It began in silence.
Tense, loaded Something akin to the silence that precedes a war council—with a hollowness, a vacuum that swallowed even the scrape of boots on marble. The great chamber of House Veyr, once alight with scholars, guards, and the deliberate murmurs of bureaucracy, now stood still.
Only the fire moved.
It spat against the hearth in erratic bursts, hissing as drops of wax from a shattered seal melted into the logs.
Marquis Rhion Veyr stood with his back to the room. His hands were clasped neatly behind him, posture unbending, Radiating an aura of dominance, his silver-lined cloak motionless even in the rising heat. Before him, the hearth. Behind him, the weight of an entire bloodline's expectations.
Valtan paced just three steps from the fire's edge, back and forth like a caged predator. His fingers twitched. His lips moved without speaking, like he was chewing on disbelief too bitter to swallow.
"You expect me to believe this?" he hissed finally. "That Elven Varn was found aged to dust in a field? Elven. Varn."
Commander Orlen, stiff in his plated formal wear, held the scroll with both hands like it might explode if gripped too tightly. "The scouting party confirmed it three times. The sash—"
"Anyone can forge a sash!"
"Not with that seal," Orlen said. "And not beside a rusted blade bonded to his print."
Valtan stopped. His chest heaved. "So he's dead. And worse than dead."
Still, the Marquis didn't speak.
Valtan's voice cracked at the edge of fury. "Father, say something."
Rhion finally turned.
He moved with the calm of deep water—dangerous only when disturbed. His eyes found Orlen's.
"Describe the body again."
Orlen swallowed. "Aged. Desiccated. Bones turned in on themselves, skin barely clinging onto them, No wounds. No sign of blunt force or flame. As if aged."
"How long?" the Marquis asked.
"Estimate was over two centuries of decay."
Valtan scoffed. "That's impossible."
"Clearly not," Rhion said.
A long breath followed. Then he moved—past Valtan, past the shattered war table, to the eastern wall where the ancestral mural loomed in oils and dust.
One panel was newer than the others.
It bore a face younger than most would expect for a painting.
Elven Varn.
Poised in mid-swing. Crimson sash fluttering. Eyes unreadable.
Thirty Years Ago,
A war orphan, no older than ten, stood barefoot in the mud as the last of his village burned behind him. His hands were bloodied, not from battle—but from digging.
He had no tears.
Only a name.
The Veyr guards found him days later. Half-starved, holding the broken shaft of a spear like it was sacred.
They tried to disarm him.
One of them lost an eye.
Rhion Veyr had the boy brought to the manor—not to heal, but to observe. Children who'd seen death that young were brittle or moldable.
Elven Varn was neither.
He was refined.
Trained first in silence. Made to kneel in snow until his breath matched the rhythm of stillness.
Then came the blade.
He broke three wooden swords on his first instructor before Rhion assigned him to the Tower Adept Reiven. Under Reiven, Elven learned not just combat—but How to kill.
Loyalty wasn't assumed. It was built like bone.
When Elven turned fifteen, he was presented with the sash.
Rhion made no speech. Just said four words: "You will not fail."
And Elven never did.
Back in the present, Valtan faced the mural with eyes that burned.
"We need to raise every post," he said. "No one kills Elven and walks away. I don't care if it was Auren, or the girl, or that snake Wazir—"
"Snake?" Rhion cut in softly. "The Wazir raised your brother when I did not. He kept him alive. Loyal."
"He stole him."
"He trained him to see what we could not," Rhion murmured. "And now Auren has run. But not in fear."
Valtan stepped forward. "Then what?"
Rhion looked back to the fire.
"He ran toward something."
Commander Orlen cleared his throat. "Shall I notify the Six Towers, my lord? This matches the criteria for Echo deviation. Possibly even—"
"No."
Rhion turned slowly.
"The Six Towers do not move for rumors. Not yet."
"But sir, if this spreads, if other Houses—"
"I said no," Rhion repeated. "Not until we understand it."
He stepped back toward the hearth, pulled a sealed scroll from the folds of his robe, and handed it to Orlen.
"Dispatch hunting parties. Quietly. Let it look like we are reclaiming a fugitive, not avenging Someone."
Valtan's brow furrowed. "You think this wasn't magic?"
"I think," Rhion said, "we've forgotten what real power looks like."
He turned to the mural again, and this time, he did not look at Elven.
He looked at the shadow beside him, unfinished in the paint.
A boy in profile.
Auren.
"Find him," the Marquis's voice turned grim. "Before the Towers realize."