1 Mageroot, source of despair

It all started on a rainy day. Another one during which Arthur Aethersworn, prince of the Tashran kingdom, was to fulfill his mission, procreate. He had to make the next heir to the throne.

He was locked in his ridiculously large room as per usual.

He wore a snow-white suit with golden embroidery, it was impeccable and fitted him on every point. The contrast with his blue eyes was intensified further by his pure white hair, the mark of his bloodline. He was peacefully flipping the pages of a long novel, while heavy drops of rain poured against his source of light, a stained glass depicting the royal emblem.

The piece of art represented a white lion with a diamond-shaped mane looking down on everything.

Next to him, a petite woman was moving stuff left and right after inspecting each magnificent piece of clothing she had at hand, she seemed ready to point out something important.

Her fast-paced walking was strange to the point her difficulty to walk with high heels was obvious.

"Are you not getting bored? Not doing anything annoys me to no end. Besides never having the chance to lay my hand on you, I'm getting tired of trying on those dresses."

She was one of the many mages sent by the king to help his son accomplish his only objective, and she was getting irritated by his unwillingness. Arthur wouldn't bother asking for her name, the next day, there would be another woman in his room anyway.

Heaving a sigh, the prince did not bother to look above his book, he pointed at a door, a dozen meters away, and muttered. "Then go and take a bath. Use all the soap you want."

But the woman stomped her feet after lifting the many flaps of her dress to ensure the righteousness of her reaction. "I don't want to! Am I not pretty enough? Why are you not even looking at me? Do you know how much time I needed just to get ready for this day? My prince, you are about to deceive the king!"

Even with a few wrinkles and anger reshaping her face, she was still one of the most beautiful women on the continent. Her skin was perfect, her health too and the pristine white teeth that decorated the fake smile she had to put on were perfectly symmetrical, it enhanced her flawless body.

'I know you are faking it all, but there's no need to yell at me.' He thought.

The man clicked his tongue and loudly closed his book, he sat on his bed and took a deep breath. His words were as cold as his glare. "Are you not enjoying your time in the castle?

You can do anything you want here, as long as you don't touch me. Plus, you get to go back home with a royal outfit of your choice. Is it not better than never going back home?"

The woman's facade faded. As if all the efforts she put into her facial muscles stopped at once.

"I mean, I have hobbies too but they're mortal to my invitees. It's not my first time doing that, I can make you guilty of anything I want and make you pay for it myself."

Unsheathing a short makeshift knife from under his sleeve, he pointed it at his wrist, then his throat. "See? Nobody will believe you which is why it's that easy to get rid of you. Please remain quiet from now on, until the sun touches the horizon. I was immersed in this story and now I can't even recall the name of the main character..."

He rolled up his sleeves before resuming his reading.

His forearms were covered in tiny, slim scars, and the mage's eyes widened when she noticed all weren't entirely healed. Her breathing pace slightly accelerated when she spotted one of the newest marks near his wrist.

Flipping a page, Arthur focused on his book anew. 'I rarely have a tantrum this explosive, they're surpassing themselves this time...' His frown slowly dissipated.

Arthur often used the creative minds of his mistresses to be given a break. It was the best he had come up with in years, he knew his face was immaculate and envied by every woman of the kingdom that only heard of it. Letting ideas around his cruelty germinate into one's mind was his favorite tactic to procrastinate the time his usefulness would be no more to his father.

His days were paced with the visits of his hundreds of mistresses, once per day, he was to give one a chance to become a queen, all of them were devoid of feelings. The few sentences they were allowed to let out of their mouths were written down on a contract and the many scenarios where one could complain were created by an author, working all day in the same palace, a few hundred meters away.

Once he was left alone, he leaned his back against the door leading to the main corridor. 'Those walking wombs are bothersome. And the ones who believe I don't know every one of their words don't come out naturally are despicable.'

He took a feather out of his desk and scribbled in the book he kept all day. 'This one did not react either, no fear for her life or dread from my offensiveness. She gave up her argument like most did.'

Thousands of pages were scribbled with fancy handwriting, depicting the mages' behaviors in his presence. The first pages were covered in scratches, it was but the start of his diary at first, but it soon transformed into a scientific booklet for search purposes.

Ironically, the title of the book he was using was entitled 'Love at first sight'.

'One day, they'll surprise me, I hope so.'

There was no way to tell if they enjoyed their stay in his room, or the few activities he planned. All they had to do was fulfill their mission but none managed to in years. They were women only in appearance. What laid under their stone mask was a merciless soldier raised by the only House of Mages, the kingdom's magical army.

Years ago, the first time a woman other than his relatives or maids entered his room, he instantly made the mission fail for his host. The shock of seeing a new face, of smelling something different in years, and becoming eager to meet every blurry silhouette that walked in the street, the ones he daily saw afar from his balcony, that shock, broke his mind for a week.

A second woman came, he was shocked as well, he was cautious with every word he uttered, however all he saw in return was hesitation, reluctance to let the conversation flow.

The threatening feeling that crept like her fingers up his forearm made him panic anew.

It happened a third time, but this time he was the one using an unwilling tone. They all refused to talk about the other women and themselves. They were just pretty dolls ready to satisfy him.

When the prince turned toward his sisters for advice, they had blatantly let him know that his failure as a mage had spread to his capacity to handle the kingdom.

He was doomed to make a child that bore the magic gene, the one he lacked.

Mages were born with a dormant capacity that woke up by the age of two. The entire kingdom led the families to sell their children to their motherland, for millennia, it had gone smoothly for the willing mothers only.

As for the reluctant ones, they noticed sooner or later the unbalance in their child's mind that pushed the powerful kids to show off their power, destroy properties, or worse, kill someone.

Even though the royal couple were both mages, only five out of their six children became one. The one who inherited most of his traits from his father and took the life of his mother during labor was incapable of using magic.

The mageroot, an invisible core that let the flow of the world enter the body, was present in every living being on Pazuut. The ability to use it, however, was much more complicated.

The dozen times Arthur was strapped on an experimentation table did him no good, and all it resulted in was a drastic weakening of his mageroot. To Uther Aethersworn's eye, his son was the most prodigious definition of a failure.

His current main issue was that he was nearing the end of adolescence. He was to appear to the public by the age of twenty, however, he was to either show a miracle, a magical power that could even a mountain, or the next heir before he reached his second decade of existence.

He was born to be a shame, born to portray the fall of a kingdom, or so it's how his sisters often told him.

Each second he was confined inside his room was time well spent studying the specimens that were daily sent.

Before sleep, as per usual, he picked up his knife and carved another mark on his forearm.

He carefully said the formula that allowed him to ignore any pain and accomplish his evening ritual.

'Never will they compare me to the tyrant they call a king. Never will they tell me who to be, never shall I bend to the ill will of this world.'