The return to the Zaqor Manor felt like stepping back into a tomb, but this time, Nard was not the corpse. He walked the marble halls with the same practiced slump of his shoulders, his eyes cast downward to mirror the vacancy that had long been his armor.
Every fiber of his being vibrated with the electric hum of the light Beru had restored, a secret fire that threatened to melt the very floorboards beneath his feet. He had to be careful; the walls of the manor had ears, and the shadows served the cold will of his kin.
In the dim light of his spartan chambers, the mechanical bird with the jagged scar remained a silent sentinel on the window ledge. But when the heavy oak door was bolted, the bird's amber eyes flashed with a warmth that felt like home.
"You are carrying the weight of the whole house on your brow tonight, Nard," the resonant baritone whispered from the avian form. Nard sank onto the edge of his cot, his facade finally crumbling in the privacy of the room.
"It"'s getting harder, Beru. Every time my uncle looks at me, I feel the light wanting to claw its way out."
The bird hopped closer, its metallic talons clicking softly. "Then let it burn within you as a forge, not a wildfire. Use that fear to temper the steel of your soul. I am here, even when the silence is loudest." Nard reached out, grazing the bird's scarred wing with a trembling finger, drawing strength from the steady presence of his mentor.
Their training sessions were conducted in the dead of night, held in the absolute silence of the servant's passage. Nard practiced the art of internalizing his aura, pulling the white sparks back into the marrow of his bones until the emerald glow was nothing more than a faint pulse in his chest. He learned to move with a grace that appeared clumsy to the untrained eye, a lethal efficiency hidden behind a facade of lethargy. Beru was a demanding master, pushing Nard to the edge of exhaustion while ensuring not a single spark escaped the confines of the room.
During the day, the tension was nearly unbearable. At the family table, Nard sat across from his uncle, whose gaze was like a shard of obsidian.
Suddenly, the older man reached out, his hand clamping like a vice over Nard's wrist. "You seem... different, Nard," his uncle remarked, his voice dropping to a low, predatory hiss. "The way you breathe, the way you hold your fork. It lacks the usual... pathetic quality I've come to expect."
Nard didn't flinch, though his pulse hammered against his uncle's palm. He forced his eyes to remain dull, a perfect imitation of a broken spirit. "Perhaps I am just tired of the gray meat, Uncle,"
Nard muttered, allowing his hand to tremble just enough to satisfy the man's ego.
His uncle released him with a sneer, but the suspicion lingered in the air like smoke. Inside, however, the volcano stirred, and for the first time, Nard felt the grim satisfaction of knowing that the darkness was finally being watched by a light it could not see.