Immortal Foundry

The room hung in silence, thick and suffocating as the aptitude gem lay inert in Hayden’s trembling hands. The flow had flickered and faded, leaving only a dull sheen on its surface, the magical potential it sought…absent.

Hayden’s stomach twisted in shame, the weight of his failure pressing down on him like a block of granite. His gaze stayed fixed on the gem, willing it to light again with familiar brown and silver hues, unable to meet the eyes of his father or anyone else in the hall.

From his seat on the dais, Garrick Harstan remained frozen for a moment, his face a mask of control, so much like his elemental affinity, but the tension in his jaw was unmistakable. His hands, resting on the stone armrests of his chair, curled into fists.

“Clear the hall,” Garrick said suddenly, his voice low and commanding. Whispering rose among the court as shocked attendees realized they were being dismissed. “Everyone, leave. Now,” the Count repeated with anger coloring his voice.

Immediately, silver clad knights appeared from the edges of the hall, repeating the Count’s command and ushering those too slow to rise.

There was a hesitant shuffle from the gathered nobles and advisors, who exchanged cautious glances but dared not question their liege lord’s command. One by one, they rose and quietly filed out of the chamber, the ever present knights ushering them through.

When the last visitor left, the heavy doors closed with a deep thud, leaving the hall almost empty save for the family, their knights, and the Royal Assessor, who stood unmoving near the dais.

Garrick’s cold gaze shifted from Hayden to the assessor, his anger barely contained beneath his composed exterior. “Try again,” he ordered, his voice sharp as steel.

The assessor, who had remained silent through the dismissal of the lesser nobility, now raised an eyebrow, his amber eyes glittering with something unreadable. The tension in the room grew palpable. House Harstan and the royal family had long been at odds, a rivalry that had simmered for years. Yet the assessor maintained his calm, though it was clear from his expression that he did not appreciate being commanded by anyone outside of the Royal Court.

“My lord,” the assessor began, his voice clipped, “the test was administered correctly. There is nothing more—”

“I said, try again,” Garrick interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. “We will not question this boy’s future based on one failure.”

The assessor’s lips pressed into a thin line, a hint of irritation crossing his otherwise impassive features. He glances at Lady Elira, who sat silently beside her husband, eyes downcast, worry evident in her expression. After a tense pause, the assessor nodded stiffly and gestured for the aptitude gem to rise once more.

The enchanted gemstone hovered in front of Hayden again, its swirling lights muted, as though it already knew the outcome. Hayden’s heart pounded in his chest as he reached for the gem again, his fingers brushing the surface. He silently pleaded for the gem to show something, anything—for a spark of magic to redeem him.

But there was nothing. The gem remained dull, its surface unmoved by his touch. No light. No flicker. No magic.

Hayden let his hand fall away, his chest constricting as the shame of failure burned hotter than before. The vast room seemed to shrink around him.

The assessor’s voice cut through the silence like a knife. “There is no magical potential, Lord Harstan. The test has concluded.”

Garrick’s face tightened, his knuckles white against the stone arms of his chair. He waved dismissively. “You can go.”

The assessor bowed stiffly and turned, striding toward the door without another word. The sound of his robes sweeping against the floor echoed through the hall as he left. The moment the door thudded shut behind him, Garrick stood abruptly, his towering figure casting a long shadow across his son.

“What are we to do now?” Garrick muttered, his voice strained with barely concealed frustration. His eyes flicked briefly to Hayden, then away, as though even looking at him was an effort.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, from beside Garrick, Eldric, Hayden’s second-oldest brother leaned forward in his seat, his voice low and blunt.

“When a forging fails,” his tone matter-of-fact, “There’s nothing to do but melt it down and begin anew.”

The words hung in the air like a cold slap. Hayden felt his breath catch in his throat. He hadn’t been very close with his older siblings, they were all too busy helping his father run the realm, but he was still their blood. Eldric hadn’t even looked at him when he said it. His brother spoke as though Hayden was an object—something broken and discarded, not worth the effort to fix.

Hayden looked at his father, but the Harstan patriarch either hadn’t heard his son, or didn’t bother to reply.

“That’s not fair, Eldric,” Thalia interrupted, her voice sharp. She shot her brother a glare before turning to their father. “Hayden still has his place in the family. He may not have magical talent, but there are other ways he can make himself useful to the house. He should be trained for a more practical role—there’s always a need for stewards and advisors.”

Her words, though meant to sound reasonable, felt like another blow to Hayden. Useful. Not brilliant like Cailan, not a potential heir to the magical legacy of House Harstan like Aidan. Just useful—someone to fill a menial role because there was nothing else he could offer.

“Useful…” Hayden repeated the word in his mind, his thoughts growing darker with each moment. His whole life, it had been expected that he would rise to greatness like the rest of his house. As the seventh son of a seventh son, it was thought he would unlock powers beyond even what his siblings had achieved. Now he was reduced to the possibility of being a steward, a role so distant from ascendancy it felt like a punishment.

“Nothing has changed, Garrick,” Lady Elira said softly, her voice breaking through the tense conversation. She looked at her husband, her eyes calm but filled with sadness. “He is still our son.”

Hayden clenched his fists, the words echoing in his mind. Still their son. But not worthy of being anything more.

“Unfortunately, mother,” Aidan spoke for the first time, his voice serious and muted. “Everything has changed. I don’t know the last time someone in our house was born mundane—”

“Never,” Cailan, the resident scholar, unhelpfully interrupted.

“Still,” Aidan continued. “Hayden will be a liability to our family.” The eldest sibling started listing out potential scenarios on his fingers. “He can be more easily captured and held hostage, he can’t contribute to the financial and political influence of our house, he can’t be married to a scion of another noble house, and he can’t even perform the most basic crafting tasks our house relies on for income.”

Aidan stopped listing items and spread his hands helplessly. “He’s my brother, but I don’t see how this is anything but a complete disaster for our house.”

Hayden’s mind raced. What use could he be? What skills did he even have? He couldn’t forge like Eldric, couldn’t manipulate gemstones like Aidan, couldn’t weave souls like Seraphine. He had nothing.

The more he thought about it, the more the walls of the room seemed to clone in on him. The more the voices of his family blurred together, speaking as though he wasn’t even there.

“Still our son—still my brother,” they said, but all he heard was failure. The whispers of the court, the murmurs of those who had watched him fail, replayed in his mind over and over again. No magical aptitude. Mundane.

Hayden couldn’t take it anymore. Turned abruptly, barely aware of the shocked glances his family exchanged as he sprinted for the exit.

“Hayden!” His mother’s voice called after him, but he didn’t stop.

He pushed open the heavy doors of the court hall, not even waiting for the knights to open them for him, and raced down the corridor. His footsteps pounded against the stone floor like hammers against an anvil, as if he could somehow outrun the shame that clung to him. All he could think about was getting away—away from their pity, their judgment, their whispered discussions about what to do with him, as if he weren’t a person anymore, just a problem to be solved.

The cold air hit him as he reached his chambers, slamming the door behind him. He collapsed onto his bed, his mind spinning with anger, frustration, and despair. He wanted to scream, to break something, to do anything that would make the ache in his chest go away. But instead, he buried his face in his hands and wept.

All he could think about was getting away from here—getting away from them.