When the Light Bleeds: The Fall and Rise of Lumiel Aetherion

By midsummer, the orchard's petals gave way to green fruit heavy on the boughs, and dawn found Lumiel awake long before the bells rang through Aetheris.

He no longer slept curled beneath silken blankets in his mother's sunlit chamber — that room, locked now, remained untouched. Sometimes, passing its carved doors, Lumiel thought he could hear her laughter echoing behind the marble. He never lingered there long.

Each dawn, the boy prince rose alone and dressed in simple linen tunics — not the embroidered silks the chambermaids preferred to drape him in. Today, as the first golden beams broke the orchard canopy, he found himself already in the training yard, where the cobblestones were still slick with night's breath.

A circle of white sand marked the center. Within it waited a man whose shadow had stalked palace corridors since before Lumiel's first breath: General Varcan, the Iron Wolf — Thalior's oldest hound.

Varcan's beard was streaked with silver, but no softness dulled the hunger in his eyes. A sword, broad and plain, rested across his scarred forearms.

Lumiel stepped into the circle barefoot, sandals abandoned somewhere near the gate. His fingers flexed at his sides — more used to flower stems than steel.

The general's gravel voice scraped the hush apart.

"Your Highness." He did not bow. His courtesy was in his blade. "Your father says the orchard's prince must learn to bleed before he learns to bloom."

Lumiel tilted his chin up — a child's defiance flickering under dawn's gold. "If my father commands it, I obey."

"Good." Varcan tossed the wooden practice sword at his feet. "Then pick it up."

Lumiel stooped, brushed sand from the carved grip. The weight startled him — heavier than it looked, real enough to make his thin arms ache.

From the shadows by the training gate, Caelum leaned against a post, eyes wide. He'd followed Lumiel here every morning since spring, though he was careful not to draw Varcan's ire.

When Lumiel lifted the blade, the stable boy whistled low under his breath. "Light help you, Dawnstar."

Lumiel shot him a quick grin — the brief, wild grin of a boy who might yet find adventure in the bite of wood against bone.

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The first strike came so fast Lumiel nearly swallowed his tongue. The Iron Wolf didn't ease him in with gentle taps or careful drills — he lunged with the blunt edge of his own practice blade, knocking Lumiel's guard wide, driving him back through the circle's sand until his bare heels kissed the stone border.

"Balance!" barked Varcan. "Again."

Lumiel pushed forward. The sword quivered in his hands — too long, too awkward. He parried clumsily, felt the shock of each blow rattle his bones.

His breath soon hitched, sweat running like melted wax down his spine. His palms burned. Every step backward sent fresh sand between his toes — gritty reminders that the orchard's soft grass was a world away.

A sharp crack across his knuckles made him hiss.

"Your grip is wrong," Varcan growled. He stepped closer, massive hand wrapping around Lumiel's tiny fingers, forcing them to lock around the hilt. "Hold it like your father holds his throne — with teeth bared. Or the blade will bite you back."

Lumiel nodded, chest heaving. He risked a glance toward the gate — Caelum's fists clenched around the railing.

"Again," Varcan barked. And again. And again.

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By the time dawn broke fully over the yard, Lumiel's tunic clung to him like a second skin, stained with sweat and streaks of dust. His arms trembled. His lips split from biting back grunts of pain.

Varcan watched him collapse onto his knees at the edge of the circle. The Iron Wolf did not smile, but the fire in his eyes softened by a fraction.

"Better than your father's first session. He vomited twice."

Lumiel looked up, wiping blood from a split lip. "Did he cry?"

The general snorted. "He broke three swords instead. But you—" he nudged Lumiel's shoulder with the flat of his blade, almost gentle, "—will learn to break men."

Lumiel's eyes flicked to the orchard's distant boughs, where his mother's tomb lay hidden among the shadows.

For her, he thought. I'll learn. Even if it breaks me first.

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Later, they sat together under the battered awning by the yard's well. Caelum pressed a damp cloth to the prince's knuckles, tongue clucking at each purple bruise.

"You swing a sword like you're pruning roses, Lumi."

Lumiel winced but laughed through the ache. "It will be sharper tomorrow."

Caelum wrinkled his nose. "If your father asks you to jump off the parapet, will you do that too?"

Lumiel's smile faltered, then returned — thinner this time. "If the orchard needed it, I would."

The stable boy fell quiet, folding the cloth over Lumiel's hand, thumb brushing tenderly across battered skin.

"You're not alone, Dawnstar. Remember that."

Lumiel closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the well's cool stone. For a heartbeat, the hush of steel and politics faded. For a heartbeat, he was just a boy, bruised and grinning under a summer sun.

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That night, King Thalior summoned him to the council hall.

Maps spread wide across the obsidian table again — new battle lines inked over old scars. Torches guttered low, throwing Thalior's face into sharp angles. He barely looked up when Lumiel entered, tunic sleeves still stained with training yard grit.

"Sit," Thalior said.

Lumiel obeyed, folding onto the carved bench opposite. His arms ached so badly he feared lifting a quill might snap them clean.

Thalior pushed a scroll across the table — fresh reports of skirmishes at the northern border. Names he could not yet pronounce. Numbers he could barely fathom.

"You must learn this," Thalior murmured. His voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "A prince's sword is only as strong as the hand that points it."

Lumiel swallowed. "Will you teach me, Father?"

The king's eyes lifted, pinning him to the marble walls. For an instant, Lumiel saw past the steel — caught a flicker of something weary, something broken.

"I am teaching you," Thalior said. He laid a heavy hand on Lumiel's shoulder — a grip that weighed more than the blade Varcan swung at dawn. "Every cut. Every bruise. That is how you grow strong enough to hold this throne when I am gone."

Gone.The word curled in Lumiel's chest like a snake.

He nodded. Not trusting his tongue to hold the thousand things he wished he could say.

When he left the council hall that night, the orchard wind followed him like a ghost — carrying the scent of late blossoms and the soft hush of his mother's voice, buried somewhere beneath the bruises and the steel.

Stand tall, Dawnstar. Bloom, even if it breaks you.

And above the orchard, the generals whispered — their breath rustling through marble corridors like blades drawn in the dark.