Kasimir woke up in his bed as usual. The room was cold, but his body trembled with energy—restless, excited. He barely slept through the night, but none of that mattered now.
"Today is the day!" he shouted.
The maid stormed into the room, still in her usual attire. Her steps were quick, practiced, and precise.
"Young master! We have only one hour before your lessons begin! Hurry, my lord."
She whisked him up and carried him off to the bathroom. She bathed him, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and combed his hair—wrapping it neatly in a towel before presenting his clothes. Each piece was tailored, elegant, and bore the Asheensteel sigil:
The Flamebound Star—a radiant, six-pointed symbol formed from interlocking silver blades. Serrated edges reflected their war-forged legacy. At the center burned a crimson flame in the shape of a sword, symbolizing inherited will and divine conviction.
She dressed him swiftly and stepped into the corridor. As she carried Kasimir through the manor, he couldn't help but daydream.
'Magic… it won't be long now. I'll finally learn it.'
His thoughts wandered back to yesterday—the image of a chair forming from thin air, built entirely of ice. Real magic. It hadn't been a trick. It was real.
As they reached the heavy door at the end of the hall, the maid looked down at him and smiled.
"Young master, I wish you a good and happy first lesson."
She opened the door.
Inside stood Lax Asheensteel.
His cold, blue eyes met hers first, then settled on the boy in her arms. "Thank you," he said simply.
She bowed, turned, and left the two of them alone.
Kasimir's heart beat faster as he looked at his uncle, but before he could speak, Lax began:
"Eyes up. Shoulders straight. Feet apart."
Lax moved across the room and demonstrated. Kasimir followed quickly, mimicking the stance with surprising ease.
"Good," Lax nodded. "Now. Who was the third patriarch of the Asheensteels?"
Kasimir blinked, but the answer came quickly.
"Varon Asheensteel. The one who shattered the Iron Chain Rebellion."
Lax raised a brow. "And what exactly was the Iron Chain Rebellion?"
He waited. Kasimir hesitated—his mind scrambled, but the answer escaped him.
"I… I don't know," Kasimir admitted.
Lax exhaled, a flicker of memory tugging at his thoughts…
"So, who was the third patriarch?"
"Lax, do you know the answer?"
"Shut up, Barius—we're gonna get punished again."
"You rascals! Learn our ancestors. Learn our history!"
"You idiots…"
"Uncle?"
"U—"
The voices from decades ago faded.
Lax cleared his throat. "Forgive me, I lost focus. Right, the rebellion."
He stepped forward and began to speak with purpose.
"Five thousand years ago, the Western Continent was ravaged by the most brutal internal war in its recorded history. It began in the early Anamea territories. Vassal families, envious of the Primordial Bloodlines, rose in rebellion. They were many. We were few."
"One by one, Primordial Houses fell… but a handful survived. We were one of them."
"Our third patriarch, Varon, was the bearer of a Mythical Pactbound Entity. He led the charge. For ten days and ten nights, he held against their army. In the end, he broke them—and carved our name into the bones of history."
Kasimir stared up in awe.
"But it wasn't without cost," Lax added quietly. "Varon's own cousin, Tirand Asheensteel, betrayed him. Fed secrets to save himself. As a result, Tirand was executed. Remember this, Kasimir: blood must answer for blood—but betrayal shall never wear the family name."
Lax looked into Kasimir's eyes.
"And never forget: power is abundant. But power without restraint is a beast. Power with restraint… is an Asheensteel."
A flick of Lax's hand summoned three ice sculptures from the floor. Two were men in regal armor; the third was a veiled woman holding a scepter.
"These two," Lax gestured, "are kings of vassal kingdoms. The woman is a high priestess of the Arcane Church."
"At a banquet, one mistake can start a war. Nobility without awareness is suicide. Show me how to greet them."
Kasimir followed each instruction: shallow bows, reserved gestures, perfect posture.
Lax corrected where needed, then continued:
"Royalty expect a formal kneel—but we are Asheensteels. We bow only to our patriarchs, matriarchs, or the graves of our dead. That is our right."
He paced slowly around the sculptures.
"Do not speak unless spoken to. Wait until the host or highest noble lifts their fork. Never reach across the table with your mouth full. And always meet a toast with eye contact and a nod."
Kasimir followed, absorbed in every word.
After twenty minutes of formal drills, Lax snapped his fingers. The ice sculptures shattered into frost.
"Now," he said, "we begin the core of today's lesson."
Kasimir leaned in.
"Asheensteel traditions. Geography. And—yes—magic theory."
Kasimir's eyes lit up like fireflies.
Lax began again.
"First: family customs. You know the basics, but they must be ingrained."
"In our hierarchy, juniors always stand when a senior enters. Meals do not begin until the eldest lifts their fork. Kneeling is reserved only for our patriarch, our matriarch, or the grave of a fallen kin."
He turned to Kasimir again.
"We do not betray one another. Ever. Secrets may be held from the world—but never from our family."
"And marriage requires approval. Either from the current patriarch, or a high-ranking elder."
Kasimir nodded, breath held.
Lax's tone turned colder.
"Betrayal leads to name erasure. They become… nameless. Once Asheensteel. Now nothing. In rare cases, execution."
Kasimir was still.
Lax didn't soften.
"Our combat etiquette is strict. Duels are permitted, but must end with first blood. Killing one another is forbidden—unless war demands it. Even then, we grant our kin the right to speak their final words."
"And those who spare enemies that defile the family? Heretics."
Kasimir swallowed.
"Next: the Flamebound Assembly. Our family heirloom. Beneath every seat at that sacred table lies a rune. Only those of true blood—or those taken by blade oath—may sit there."
"Silence reigns during the wine's serving. Elders speak. Juniors listen."
"And every toast ends the same way…"
Lax held up the family crest—The Flamebound Star—and recited slowly:
"Ashes fall. Flame remains. We do not break. We do not betray."
He turned to Kasimir.
"Do you know what this means?"
Kasimir stood proudly. "Each blade in the star represents a founding bloodline. And the flame? Our eternal oath."
Lax nodded, but continued:
"Do you know why our names are not written in the halls of glory until we are dead?"
Kasimir hesitated. "Why?"
"Because the dead cannot betray."
"An Asheensteel is remembered not for power… but for loyalty."
Lax paused, then offered a faint smile.
"When your father was eighteen, our elders were at war. A cousin of ours—Viran—was ambushed by Velkhar forces. Your father—barely a Soul-Forged Bearer—went to rescue him."
Kasimir's heart jumped. "My father…?"
Lax nodded. "He and Barsan fought their way in. They hadn't spoken to Viran in four years. But blood… calls for blood. Even when it's inconvenient. Even when it costs everything."
A distant memory surfaced in Lax's mind—
"Lax! Barsan! They've taken Viran!"
"Barius, we're barely bearers! What can we even—"
"We're his blood. That's all that matters."
Back in the present, Lax smirked to himself.
'Barius, you fool. I helped you… you just didn't know it.'
He turned back to Kasimir.
"Alright. Time for the next lesson."
The room dimmed. The chandelier flickered out.
With a sweep of Lax's hand, a glowing map projected above them. Mountains, cities, and rivers came alive in light and color.
Kasimir's eyes widened in awe.
"Now… you'll learn where you stand."
Lax's finger pointed to a crimson territory.
"The Anamea Empire. Our homeland. Guarded by the Stormwall Range and powered by ancestral veins."
He pointed again.
"The Arren Kingdom. Our vassal state. A buffer zone. A breeding ground for bearers. You were born here."
The map shifted.
"The Velkhar Empire. Northern aggressors. Beastlords. Siege spirits. No restraint—only conquest."
A desolate realm flickered beneath it.
"Terrha Kingdom. Their vassal. One foot in blood, the other in ash."
Then came purple and gold.
"The Arcane Dominion. A theocracy, not an empire. Ruled by belief."
A towering cathedral shimmered.
"The Arcane Church governs them. They train casters who believe they were chosen, not born."
Kasimir frowned. "They use holy spirits, don't they?"
"Correct. But divinity often walks a razor's edge… and delusion lies just beneath."
Then Lax pointed to the glowing citadel at the center of it all.
"The Contract Bearer Academies. Sacred ground. Founded by our ancestors… with help from beings I dare not name."
"No empire touches them."
Kasimir stared.
"So anyone can go?"
"If they're worthy."
Lax snapped his fingers. The map faded to mist.
An icy chair formed beside him.
"And now, Kasimir," he said with weight in his voice, "our final topic…"
Kasimir's eyes gleamed.
'Magic.'
Lax smiled faintly.
"Magic Theory."
…
To be continued…