The First Secret I Carved

A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials.

— Seneca the Younger

———

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed four times as I sat alone in my chambers, staring at the [Rune of Diminishment] resting on my desk. Tomorrow, the Royal Awakening Ceremony would begin. Where every single person would be watching, analyzing, categorizing me according to their expectations.

Tomorrow, I stop being just another disgraced noble's son and become a player in the game that killed the original Kaelen Leone.

The rune's dark stone surface seemed to drink in the candlelight, its carved spirals appearing to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. According to PlotHoleFinder69's forum post, this artifact could mask its bearer's true capabilities from the System's omniscient gaze. But every magic in this world demanded payment.

I'd spent three days researching the rune through the Leone family archives. The texts were frustratingly vague, written in flowery, metaphorical language that ancient mages favored. But the pattern was clear: [Diminishment] required a sacrifice of flesh, carved by the bearer's own hand, sealed in their own blood.

The irony is perfect. To hide my strength, I have to wound myself. To appear weak, I have to prove I'm strong enough to bear pain.

I picked up the silver letter opener—a gift from Lucius on my sixteenth birthday, engraved with the Leone crest.

He gave this to me with such smug satisfaction, probably imagining I'd use it to open threatening letters from creditors. He never could have imagined I'd use it to carve myself into something he couldn't recognize.

I unbuttoned my shirt and stood before the mirror. The reflection showed Kaelen Leone's pale, lean torso—unmarked except for a few childhood scars. Soon, there would be something else.

The rune's pattern was complex: a spiral within a spiral, with small notches and curves that had to be exact. I'd practiced dozens of times with charcoal, memorizing each stroke. Now came the real test.

I pressed the letter opener's tip against my chest, just above my heart.

This is insane. I'm about to mutilate myself based on information from an internet forum post. But what's the alternative? Go to the academy defenseless? Let the System catalog every skill I steal? That's a guaranteed death sentence.

The first cut was shallow, but the pain shot through my chest like fire. I gritted my teeth and pressed deeper, following the spiral's curve. Blood welled up immediately, running down my stomach.

Keep going. The texts said it has to be deep enough to scar. Deep enough to mark you permanently.

Each stroke required conscious effort to maintain control. The spiral grew under my knife, carved into my flesh with methodical care. By the time I reached the inner curves, sweat beaded on my forehead.

The final stroke connected the pattern's end to its beginning. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the carved lines began to glow with faint silver light. The light pulsed twice, then faded, leaving behind a raised scar that looked years old despite being fresh.

I touched the mark, expecting pain, but found only a warm, tingling sensation. The [Rune of Diminishment] on my desk had gone dark, its power transferred into my flesh.

It worked. I can feel it. There's something different about how I perceive myself. Like looking through a filter that makes everything seem smaller, weaker, less significant.

I cleaned the blood, applied bandages, and pulled on a fresh shirt. The scar was invisible beneath the fabric, but I could feel its presence.

A soft knock at my window made me turn. Lyra's silhouette was visible against the glass. I unlocked the latch as she slipped inside.

"Master, I—" She stopped, her red eyes fixing on the bloodied letter opener. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the medical supplies and the scent of blood.

"What happened? Who did this to you?"

"I did it to myself," I said simply. "It was necessary."

She moved toward me, her hands reaching for my shirt buttons before stopping. "May I?"

I nodded, and she carefully exposed the bandages. Her fingers peeled back one corner, revealing the edge of the spiral scar. Her breathing became shallow.

"This is magic," she whispered. "Old magic. Binding magic. Why would you do this?"

"Because tomorrow we enter a world that wants to catalog my every breath. This makes me invisible to that scrutiny. It lets me be exactly as pathetic as I need to be."

Lyra's expression shifted to cold, calculating fury that made my blood run cold.

"The world forced you to carve yourself like a piece of meat," she said softly. "They will pay for this."

"Lyra—"

"Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday. Every person who contributed to this moment—I will remember their names."

"Listen to me," I said, catching her hands. "Tomorrow, everything changes. At the academy, you cannot be Lyra Ashford, devoted follower of Kaelen Leone. You must be something else entirely."

She tilted her head, never breaking eye contact.

"When students mock me, your face must mirror their contempt. Your job is to be the long-suffering attendant of a worthless master. The servant everyone pities."

Her jaw tightened, but she nodded without hesitation.

"I need them to see you as defeated by circumstances. Let them pity you. Let them think you're wasted on me. Can you make them believe you're ashamed to serve me?"

Lyra studied my face, then her expression began to change. Her shoulders sagged, her back stooped. Her mouth turned down in a habitual frown. Her eyes took on a dull, resigned quality.

"Yes, Master. I understand what you need from me."

The transformation was flawless. In seconds, she'd become a downtrodden servant.

"They will see the loyal dog of a disgraced boy," she said, maintaining the defeated posture. "And they will be blind to the one standing at a god's side."

There it is again. 'God.' She's already building a religion around me, with herself as the first apostle.

"Perfect," I said, hiding my unease. "This performance is about surviving long enough to become something they never saw coming."

She straightened. "I will not fail you, Master. Your enemies will see exactly what you wish them to see."

"I know you won't."

She moved toward the window, then paused. "Master? The scar—does it hurt still?"

"Not anymore," I lied, maintaining eye contact. The truth was it ached constantly. "It's just part of me now. Another tool."

"Good," she said with maternal warmth. "You've given enough of yourself. From now on, let me collect what they owe."

Then she vanished into the night. I stood alone, one hand pressed to my chest where the rune pulsed beneath the bandages.

The candle guttered and died, leaving only moonlight as dawn began to touch the eastern horizon.

In a few hours, I would begin the most dangerous performance of my life.