Calian stood motionless in the middle of his room, which now felt like a stranger's. The spacious room that had been his shelter for fifteen years was now nearly bare. The stone walls, usually covered in landscape paintings, now showed their true color: cold and gray. The marble floor was filled with open wooden crates, ready to swallow the last traces of his existence in the Duke Larvin's main residence.
The servants moved in a stiff, hurried rhythm. They packed silk clothes, organized writing tools, and moved Calian's personal items with terrifying efficiency. Yet, behind the busyness, there was a freezing silence. Not a single servant dared to look their young master in the eye. It was as if Calian were a contagious disease—the "family disgrace" who had no Mana Core, the trash finally being thrown into the garbage dump known as the West Pavilion.
Calian ignored them. His face was calm, almost expressionless—a mask of apathy he had perfected over the years. His thin hand moved along the bookshelf, which was now nearly empty. He didn't care about luxury clothes or jewelry; he only cared about his knowledge.
His fingers stopped at a few dusty old volumes. Ancient historical records about the fall of magical kingdoms, and most importantly, a black leather book without a title—the only reference he had found regarding time manipulation. He carefully placed the book into the leather bag at his waist, as if it were a second heart.
Knock. Knock.
The knock was quiet, but the rhythm was different from the hesitant servants. It had authority, yet strangely, it sounded gentle.
"Come in," Calian answered, his voice flat, without turning around.
The door hinges creaked softly. The scent of lily of the valley suddenly drifted in, fighting the smell of dust and old wood. Without needing to look, Calian knew who it was.
Duchess Elara Larvin, his mother.
The woman stepped in gracefully. A midnight-blue silk dress wrapped around her body, creating a sharp contrast with the mess around her. In her hands, she carried a small mahogany box and a pile of neatly folded thick cloth.
Calian turned. As soon as his amethyst purple eyes met his mother's matching eyes, the defensive walls inside him thickened. He put on a thin, cynical smile—his weapon to ward off pain.
Duchess Elara did not speak to her son immediately. She glanced slightly at the head servant who was wrapping a flower vase.
"You may leave," she ordered. Her voice was calm, flowing like a river, but it carried an absolute command. "Leave us. I will handle the rest from here."
The servants bowed deeply, looking relieved to escape the awkward atmosphere. In an instant, they scattered out, closing the door carefully. The silence that remained felt heavier, more suffocating. There was only mother and son, separated by a few steps that felt like a canyon.
Elara walked slowly toward the large bed, which now had no sheets. She placed the wooden box on the nightstand, then with gentle movements, she unfolded the thick cloth she brought.
It was a blanket. Not an ordinary one, but a milky-white velvet blanket that looked incredibly soft. Along all the edges, there was beautiful embroidery in purple amethyst silk thread.
"The West Pavilion is much colder than this room, Calian, especially when winter comes," Elara said. She didn't look at Calian; her hands were busy smoothing the blanket. Her voice sounded soft, not the commanding tone of a Duchess, but the tone of a mother. "This is the best blanket in the treasure storage. Made from the wool of rare northern mountain goats. I embroidered all these edges myself... back when you were just born."
Calian stared at the blanket, then shifted his gaze to his mother's back. There was a strange rustle in his chest, a foreign warmth, but his brain immediately sounded an alarm.
Don't be fooled, his mind screamed. These are just crumbs of affection. The way nobles clear their conscience before throwing away the trash.
"Thank you, Mother," Calian answered. Polite, but cold as ice. "But didn't you just show pity to me in front of Father in the study earlier? And now this? This blanket won't change the reality that I am being kicked out, Mom."
Elara's shoulders stiffened. Slowly, she turned around. The beautiful face that was usually the center of attention at every imperial ball now looked cracked. Lines of exhaustion were visible around her eyes. Thick powder couldn't hide the sadness hanging there.
The woman stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Before Calian could retreat, Elara grabbed both of her son's hands. Her skin felt cold, but her grip was tight, as if she were afraid Calian would evaporate into smoke if she let go.
"Listen, Calian. Please listen to me this time," she said, her voice starting to tremble. "For the last five years, I've watched you. I saw you walking alone in the cold hallways of this mansion, while your brothers practiced with swords in the yard."
Elara's eyes began to water, reflecting the light of the crystal lamp on the ceiling. "I saw you devouring book after book, hoping to find a way to become great, hoping one day you would be acknowledged. But I also saw... you sinking deeper. You built walls around yourself, sinking deeper into loneliness."
Elara took a deep breath, holding back a sob that was pushing up her throat. "What did you see in your Father's study earlier, Calian? Tell me. You saw a weak mother, right? A woman too afraid of her husband to defend her own son?"
Calian looked down at the marble floor. His jaw hardened. He didn't answer, but his silence was the most honest answer. Yes. You just stayed silent when he called me trash. You were too weak to defend me.
"You are right!" his mother whispered, as if reading his mind. "I indeed cannot fight your Father openly. Your Father... he respects nothing but absolute power. If I screamed to defend you, if I said, 'Please don't exile our child to the West Pavilion because he is smart,' your Father would only think, 'He is smart, but without Mana, he is useless.' He would lock you in the watchtower, forcing you to become a military and territory strategist working day and night under strict guard. You would lose your privacy. You would lose your freedom."
Elara's grip on Calian's hands tightened, her nails pressing slightly into his skin.
"You don't have a Mana Core, Calian. In the eyes of imperial law and this cruel noble world, you are disabled. If I defended you blindly, your Father would place you under his surveillance. He would manage every second of your life so you remain 'useful' to the family. You would never be able to find who you really are."
Calian's defense crumbled. The anger he had buried exploded out.
"But you stayed silent!" Calian shouted. His voice echoed off the empty walls. "You just stared with pity when Father passed that sentence! That look... it was more painful than Father's physical beatings! It made me feel truly pathetic!"