No Path Chosen

The Morvain family was one of the oldest noble houses in Mirage City—and certainly among the most revered. Known for their unbroken lineage of pure waterborn blood, they were held as paragons of discipline, grace, and martial tradition.

Their legacy stretched back ten centuries, to Vandault Morvain—a legendary swordsman who once served as the royal family's personal guard. It was Vandault who pioneered the technique of flow-blade infusion: channeling elemental water through a sword to create strikes that were both elegant and deadly. His mastery became the standard by which all waterborn swordsmen were judged.

The Morvain crest—a silver blade encircled by a flowing wave—symbolized not just excellence, but purity. Over generations, the family rose from battlefield nobility to high aristocracy, commanding not only military prestige but political power within the Elemental Council. Nobleborn children from lesser houses were sent to train under the Morvain. Servants bowed twice at their gates. To be born a Morvain was not just an honor—it was a binding destiny.

But with legacy came suffocating weight.

At the center of that burden was Jeran Hans Morvain, the current patriarch. Once a prodigy of the blade, he had ascended into the Voice of the Throne path and had been personally blessed by Wyvatn, the divine Water Council. Though still in his fifties—a youthful age by elemental standards—his silver-streaked hair and weary eyes made him seem older. Not aged by time, but by obsession.

His purpose now was singular: to pass on the family tradition.

Especially to his eldest son, Servin Morvain.

At just nine years old, Servin was undergoing training most noble children wouldn't face until their teenage years. While he showed promise—manifesting water manipulation before he could speak—his control was unpredictable. His conjured water often collapsed, and every attempt to channel it through a blade ended the same way: another sword, shattered.

Each month, the Morvain family spent thousands of lin replacing broken weapons—enough to support multiple households. Jeran never spoke of the expense, but Servin heard the sighs. Felt the silence. Understood the disappointment.

"He's not improving," Jeran said one evening in the drawing room, seated beneath the ancestral tapestry.

"He needs structure. A real academy. He's stagnating under this roof."

Across from him sat Hailey Morvain, regal and poised, her beauty untouched by time. "He's a boy, Jeran. Not a soldier."

"He's a Morvain. There's no room for softness."

Their estate, built from silver-veined marble and accented with deep navy stone, was a masterpiece of classical symmetry. Designed by Hailey herself—a master of the Aestharion path—every hallway, arch, and frame aligned in perfect balance. The walls bore frescoes of sea dragons and river gods. The floors shimmered with embedded aquacrystal veins that pulsed faintly when Servin walked barefoot across them at night.

That morning, in the private courtyard, Servin knelt beside yet another shattered blade. Water dripped from his fingers, forming harmless little bubbles that drifted upward, glowing softly, then bursting.

His father stood nearby, arms crossed.

"Again."

"I can't… It won't work. The blade keeps breaking," Servin said, his voice barely audible.

"It breaks because your will is weak. Again."

Servin lifted another blade, hands trembling. He focused, trying to push water along the weapon's spine. It glowed faintly blue—then cracked, splitting cleanly in two.

He flinched.

Jeran turned and walked away without a word.

Later that day, Hailey found Servin alone by the reflecting pool, still dressed in his soaked training robes. He sat hunched, tossing pebbles into the water and watching the ripples vanish into silence.

"There you are," she said softly, voice warm—but a little too polished, like a well-rehearsed line. She sat beside him without asking. "You've been quiet today."

"I'm always quiet," Servin murmured, not looking at her.

She gave a gentle laugh and reached up to adjust her wig, fingertips lightly patting it into place—calm, practiced, perfect. "That's true."

A pause.

"Do you think I'm weak?" he asked suddenly.

She blinked. "Of course not. You're still growing. Your path will be different, that's all."

"Is that what you told Father?"

She didn't answer.

"Are you coming tomorrow?" His voice cracked slightly. "It's Sports Day. Parents can join the relay."

"Oh… Sports Day." She looked away. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I have an important engagement. I'll try to come next year—once you get into Potencborn School."

"You always say that," he said quietly.

She reached to stroke his hair, but he leaned away.

"Don't be upset," she said, smiling. But it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I care about you. You know that."

"If you say so."

"I do." She stood, adjusted her lace cuff, and turned to leave. "You'll understand someday. Morvains don't have time for feelings."

Her heels clicked down the polished stone path, rhythmically fading into the distance.

That night, Servin lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The quiet inside the estate echoed louder than noise. He had no friends—his father forbade interaction with normborns, fearing their "influence." His younger brother, barely four, was still wrapped in childhood dreams.

Servin felt himself sinking. Slowly. Quietly. Like drifting to the bottom of a still lake.

And so, he made a decision.

He rose, dressed in a simple tunic and dark trousers—no crest, no sigils, no guard. Just a boy.

Slipping through the servant wing, he crept past the eastern hall and scaled the vine-wrapped outer wall. His hands scraped against the stone, but he didn't stop. At the top, he hesitated.

If Father finds out...

But staying felt worse.

He climbed down and dropped into the night.

The streets outside were unfamiliar. Every flickering lamplight cast strange, shifting shadows. The shopping district was far behind him now. The trees here grew taller, untamed. The wind carried no trace of sea salt—only dust and distant smoke.

It smelled like freedom.

Servin didn't have anywhere to go. He didn't need to. He just wanted a day—just one day—to step away from the life waiting behind those marble walls.

As he passed a small bakery, he slowed. Through the window, he saw a family laughing while they cleaned the shop together—flour dusting the air, a child chasing bubbles from a soap bucket, parents exchanging tired but warm smiles.

A simple scene. But something about it made him pause.

He smiled faintly, almost without realizing.

They don't have much, he thought, but they're happier than I'll ever be.

A little farther down the street, he noticed a boy kneeling beside a black street cat. The boy whispered something, then carried the cat toward the back of a building. With practiced ease, he lifted it up toward a ventilation grate.

The cat slipped inside.

Seconds later, a door creaked open from the inside—and there was the cat, greeting the boy with a soft purr. The boy grinned and handed it a treat from his pocket.

Servin blinked, surprised. "Smart. How do you even train a cat to do that?" he murmured.

After a few minutes of wandering, Servin arrived at Cirquefaire Street—a vibrant avenue overflowing with lights, color, and noise. The entire area pulsed with life, even at this late hour. It was a wild blend of carnival chaos, circus wonder, and festival joy—acrobats flipping above tightropes, street performers juggling fire, children laughing on spinning rides, and musicians playing flutes that seemed to summon sparks with every note.

Servin stood at the entrance, eyes wide.

He had never been here before. Not even once.

For a moment, the weight of the Morvain estate—the silence, the rules, the cold marble walls—vanished.

A smile spread across his face. His eyes lit up with awe.

He stepped forward without hesitation and rushed to the ticket booth. Without thinking twice, he emptied almost all the money in his pocket, keeping only a small amount tucked away for food.

"I'm gonna play everything!" he shouted, loud enough to turn heads.

People nearby looked over, surprised by the boy's sudden burst of excitement. His pure blue hair shimmered beneath the overhead lights—and just like that, whispers began.

"Is that a Morvain child?"

"Look at his hair... that shade's rare."

"What's he doing out here alone?"

Servin noticed the stares. Felt them.

His joy faltered for a brief moment.

He turned toward a nearby souvenir stall, grabbed the first wig he saw—a messy black one—and held it up to his head.

He turned slightly toward the glass of a nearby game booth. Amid the flickering reflections of lights and candy-colored bulbs, he caught a glimpse of himself—blue eyes, pale skin, black wig crooked on his head.

For a second, he didn't look like Servin anymore.

He looked like her.

The thought made his stomach twist. He reached up, adjusting the wig more carefully, then tore his gaze away from the glass.

"I'm not hiding for vanity," he muttered. "I'm hiding so I can breathe."

But the echo of her image stayed with him.

Just as he began to pull it over his hair, a strange stillness crept over him. The noise of Cirquefaire continued—bells chiming, laughter rising, drums beating in rhythm—but it felt like the sound had moved a step away from him.

He glanced to the side.

A figure stood beneath a flickering banner, hood drawn low. Another leaned against a post near the edge of the crowd. A third one was half-lit behind a curtain of falling confetti. None of them moved.

But all of them were facing him.

His chest tightened.

They're watching me.

The wig slipped into place. He turned quickly and melted back into the flow of people. The warmth of the crowd was oddly comforting, like armor made of noise and movement. He didn't dare look back.

If they were Morvain agents, they'd call him by name. If they were something else... they wouldn't need to.

One of the watchers slowly tapped a thin, gloved finger against their owl shaped mask. The gesture wasn't threatening—but it wasn't casual either.

He began burning through his tickets one by one—every ride, every game.

He rode the spinning tower and screamed the whole way down. He tried a ring toss and missed every throw, then laughed so hard his stomach hurt. He raced a mechanical seahorse ride against a group of normborn kids and lost on purpose just to hear them cheer.

Even when he stepped into the extreme ride—a tumbling wheel of lights that spun upside down—he hesitated at the entrance. His hands trembled. He almost turned back.

But then he remembered: I'm not in the estate anymore.

And he climbed aboard.

He screamed the whole time—but he was laughing too.

At last, with only one ticket left, he arrived at a crooked old sign that read:

"The House of Whispers"

Below it, in smaller print:

If you scream, they'll know your name.

It was a haunted house.

Servin paused at the entrance. The building seemed older than the rest of the carnival—its paint peeling, its windows fogged. But something about it pulled him in.

He took a breath.

"Last one," he whispered to himself, stepping into the dark.The door creaked behind him. Inside, the air smelled like damp wood and candle wax.

And then it shut.