Delian walked out of the grand chamber in silence. The huge doors closed behind him with a dull thud, sealing away the muffled voices inside the whispers, the murmurs, and the echo of his mother's cries.
He didn't look back. He couldn't.His tiny hands were clenched so tight that his nails dug crescents into his palms. The polished marble beneath his bare feet felt colder than ever.Each step was a reminder: weak, useless, powerless.
Inside, the throne room fell quiet.
Lucias Devoraneo Ardent the Sword Saint, the Duke, stood motionless before slowly turning and walking back to his seat. He sat down, one hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword as his golden eyes dimmed with thought.
"Leave us," he ordered.
The elders, wives, and guards immediately bowed and exited. The heavy doors closed once more, leaving only two figures inside.
The duke. And his butler.
The man was young far too young to be serving one of the strongest humans alive. Silver hair framed his composed face, and his gray eyes held a kind of unshakable calm that contrasted the tension in the air.
Lucias didn't look at him when he spoke."So," he began quietly, "he's exactly as you described."
The butler, Darian, allowed himself a faint smile. "You sound almost disappointed, my lord."
Lucias' gaze flicked upward. "Disappointed?" He paused, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps. When I first entered the room and saw him, I thought my eyes were deceiving me."
He leaned back slightly, his golden pupils narrowing as he recalled the image."That glare…" he muttered. "No one-year-old should have eyes like that. Eyes that hate, not fear."
Darian nodded. "That was my thought as well, my lord. Even before today, the servants whispered of how uncanny he was. But still… no divine response?"
Lucias' jaw tightened. "None."
Lucias' fingers drummed idly against the armrest a rhythmic tap, tap, tap that echoed faintly through the empty chamber. Darian, standing a few paces away, broke the silence first. "So, my lord… the world truly didn't respond to him?"
Lucias' eyes narrowed, the golden hue flickering like light reflected off steel. "It didn't," he said flatly. "Not a flicker. Not a hum. Nothing."
Darian said softly, more to himself. "That's… unprecedented. In all of Ardent history."
He leaned back in his throne, exhaling through his nose. "It might have been a… technical mishap," he added, the words coming out colder than intended. "But even so, he has four more years. Until the Blessing Ceremony."
Darian raised a brow. "To prove himself?"
Lucias nodded once. "To prove us wrong."
For a brief moment, the duke's gaze softened though only slightly before the familiar edge of pragmatism returned.
"The boy is peculiar," Darian remarked, crossing his arms. "Too aware for his age. Too sharp in the eyes. It's unsettling, even for a child of your blood."
Lucias hummed lowly, as though considering it. "Peculiar, yes. But peculiarity means nothing without power." He stood, the faint gleam of his armor flashing beneath the divine sigils carved into the walls.
"Once he fails to manifest divine energy," Lucias continued, "his survival rate drops to zero."
Darian looked up, but didn't speak.
"The other wives," Lucias went on, his tone detached, "they'll pounce at the first opening. It's in their nature."
He turned slightly toward the great family crest engraved into the marble floor — a blazing sword engulfed in radiant flame, the symbol of Lucitas and the Ardent line.
"That," Lucias said quietly, "is the way of our blood."
His voice deepened, heavy with conviction.
"Strength to achieve everything. Strength to rule the world. That is the creed of the Ardent family."
He paused, glancing toward the door Delian had left through.
"A lion without his roar or his strength…" Lucias' lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. "Is no lion at all."
Darian inclined his head slightly, the silver of his hair glinting in the divine light. "Then the cub must learn to roar soon."
Lucias gave a small nod, turning his back to the throne room. "If he can't," he said, his voice echoing through the vast, empty hall "...then he'll be devoured like the rest of the sheep."
Darian watched Lucias for a long moment, the candlelight catching the silver in his hair. "Out in the wild," he said quietly, "it isn't always the strongest who survive. Sometimes it's those with nothing but the will to live—those who refuse to break—who come out on top. Perhaps the young master isn't so different."
Lucias' expression didn't change, but something like interest — small and dangerous — moved behind his golden eyes. He remembered that glare: not the vacant stare of a child, but a look that cut like a blade. He let the memory sit for a breath, then smiled, slow and almost pleased.
"Then perhaps," he murmured, "waiting four years won't be such a bad idea after all."
The smile showed his teeth, a brief flash of predatory amusement that made Darian's composed face crack into a similar, faint smile. "With today's events," Darian added, "the other wives will use this. They'll press forward their own children the moment word spreads about the divineless Naming. They'll pounce."
"Good," Lucias said, and the single word sounded like a verdict. He turned his head slightly toward the closed doors where his son had gone, and spoke softer, almost as if addressing the air itself. "What will you be, child?" he asked, remembering that cold, steady glare.
He could have been asking Delian but he could have been asking himself. "Are you a lion without claws and teeth… or are you something else? A wolf, patient and starving, waiting for the moment to spring on its prey?"
Darian's smile was all shadow and restraint. In the dim throne room, with the sigils of Lucitas glowing faintly overhead, the two men regarded the future as though it were a blade to be tested.
Lucias laughed then a soft, ominous sound that filled the vaulted chamber and left no warmth behind it. "Don't disappoint me, son."
Outside the manor, the rules of House Ardent held as they always had. Strength was law; weakness, a crime. Those blessed by Lucitas bore a single, simple mandate: prove your strength, and the world would bow. In that house, in that empire, strength was everything the only language that mattered.
From the moment an Ardent child took their first breath, they were measured, weighed, and judged. Talent was their birthright, and power their only proof of existence. A child who could not wield divine energy was not seen as unfortunate they were seen as an error.
In the Empire of Solmir, people called the Ardents the blessed line, chosen by Lucitas himself. But within those gilded walls, where golden crests hung like silent witnesses, there was no blessing only expectation.
To be born an Ardent was not an honor. It was a challenge. A promise carved in blood and divine light: Strength Above All
-----
I walked back to my room in silence.
The halls of the Ardent manor were too big for someone like me. Every step echoed, bouncing back at me like the house itself was mocking my existence. By the time I reached my room, it felt colder emptier like the world had already started erasing her.
I closed the door and just… slid down until my back hit the floor. The strength left my body all at once.
Again.
The thing I loved was taken away from me again.
I thought I was done crying, but my chest still hurt like I'd been hollowed out. I knew exactly why the rune didn't respond. Why the so-called "light" of Lucitas refused to shine for me. I hadn't forgotten anything not the gods, not their promises, not their laughter.
This was their punishment. Their little joke. And I could tell… this was only the beginning.
But the strange thing was I wasn't scared. I should've been terrified. A one-year-old stripped of everything, branded as useless, left in a nest of lions that only respected strength.
Yet, all I felt was heat. A slow, boiling anger crawling beneath my skin.
I could still hear my mother crying as they dragged her away. Her voice breaking. My father's cold eyes staring at me like I wasn't even human. I clenched my tiny fists until my nails bit into my palms.
"Four years, huh?" I muttered. "That's plenty of time."
I didn't know what the gods did to me. I didn't know why the rune stayed cold. But I'd find out. I'd learn everything about divine energy how it worked, how to break it, how to twist it if I had to.
If that was the only way to get her back… then so be it.
The library.
That was the first step. The Ardent family's grand library. A mountain of knowledge built by centuries of knights and priests. Somewhere in those books, there had to be an answer.
I pushed myself up. The despair still clung to me, but I shoved it down, like I always did. My mother's smile flashed in my mind, warm and soft.
Just hold on, Mom. I'll find you.
A knock came at the door.
I opened it to see Cassandra my nanny. Young, with the same black hair as my mother and eyes that actually looked at me, not through me.
"Young master," she said gently, kneeling down. "I heard about what happened… I'm so sorry."
Before I could say anything, she pulled me into a hug.
Warm. Familiar. It almost hurt, how human it felt.
Out of all the servants, Cassandra was the only one I trusted or maybe the only one who didn't look disgusted when she saw me. She was close to my mother, came from the same distant country. Maybe that's why she cared. Maybe she just saw her in me.
"Cassandra…" I said quietly, my voice small even to my own ears. "Thank you."
She smiled a sad, knowing smile and brushed a bit of dust off my hair. "I promised your mother I'd take care of you," she said. "And I will."
I didn't say anything. I just nodded. She stood and told me she'd bring some food, then left, closing the door softly behind her.
Silence again. Always silence.
Then a small sound came almost like...a whisper. I turned to look at the window. The curtains moved slightly, though the air was still. The edge of my bedsheet curled, like fingers brushing through it.
My heart skipped once.
"…Probably imagining things," I whispered.
Still, I couldn't shake the chill running down my neck.
My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to that voice the one that had once filled the dark. The one who called himself Abyrion.
I looked down at my small hands, the faint tremor running through them.
"I wonder," I muttered. "What are you doing right now?"