Part I — Before the Silence
Alex woke to silk sheets and a ceiling painted with constellations.
For half a heartbeat, panic seized him.
This was not his room.
The air smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment instead of stale energy drinks and dust. Sunlight filtered through tall arched windows, pale and gentle, warming his skin. Somewhere beyond the walls, bells chimed—deep, ceremonial, nothing like an alarm clock.
He inhaled sharply and sat upright.
His body felt wrong.
Too light. Too small.
He raised his hands. Slender fingers. Smooth skin unmarred by calluses. Long black hair spilled down over his shoulders like ink, catching the light. When he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet barely touched the floor.
A child.
No—me, a voice whispered, not quite his own.
The memories struck without warning.
Not as a flood, but as a slow, merciless tide.
Alex von Luthien.
Fourteen years old.
Youngest son of Duke Luthien, one of the highest-ranking noble houses in the Aurelian Empire. A family so old its name was etched into the foundations of the capital itself.
And a twin.
Azrael von Luthien.
The realization settled heavy in his chest.
Twins.
In the empire, twins were never a blessing.
They were an omen.
Alex pressed his hands to his temples as memories continued to surface—soft at first, almost tender.
He remembered warmth.
A nursery flooded with sunlight. Two cradles placed side by side. A woman with gentle eyes and a noble bearing lifting him into her arms, smiling down with pride.
"My little prodigy," she had called him.
His mother.
His father, tall and stern, had watched from a distance—but even his sharp gaze softened when Alex spoke his first words far too early. When he traced runes in the air before he could properly write. When tutors whispered behind gloved hands about unprecedented talent.
Alex had been praised.
Loved.
He remembered sitting at a polished desk, legs swinging as a mage-scholar struggled to hide his awe.
"Again," the man had said, voice trembling. "Show me again how you solved it."
Alex had redrawn the formation perfectly—from memory.
Azrael had clapped beside him, blue eyes shining, white hair glowing like spun silver.
"Brother, you're amazing!" Azrael had said, laughing.
Back then, Alex had smiled.
The memories shifted.
Playgrounds of manicured gardens. Wooden swords. Knights-in-training pretending to be heroes of legend.
His older brother—three years his senior—had ruffled his hair roughly.
"Don't think too hard, runt. You'll miss the fun."
His older sister—four years older—had looked down at him with an amused smile.
"You should stop scaring the tutors, Alex."
She had sounded fond.
Back then.
Alex's chest tightened.
Because the warmth didn't last.
The empire had rules.
Ancient ones.
When twins were born to a noble house, one was said to be favored by fate.
The other… cursed.
No one knew what form the curse would take.
Madness.
Death.
Calamity.
And when Alex turned nine, the whispers began.
It started small.
A maid hesitating before entering his room. A tutor flinching when Alex grew frustrated. A noble guest watching him with thinly veiled unease.
"They say one twin must pay the price," voices murmured behind tapestries.
"Have you seen his eyes?"
"Red, like spilled blood."
"Too intelligent. Too quiet."
The first time Alex noticed something was wrong was at a banquet.
He had solved a complex magical theorem aloud—correcting a senior arcanist without malice. The hall had gone silent.
Not impressed.
Afraid.
His father had cleared his throat sharply.
"That will be enough, Alex."
No praise followed.
No smile.
That night, Alex lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening as servants whispered in the halls.
"—has to be him."
"Azrael is so warm, so kind."
"The black hair, the red eyes… it's obvious."
The next year was a slow descent.
Friends stopped inviting him to play.
When he approached, conversations died.
Children who once laughed beside him now stared with open suspicion.
His older brother's teasing grew sharp.
"You going to curse us, freak?" he sneered one afternoon, shoving Alex hard enough to knock him into the dirt.
Alex didn't cry.
He just stared at his hands, trembling.
Azrael watched from a distance.
For the first time, he didn't step in.
At ten, the engagement was announced.
Alex remembered standing beside Azrael in formal attire, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect.
He had been engaged to the princess since infancy—an arrangement born of his genius and the house's political leverage.
The court murmured.
Then the Emperor spoke.
"In light of recent concerns," he said carefully, "the engagement shall be… revised."
The words echoed.
Revised.
Azrael stepped forward.
The princess smiled at him.
Alex felt something inside his chest fracture.
That night, he locked himself in his room and cried until his throat burned.
He was ten when he went to his sister.
He remembered it vividly.
Her chambers smelled of perfume and candle wax. She sat at her vanity, brushing her hair, when he entered—eyes red, hands shaking.
"Sister," he whispered. "I didn't do anything wrong, did I?"
She turned.
Looked at him.
And laughed.
Not a soft chuckle.
Not awkward discomfort.
A full, mocking laugh that rang off the stone walls.
"Oh, Alex," she said between giggles. "You really don't understand, do you?"
Something died in him then.
He left without another word.
After that, the cold set in.
He stopped trying to please.
Stopped correcting tutors.
Stopped smiling.
Azrael flourished.
Friendly.
Charming.
Where Alex was once praised, Azrael was now celebrated.
And when Alex withdrew, Azrael noticed.
He began to prod.
To whisper.
"You know," Azrael said one day, voice gentle, "people are just scared of you. If you acted normal, maybe they wouldn't be."
Normal.
Alex stared at him, red eyes hollow.
"I am normal," he replied quietly.
Azrael smiled.
But there was something sharp behind it.