Niven Jask's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Niven Jask measured his antlers every Sunday with a length of string. This week the string ran longer by two fingers. In three days he would stand before the royal court and beg entry to its highest circle. The court branded monsters on sight. His powdered wig no longer hid the bone pushing through it. He set down the string and stared at the cracked mirror in his ruined hall, where vines had crept through the broken windows and the ceiling sagged with rot. He had one hope left. A limping man arrived at his gate that evening, boots crunching the gravel, a cane in one hand. Marcus Calloway had been a war hero before the court. He climbed the estate's broken steps without asking for help, though each step cost him. Niven had written to him because rumor said Marcus hid something too. A ruined knee. A shame he kept buried under medals. "You wrote that you're growing horns," Marcus said. He did not flinch when he saw them. "Most men would lie about that. You measured them with string." He tapped his bad leg. "I've hidden worse for twenty years. Question is whether you want it hidden or gone." Niven led him through the tangled greenery of the grounds. "Hidden. Gone is beyond me." He spoke soft, the way his tutors had taught, though his hands shook. Marcus stopped beneath a willow with pink trailing branches and dug into his coat. He drew out a silver ring. Its face held a strange motif, colors shifting like light on water. "An old friend gave me this before he died," Marcus said. "It bends what people see. Wear it, and they'll see something noble where the shame is." He pressed the ring into Niven's palm. "It won't stop them growing. It buys you time, not a cure. Understand the difference before you trust it." Niven slid the ring onto his finger. He felt nothing change. But when he looked at his reflection in the willow's still pond, the antlers had become a circlet of pale gold, resting proud above his brow. He laughed once, sharp with relief. "They'll see a crown." "They'll see whatever the ring decides," Marcus said. His face stayed grim. "I've worn it in a full hall. I've also felt it flicker when I was afraid. Fear feeds it wrong. Keep your nerve, or the mask slips." Three days later Niven walked into the court. Silk banners hung from the rafters. Nobles turned as he passed, and he saw their eyes soften, not harden. They bowed. He reached the highest circle and the crowd parted for the gold above his brow. He had done it. He belonged. Then, near the throne, he felt the antlers push higher against the circlet's edge. The ring grew warm on his finger. Across the hall, one noblewoman squinted at his head, leaning close to whisper to the man beside her.