fixing his training stance,
"Barely is an optimistic word for someone who just survived a collapsing platform and an angry cousin."
"Optimism is for idiots and exiles," Thoren said.
"You qualify for both."
Darion took that as encouragement.
⸻
Then there was Calvek, the palace butler.
Calvek remembered everything.
Who insulted whom.
Who bribed whom.
Who spilled wine on which ambassador ten years ago.
If information was a weapon, Calvek was a walking armory.
One afternoon he said while polishing a ceremonial dagger,
"Your cousins are whispering about you again."
Darion groaned.
"Do you ever have good news?"
Calvek thought for a moment.
"Good news is a myth. Like loyal nobles or good tea in the royal kitchens."
⸻
The palace itself felt like it was plotting against him.
The marble halls were too long, too white, too perfect. Every footstep echoed like a reminder that someone was always listening, always watching. The chandeliers floating near the high ceilings adjusted their brightness automatically as people passed, but somehow they always seemed to shine directly into Darion's eyes, as if the palace itself wanted him exposed, visible, unable to hide.
Even the air felt heavy with whispers. Rumors traveled faster than sound in this place.
But the palace was not just marble and light.
It was power.
And power always had a sound.
The sound came in the form of marching boots.
A formation of palace soldiers moved through one of the grand corridors, their steps perfectly synchronized, armor gleaming under the artificial sunlight streaming through the massive glass panels. Their armor looked ancient at first glance—layered plates, engraved crests, heavy shoulder guards—but faint blue lines of energy ran through the metal like veins of light.
Each soldier carried a weapon that looked like a spear at rest, but Darion knew better. With a twist of the grip, the spear could extend into a beam lance, or split into a long-range energy caster capable of firing concentrated plasma bolts across a battlefield. Their swords were the same—elegant blades that could ignite into cutting beams or fire arcs of energy like projectiles.
Old style.
Ancient design.
Modern destruction.
Guns existed, of course, but they were considered foreign, inelegant, almost dishonorable. Projectile weapons were for mercenaries and border worlds. The empire preferred weapons that looked heroic while killing you.
The soldiers marched past Darion without stopping.
Without saluting.
Without even slowing down.
They looked straight ahead, as if he were just another noble boy wandering the halls instead of the emperor's son.
Darion watched them pass and felt nothing.
Not anger. Not humiliation.
Just confirmation.
Power did not belong to titles.
Power belonged to whoever gave the orders.