A Worthless Crown

It had always been like this.

I was seven years old when Lord Vista, my father first truly broke me. I had been a happy child till then, I lived my life in the clouds. The most I could complain about was the boredom of an unchallenging life and my broken toys.

The room was cold, colder than any room in the estate should have been. Dark stone walls loomed around me, a single candle flickering in the corner, causing our shadows to dance like monsters. My small hands trembled as I attempted to pronounce the syllables of the spell, hidden in a page of the book that I had long forgotten.

The spell was far too complex, the test had been that way on purpose. I looked at my father briefly, he had never been this way before.

My father stood behind me, his presence like a thousand needles on my back. He did not sit; he watched, arms crossed, eyes sharper than the steel blades showcased on the walls. I could hear his breathing, quiet and measured, while my breaths were desperate and shallow. My lips moved silently as I tried to form the words of the incantation.

Each syllable felt wrong, foreign, slipping away from me like water through my fingers. My memory was poor, I hadn't taken the test seriously enough, how could I? At just the age of seven, expectations had never been so egregiously high.tw

"Pathetic," his voice cut through the silence like a knife. "Again."

I flinched but obeyed. My surroundings blurred as tears welled in my eyes, but I dared not let them fall. I bit my lip until it bled, forcing myself to speak the incantation once more. Nothing happened. The candle fire briefly went out, as if to scream out my failure. My father relit it, his movements rigidy and crooked, as if to show his shock and frustration.

Father moved forward, his boots echoing with each step. I tensed, waiting for the inevitable. His hand gripped the back of my neck, not hard enough to leave a mark, but firm enough to remind me of my place.

"Do you understand what you are?" he asked, voice low.

I nodded quickly, my throat too tight to speak.

"Say it."

I swallowed. "A Vista. Heir to the city. Blood of royals."

"And what does that mean?"

"I don't know." I whispered. "Lucky?"

His grip tightened briefly before he let go. I dared to glance up at him. His face was carved from stone, the look in his eyes darker than the walls around us.

"It means power. Power is not given," he said. "It is taken. Earned. Fought for. You disgrace your bloodline when you sit here sniveling like a common child. Do you think our name alone will protect you? The prince could use this spell at the age of four, this is shameful."

I shook my head, trying to stop tears from falling.

I looked into his eyes and felt small. Insignificant. He expected everything for what I was expected to become, and I was failing him.

"You have a weak core," he continued. "I have consulted the instructors. Even your mother cannot deny it. Dark red. The fourth stage. At your age, the crown prince was already approaching the sixth. Do you understand what that means?"

I nodded. It meant I was falling behind. It meant I was a disappointment.

"It means you are nothing," he said. "Do you think the people will respect you when you inherit this city? Do you think the capital will bow to you because you were born lucky? No, Fraero. They will rip you apart. They will feast on your weakness like wolves. And I will not watch my bloodline crumble because my son is weak."

His words struck deeper than any physical blow could have. My chest burned with shame, but I forced my face to remain still. Crying was weakness. Weakness invited more pain.

"Stand up," he ordered.

I scrambled to my feet. He tossed a tome toward me. I caught it awkwardly, my arms too small to hold it properly. He drew his own, sleek and black, humming faintly with magic.

"Defend yourself."

My heart raced. We had done this before. It always ended the same way. I prepared to release my signature spell and he did the same.

"Shards of darkness!" I yelled, as I incantated the runes in my head.

"Power of Earth." He muttered and before I could finish incanting the runes it was over.

I had prepared to release a simple spell but he was faster. His rock bolt came from above, forcing me to block. The force knocked me backward, my arms stinging. He advanced, relentless, each bolt stronger than the last. I stumbled, tripped, and fell hard onto the stone floor. My tome clattered away.

"Get up!" he roared.

I tried, but my limbs felt heavy. Before I could rise, his boot pressed against my chest, pinning me down to the cold cobble below.

"This is your future," he said, voice cold and final. "If you cannot fight, you will die. If you cannot control your magic, you will die. If you are weak, you will die. And I will not mourn you if you die weak and worthless."

He stepped back, allowing me to breathe. I lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, pain radiating through my ribs. The tome was still out of reach. My hand twitched toward it, but I knew the lesson was over.

"Leave," he said, turning his back to me.

I rose slowly, my body trembling. I limped toward the door, each step heavy with defeat. Before I left, I glanced back one last time. He was already at his desk, flipping through documents as though I had never been there.

It had always been like this. These sessions went on for years until he became so overloaded with work that he had to hire a tutor.

I closed the door behind me and pressed my forehead against the cold wood. My vision blurred again, but this time, I let the tears fall. Quietly. Where no one could see.

I was Fraero Vista. Heir to the city. Blood of the House of Vista. I could not be weak and let my magic training falter.