Innocence is subjective, and power always has its price--so his elders told him. Silas Blane is destined for greatness. Born into an elite family with many skeletons in the closet, he learns to harness his inherent shamanic powers and finds purpose...
When Castor turned three, he joined the nursery at Silvring Hall.
Though I outwardly tolerated his presence, I despised him. He was a playful child, and irritatingly good-natured. No matter what I did to get him in trouble, he never held a grudge. Instead, he followed me everywhere, laughing and throwing his small arms around me. He called me 'Si', only able to say the first syllable of my name, and it peeved me.
Worst of all, everyone else adored him. Even Mrs. Lancier carried him around on one hip, and talked to him sweetly.
I never liked being coddled. I was a Blane, and we deserved only the most decorous respect. Castor was young, but he didn't behave like a son of our esteemed name.
I avoided my brother whenever I could, and spent most afternoons outside, training my mastiff to fetch and retrieve. I hoped Duke would become a reliable companion on my seasonal hunting excursions with Father.
As I grew older, I tried to remain important in Father's eyes. I craved success more than anything, and the status and influence which were my birthright.
Father took me on many of his business trips, traveling between the homeworld, Luna, the orbital colonies, and Mars. I met the most powerful people in the worlds, and learned how my family was connected to them. In time, I discovered who our allies and competitors were. I made myself indispensable to Father, and he prepared me for a pivotal career in Blane Industries.
On a bright morning, when I was eight, Father and I boarded our family's private shuttle. Our valet and a robotic staff accompanied us. It was a streamlined vessel, of the chromed and curvilinear style popular among the off-world colonies. Glimmering arcs and ridges adorned the fuselage, wings and tail swooping in graceful crescents toward the fusion rocket cowlings.
I chose my favorite seat beside the circular viewing window. While the valet adjusted my restraints for the launch, I watched the ground crew rushing about outside. I still wore my protective glasses, as my condition had never been cured. The doctors had long since given up on the idea of eradicating it, and instead focused on perfecting the eyewear. My current pair bore round filtered lenses, mounted into enhanced frames.
Duke lay at my feet, panting loudly. I was allowed to bring him this time, which pleased me.
Father took the seat across from me, suave and composed in a dark blue three-piece suit. His tie was of the rusted brown hue belonging to our company's standard.
My woolen brown plaid knickers were buckled at my knees, with a matching belted jacket and flat cap. I wore a rust tie like Father's, and the robots had polished my laced boots to an immaculate shine.
We often conversed about the agenda for our imminent meetings during these flights, but Father was distracted. The graying points at his temples had splintered further into the glossy perfection of his dark hair. He looked older since I'd last seen him, his expression weary as he spoke to an array of faces on the pale-washed holographic display of his wristcom.
The engines accelerated to a piercing drone. Our valet ushered Duke into the kennel for take-off, then secured himself into a seat in the service bay.
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