The Stilled Prince: A Game Of Blood

Roots, Steel, and Scorn

Rhaegar's face was stone-cold as he stared at his mother, her chest was rising and falling weakly as the king weave the healing threads into her.

Deep down, he blamed himself for every bit of this mess, the war that happened years ago, the fall of Elyria, his mother broken body. It was all because of him.

He felt guilty every time he remember the story of what happened that eighteen years ago. The guilt knocked the wind out of him like a punch to the gut.

He had not asked to be born with these three powers. He had not asked for the kingdoms to turn on each other, or for the blame to stick to him like a curse. An eighteen year old should not have to carry the weight of a shattered continent, but here he was, blaming himself for everything that has happened.

He bit his lower lip hard and walked over to the high bed and leaned his back against it to steady himself.

Even if they were able to unstilled him today, it might not matter. King Hadrian had shattered his essence first, that core spark inside where magic flowed from.

Without fixing that, he will only feel the power humming in his veins but will never be able to channel from it.

If your essence is broken, you can't channel but you can still feel the power inside you but when you are Stilled, your can not feel the power inside you because it has been block.

And his mother... she was dying slowly in front of him, her days already numbered as a result of those secret attempts of her trying to fix him.

He could not do a damn thing about it. Angered flushed through Rhaegar as he felt useless.

He let out a deep breath, forcing the anger down. "What about the Fortress of Light?" he muttered, his voice low but loud enough for the people in the room to hear.

The room went dead silent. The king paused, his eyes shifting. "Are you sure about that, son?"

Rhaegar nodded right away. "I'm sure. I want to do it."

The queen's head snapped up. "No, Rhaegar. It's too dangerous."

"Please, Mother," he said, leaning forward. "I have to try. At least give me that."

The master healer stepped closer, his brow furrowed. "Prince, are you certain? You might not walk out of the Fortress the same. Or never walk out at all."

Rhaegar shifted his eyes to the master healer. "I'm not letting anyone decide my future without a fight."

Silence fell again as everyone was in deep thought. They all knew the stories about the fotress of light. Of everyone who had gone into that ancient place seeking to mend what magic could not, only one of them had come back. And he had never been the same. He was lost to the raving madness, his mind was damaged beyond repair.

After what felt like forever, the king spoke softly. "You truly want this?"

Rhaegar nodded lightly. He had to. If he stayed Stilled and broken, the throne would slip from their family. Elyria's people would not crown a powerless king. And if something happened to his parents... he would be the first target. Easy pickings for anyone with a grudge.

The queen pulled away from the king and turned to Rhaegar, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it tight, like that warm motherly grip that always cut through every walls. He forced a smile. "I'll be fine, mama."

She didn't speak but just nodded, her eyes glistening. The king watched them as pride showed on his tired face. He thought for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. If you really want this, I support you."

Rhaegar's eyes lit up, a real shine of hope cut through his face

The master healer smiled faintly, bowed low, and left, leaving the family alone.

The king and queen sat on the bed with Reynold. The king patted his shoulder again, his voice gentle like he was passing down hard-earned wisdom. "No matter what the outcome would be, know that your mother and I are always proud of you. A true healer is not defined by power or levels. Power can be stripped away, but knowledge? No one can cut that from you. I have seen channelers burn out, their weaves failing them in time of need. But a traditional healer never burns out. That is a healer no one can Still."

The queen jumped in quick. "What your father means is, you do not need the Source to be great. No matter the outcome, you'll take traditional healing and sword fighting seriously, right?"

Rhaegar nodded. "Okay. It's fine by me."

"Rest now," the king said. "School tomorrow."

The queen tousled his hair with a soft laugh, and they both stood, heading out.

Rhaegar watched them go, then pushed off the bed and walked into his personal room. He stared at the sword hagging on the wall for a moment beforw he grabbed it, pulling it free and gripping it tight. "My destiny will not be defined by you, Hadrian Voss," he muttered through clenched teeth. "I'll hunt you down until everything is avenged."

***

The next morning, Rhaegar put on a simple clothes and headed out of the palace with two guards following him. He hated the being followed, but arguing with his parents about it was pointless.. They would not let him leave the palace unprotected.

He was heading to Groveward public School. Elyria has two public school(Groveward School & Starbalm Academy) and one school of college.

As he stepped through the gates, different heads turned to his direction. Students bowed slightly as he passed, murmuring "Your Highness."

He nodded back with a forced smile, keeping it polite. Deep down, he knew it was all because of his father title. If he was not the prince, these kids would not even give him a second glance. A Stilled nobody? Forget it.

Since he could not channel, his classes were just traditional healing class first which is mixing herbs and poultices, then private sword training in a quiet field with his tutor.

He walked into the healing classroom, where students were already at their tables. He took a spot quietly in front of a table.

Each table had a glass case with a big rabbit inside, a nasty cut across the side of the rabbit. Five small bottles of mixed herbs sat beside it.

The lecturer paused as Rhaegar settled in, then continued. "You've got five herb mixes here and a dying rabbit with a wound. Three of those mixes, combined right, will seal the cut when applied. Figure it out, mix them, and treat the surface. You've got about ten minutes before the rabbit's gone."

Groans immediately sounded through the room, faces twisting like they had been slapped.

The lecturer shot them a look. "Quit whining and get to it."

More grumbles sounded but they started picking up bottles, sniffing, guessing.

Rhaegar's eyes shifted over the five. He grabbed the first, popped the lid and smelled. He set it to the left. Then popped the second one and set it to the right side. He popped the third one too and set it to the right. Fourth one to the left and the last one to the right.

He slid on a glove after setting them aside, he then cracked the glass case open just enough to eye the rabbit's wound, it was a deep. He swapped one bottle from left to right, then dumped the three rights into a bowl and stirring them quick.

Being Stilled had forced him into this world of herbs years ago. He was damn good at it now and he could ID any mix by scent alone, knew what healed what without the source.

Most kids were still fumbling and arguing over the smells, when the lecturer's voice cut in right behind him. "Look at this. Prince Rhaegar's already got the right mix in under a minute."

Different heads popped up, eyes on him.

She added, "See how serious he is? That's how you do it."

A snort came from across the room in a mocking tone. "Of course he is fast at this crap. He is the Stilled Prince who relied on herbs all day. Why bother with traditional junk when you're from Elyria? Real healers channel from the source, not play with weeds."

The class erupted into laughter.

Rhaegar lifted his head slow as his eyes landed on the voice who just spoke. A smirk was visible across the kid's face.

Rhaegar just stared back without a word.

*****

Note from the Archives of Oros:

​"The greatest folly of the Age of Weaving was the belief that the Source was the only path to power. We forgot that before the first thread was spun, we survived by the soil and the steel. A channeler without the Source is a lamp without oil—pretty to look at, but useless in the dark. But a man who knows the roots and the blade? He does not need to wait for the sun to rise. He brings his own fire."

​— Excerpt from 'The Manual of the Unseen Path,' Author Unknown