The sound of Sebastian's carriage wheels fading away felt like the last echo of his old life. Clack... clack... the sound grew fainter, swallowed by the darkness of the pine forest surrounding the west area, until finally, there was total silence.
Calian stood alone in the front yard of the West Pavilion. The night wind blew hard, flapping the edges of his robe and piercing his skin with an unnatural chill. Before him, the building towered high, pitch black against the cloudy night sky. The pavilion looked like a giant sleeping ghost—a monument of the past forgotten by time and people.
The stone walls, once likely ivory white, had turned a dull gray, covered in thick, damp green moss and wild vines that seemed to choke the supporting pillars. The roof tilted in places, many tiles were missing, and the windows looked dark, like empty eyes staring soullessly at Calian.
No waiters greeted him. No guards patrolled. There were no hurried footsteps or the clattering of dishes from the kitchen. There was only Calian, his belongings, and his long shadow under the moonlight that occasionally appeared from behind the clouds.
"So this is the prison Father prepared," Calian muttered. His voice sounded strange to his own ears because there was no echo in the vast open space. The sound vanished instantly, eaten by the silence of the forest. "A place to throw away the family disgrace to let it rot slowly."
He looked up, staring at the broken tip of the pavilion tower.
"And this is the freedom Mother gave me." he continued, this time with a different tone. A thin smile appeared on his lips.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold night air. The scent of wet soil, pine needles, and rotting wood filled his nose. There was no fear in him. There was only a sense of ownership. A sense of freedom.
He walked up the stone steps toward the main door. Every step made a firm tap. The stairs were cracked here and there, with weeds growing in the gaps. The main door was made of thick oak, twice as tall as Calian. The bottom of the door was already eaten by termites and rotted by rain.
Calian placed his palm on the rough wood surface, then pushed it.
CREAAAK.
Iron hinges that had rusted for decades screamed loudly, protesting the movement. The sound echoed into the forest, perhaps waking a sleeping owl. The door opened heavily, revealing pitch-black darkness inside, like the mouth of a cave ready to swallow anyone.
Calian did not hesitate. He bent down slightly to pick up the oil lantern Sebastian had left on the porch before the carriage left. He lit a small flame. Orange light glowed, struggling weakly against the dominating darkness.
As he stepped into the main hall, the sight that greeted him could make any noble faint from disgust, or at least sneeze uncontrollably.
Dust.
Calling it 'dusty' was an insult. It was a thick layer of ash covering everything. The marble floor was invisible, buried under an inch-thick gray layer that looked like dirty snow. Spiderwebs hung from the high ceiling and crystal chandelier like terrible silk curtains. Furniture covered in white cloth looked like piles of corpses abandoned on a battlefield.
The air inside felt stale, heavy, and dead. It smelled like a mix of old paper, mold, and something that hadn't been touched by life for a long time.
"Unbelievable," Calian said cynically, lifting his lantern higher to look around. The light only illuminated a two-meter radius; the rest were dancing shadows. "This place is even more pathetic than me. At least here I can bathe every day."
He walked carefully, leaving footprints on the dusty floor. He placed his supply bag and precious books on a table that was (hopefully) sturdy enough, after blowing thick dust off its surface.
Foooh.
Dust flew up, making him cough.
"Cough! Cough!"
Calian waved his hand in front of his face, then covered his nose and mouth with a silk handkerchief he took from his pocket. His eyes watered.
"Step one of ruling a kingdom: clean the throne," he mumbled to himself.
He took off his thick outer robe, folded it neatly, and placed it on top of his books to keep it clean. He then rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt to his elbows, revealing his thin, pale arms. He looked at the gold ring his mother gave him on his ring finger. In the dim lantern light, the ring glimmered softly, as if giving him approval.
"Let's see what the 'trash' of the Larvin family can do without magic."
He decided to start the conventional way. He searched the corners of the room and found a small storage closet under the stairs. The door was almost falling off its hinges. Inside, there were some old cleaning tools: a broom shedding its bristles, a leaking wooden bucket, and some rags that had become rat nests.
"Great. Very adequate," he sarcastically remarked.
He grabbed the broom and started sweeping the main hall floor.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Thick dust rose into the air, creating a suffocating gray fog. Calian coughed again, but he didn't stop. He gathered the dust into small piles. He dragged old covers off the sofas, causing a mini dust storm inside the room. Every movement felt heavy.
Barely ten minutes passed, and Calian was already gasping for air. Cold sweat began to soak his back, making his expensive shirt stick. His untrained arm muscles—the hands of a young scholar used to holding quills—began to scream in pain.
He worked for a full hour. His face was now smudged with black dust. His usually neat purple hair was messy and dull.
Finally, he gave up. He dropped the broom and slumped down on the half-cleaned floor. His chest heaved rapidly, seeking oxygen in the particle-filled air.
"Weak," Calian hissed at himself. He looked at his palms, which were starting to turn red and blister. "Without a Mana Core to strengthen my physique, my body is truly just that of a spoiled twelve-year-old child. Pathetic."