The Prince of Peculiar Plights

The high-backed velvet chair felt more like a cage than a seat of honor. Valerian Morcant gripped the edge of the mahogany table, his knuckles turning a porcelain white that matched the fine bone china in front of him.

“Val, seriously. You’re gonna snap the wood,” Caelum whispered, leaning in just enough that his shoulder brushed Valerian’s.

Valerian didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes fixed on a singular floating speck of dust dancing in the light of the crystal chandelier. “I’m fine. I’m totally zen. I’m a mountain. Mountains don’t move.”

“Mountains also don’t have magic that turns entire rooms into confetti when they get pissed off,” Caelum shot back, his voice low and rhythmic. “Deep breaths. In for four, out for eight. Remember what we practiced in the courtyard.”

“The courtyard didn’t have three hundred people waiting for me to mess up,” Valerian muttered, finally letting go of the table. He wiped his palms on his trousers. “And the courtyard didn’t have him.”

Caelum glanced down the long table. At the far end, surrounded by a gaggle of sycophants and laughing heirs, sat Osric Blackthorne. Osric was currently mid-story, gesturing wildly with a wine glass that looked far too expensive for someone of his temperament.

“Just ignore him,” Caelum said. “He’s a loudmouth. He’s got nothing on you.”

“He’s got a stable bloodline and a father who doesn’t look at him like a ticking time bomb,” Valerian said. “That’s a pretty decent head start.”

“Hey, look at me.” Caelum waited until Valerian shifted his gaze. “You’re the one who survived the Awakening. You’re the one who’s here. Don’t let some jerk with a fancy crest get under your skin. If you lose it, the Council will have every excuse they need to ship you off to the Deadlands. You want that?”

Valerian sighed, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. “No. I’d rather not spend my twenties fighting shadow-beasts in a swamp.”

“Exactly. So, eat your soup, smile at the Duchess, and keep your hands off the magic. Simple, right?”

“Super simple,” Valerian lied.

The first course arrived—a delicate cream of mushroom soup served in bowls so thin they looked like they’d shatter if someone sneezed. Valerian picked up his spoon, his hand relatively steady. He could do this. It was just dinner. A long, boring, politically charged dinner.

Across the table, a sudden burst of laughter erupted. Osric had shifted his attention.

“So, I told him,” Osric announced, his voice carrying effortlessly over the ambient music of the string quartet. “I told the professor, ‘Why bother teaching the theory of containment to someone who’s just going to leak like a broken pipe anyway?’”

The table went quiet. Several guests glanced toward Valerian, then quickly looked away, fascinated by their soup.

“You saying something, Osric?” Caelum asked, his tone deceptively light.

Osric looked up, feigning surprise. “Oh! Valerian. I didn’t see you there behind that massive floral arrangement. My bad. I was just talking shop. You know how it is—standard stuff for those of us with, well, manageable talents.”

Valerian felt a spark deep in his gut. It wasn't fire, but a strange, buzzing static that started at the base of his spine. Mountain, he thought. I am a mountain.

“It’s fine, Caelum,” Valerian said, his voice tight. “Osric just likes the sound of his own voice. Most bullies do.”

Osric smirked, leaning forward. “Bullies? That’s a bit harsh, don't you think? I’m just concerned. This is a royal gala, after all. The Queen is in the next room. It would be a real shame if someone... had an accident. Like that time in the stables? God, I still can’t get the smell of burnt hay out of my favorite cloak.”

“That was three years ago,” Valerian said. “I was fifteen.”

“And yet, here you are, still shaking like a leaf,” Osric pointed out, gesturing to Valerian’s spoon.

Valerian looked down. The silver was vibrating against the edge of the porcelain. Clink. Clink. Clink.

“Val,” Caelum warned softly.

“I’m fine,” Valerian snapped, but the static in his blood was getting louder. It felt like a thousand needles pricking his skin from the inside out.

“You know what they’re saying in the halls, right?” Osric continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was still perfectly audible. “They say the Morcant line has finally hit its expiration date. That the magic has gone sour. Like milk left out in the sun. You’re not a mage, Valerian. You’re a glitch in the system.”

“That’s enough, Blackthorne,” Caelum said, his hand moving toward the hilt of the ceremonial sword at his hip.

“Oh, let the bodyguard speak for you! How noble,” Osric laughed. “Tell me, Valerian, does he help you put your socks on too? Or are you afraid you’ll turn them into ash if you try it yourself?”

Valerian’s vision began to swim. The edges of the room blurred into streaks of gold and shadow. The static was no longer a buzz; it was a roar. He felt the curse pushing against his ribcage, a chaotic force that hated being caged, hated being silenced, and most of all, hated being mocked.

“Osric,” Valerian said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. “Shut up.”

“Or what? You’ll glare at me? You’ll cry? Maybe you’ll go running to your father and—oh, wait. He won’t even look at you, will he? Hard to blame him. Who wants a son who’s basically a walking disaster waiting to happen?”

The insult hit like a physical blow. The image of his father’s cold, disappointed eyes flashed in Valerian’s mind. The mountain crumbled.

“I said,” Valerian growled, his eyes snapping open, glowing with an unnatural, flickering light. “SHUT. UP!”

He didn't mean to release it. He just wanted the noise to stop.

The air in the banquet hall suddenly hummed with a high-pitched frequency that made the glassware vibrate. For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence. Then, a soft pop echoed through the room.

It started with Valerian’s soup.

The creamy beige liquid didn't splash; it transformed. In the blink of an eye, the mushroom cream turned into a violent, neon-pink substance that shimmered with an internal light. Then, like a virus spreading through a computer program, the effect surged outward.

Pop. Pop-pop-pop.

Osric’s wine turned into glowing turquoise sand. The roasted pheasant in the center of the table erupted into a cloud of iridescent violet dust. The bread rolls became cubes of translucent, vibrating lime-green gelatin.

Within seconds, the entire feast—thousands of gold-pieces worth of rare delicacies—had been converted into piles of brilliant, neon glitter and glowing, inedible slime.

A heavy silence fell over the hall. A stray piece of neon-orange glitter drifted down from the ceiling, landing squarely on Osric’s nose.

Caelum stared at his plate, which now held a pile of what looked like glowing blue pop-rocks. “Well,” he whispered. “This is new.”

Osric looked down at his ruined silk doublet, now covered in shimmering pink dust. His face went through a rapid succession of colors: pale white, deep red, and finally a sickly purple that almost matched the glitter.

“You... you freak!” Osric screamed, jumping to his feet. “Look at this! You’ve ruined everything!”

The guests were beginning to murmur. Some were laughing behind their hands; others looked horrified. The royal guards at the perimeter were already moving toward the table, their expressions grim.

Valerian sat frozen. The roar in his head had vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow pit of dread. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. He had turned the most important social event of the year into a child’s birthday party gone wrong.

“I... I didn’t mean to,” Valerian stammered, looking at his hands. They were still glowing faintly.

“You’re finished, Morcant!” Osric yelled, shaking his fist. “The Council will hear about this before the sun comes up! You’re a hazard! A joke!”

Valerian didn't hear him. He felt the weight of a hundred gazes pressing down on him. He felt the shame rising in his throat, hotter than the magic ever was. He wanted to run. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

Slowly, almost against his will, Valerian raised his head. He scanned the room, looking for a way out, but his eyes stopped.

Across the room, standing near the arched entrance to the gardens, was a woman. She was dressed in midnight blue, her dark hair pinned back with silver combs. Unlike the rest of the guests, she wasn't whispering to her neighbor. She wasn't laughing at the neon chaos. She wasn't even looking at Osric.

She was looking directly at Valerian.

Isolde Veyrana.

Her expression was unreadable—neither disgusted nor amused. While the room was a whirlwind of panic and glitter, she stood perfectly still, her sharp, intelligent eyes locked onto his.

Valerian felt a shiver that had nothing to do with his curse. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like a monster or a joke. Under her gaze, he felt like a puzzle she was already starting to solve.

“Val,” Caelum said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the side exit. “We gotta go. Now. Before the Captain gets here.”

Valerian let himself be led away, but he didn't break eye contact. Even as Caelum dragged him into the shadows of the corridor, he could still see her. Isolde remained there, a calm anchor in the sea of glowing neon, watching him go with a faint, curious tilt of her head.

The doors swung shut, cutting off the sound of Osric’s screaming, but the image of her stayed burned into Valerian’s mind.

The mountain had fallen, but for some reason, he didn't feel like he was buried under the rubble anymore. He felt like he had finally been seen.