Void Lord and his Harem Stars

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He began to do everything. Fetching firewood from the frozen sheds. Carrying water from the well before dawn. Cleaning ashes from the hearth and scraping dried herbs off the rafters while others in the manor above slept soundly beneath silk blankets and carved ceilings.

Even the servants who passed by the cottage lowered their eyes when they saw him. Some turned corners to avoid him. Some mumbled prayers under their breath as if his shadow might bring bad luck to them. He did not know their names and they did not want to know his.

But the ring stayed.

It pulsed from time to time,softly. A faint warmth that throbbed against his skin like a whisper in the dark. It did not glow or sing or speak but it reminded him he was not entirely alone. Not every day. Not every month. But just enough to make him feel like something was waiting, like something remembered him.

He had asked the midwife once, Why does it do that?

She had stared at the silver band around his finger, her eyes full of things she had never said. Her mouth moved for a moment before she finally spoke.

"It is older than this land. Passed through your blood. That much I know."

He just nodded, unsure what it meant. Then he asked, "Without you, why does no one talk to me?"

"Because they are afraid," she said.

"Afraid of what," he asked back.

She did not answer. Her mouth closed and she never opened it again about that subject.

On his tenth birthday he waited all day in silence. The sky outside wept rain through the cracked thatch. The wind made the shutters groan.

No one came. No knock at the door. No candles, No fire, No bread, Not even a spare potato. The midwife slept through most of it coughing and muttering in her dreams.

No one remembered. Not the midwife, not the manor, not even the servants who walked by the cottage on the path outside without glancing at the window.

Except the ring.

He lay on the edge of the cold hearth staring at the ring as it pulsed. That night, it glowed brighter than ever before. And in the silence, he heard something new.

A whisper. Not loud. Not clear. But present. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding. The candle in the room flickered once and went out.

He waited in the dark, hand clenched around the ring. But the voice said nothing more. He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, and wondered if he had imagined it.

The truth would come later. Not in a flash. But in the slow, grinding turn of years. Until one day, the voice would return in full. And this time, he would be ready.

The years between ten and fifteen passed like a long, gray season. There were no celebrations. No festivals. No gifts. The midwife's hair turned white, her back bent like the old tree behind the cottage, and her footsteps grew slower with every winter. John took over everything. The cooking. The chopping. The patching of the roof whenever it leaked in the rain. He learned because there was no one else. No one came to help. 

By the time he was twelve, the nobles in the manor no longer ignored him.

They began to notice him.

It started with glances from the windows whenever he crossed the courtyard with a sack of grain or a bucket of water. Then came the whispers. The laughter. He heard his name spoken behind hands. Bastard. Dirtblood. Cottage brat. Names that dug into him like thorns.

One day, while passing through the back gardens on an errand, one of the elder sons stopped him.

It was Julian White.

Firstborn of the Duke. Tall, handsome, confident. His silver and navy uniform shimmered with magical embroidery. A golden chain hung across his shoulder. Everything about him screamed nobility.

He stepped in front of John with a smirk on his face. "You walk with your eyes too high for someone born in filth," he said.

John held his tongue. He didn't respond. He never talked with any of his half siblings.

Julian tilted his head. "Are you proud, bastard? Do you think your blood gives you rights to live here?"

John shook his head. 

"Then why do you look at this place like it belongs to you?"

Before John could respond, Julian slapped him.

SPAT! 

It was fast, unexpected. A sharp crack filled the air. The pain bloomed across John's cheek instantly. He tasted blood at the corner of his mouth.

Julian laughed. "Learn your place, low born."

That night, the ring pulsed again. This time, it felt warm. John sat awake, watching the glow in the darkness. No voice spoke. But something stirred beneath the surface. Like a breath held back, waiting for the right moment.

He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in years. He promised himself that we won't cry. He will be strong. Strong enough to earn respect from those who look down on him.

At thirteen, his chores were doubled. The midwife could no longer stand without help. Her breath wheezed when she spoke. Often for days she didn't leave bed at all. John took care of her, just as she had once taken care of him.

She taught him old stories when she could. About the founding of the kingdom. The rise of magic. The hearts of people that could forge Circles of power.