The North Wing of the Argentine Imperial Palace was where the sun went to die. While the central spires reached for the heavens, gilded in dragon-gold and white marble, the North Wing was a skeleton of gray stone and weeping moss. It was here, in a room that smelled of old parchment and cooling ash, that Livius Mortem von Argentine lived his life as a shadow.
Livius stood before a tarnished silver mirror, staring at the reflection of a boy who shouldn't exist. His skin was the color of winter moonlight—pale, almost translucent. His hair was a deep, midnight black, a stark contrast to the fiery reds and shimmering silvers of his half-siblings. But it was the eyes that carried the curse. They were a piercing, molten gold, glowing with a faint, predatory light even in the dimness of the room.
In the Argentine Empire, these eyes were the "Empyrean Gaze," the ultimate proof of the Dragon God's bloodline. Legend said that those with black hair and golden eyes were the direct incarnations of the Dragon God's will. They were destined for the throne. Yet, for Livius, they were a target painted on his back.
"Grandmother," Livius whispered, his voice steady despite his young age. He turned to the corner where an elderly woman sat, her hands gnarled like tree roots as she mended a threadbare cloak. She was the only person who had looked at him with love instead of greed or fear. She was a commoner, a retired servant who had taken in his mother—a low-rank mage who had been nothing more than a passing whim for the Emperor.
"Do not reveal them, my little dragon," the old woman rasped, her eyes milky with cataracts. "To the world, you are a mistake. To the Princes, you are an obstacle. Stay in the dust, where it is safe."
Livius nodded, though his heart felt like a cold stone. He pulled a hood over his head and applied a subtle "Veil" spell—a trick he had taught himself from discarded grimoires. To any passerby, his eyes would appear a dull, unremarkable brown. He wasn't just hiding his face; he was hiding his destiny. He had no desire for the golden chair in the central palace. He had seen the way his father, the Emperor, looked at his children—not as sons or daughters, but as tools and weapons.
"I am going to the archives," Livius said. "Vaelin expects me."
He stepped out into the drafty hallway. He walked with a silent, measured gait, avoiding the floorboards he knew would creak. He had lived seventeen years in this palace, and yet, if he disappeared tomorrow, not a single guard would know his name. He was the Ghost of Argentine, and for now, that was exactly what he needed to be.