Igor's smile widened, revealing yellowed fangs, and his sunken eyes gleamed with a diabolical light.
"Good... a son's obedience is the first step in forging a legend."
Igor turned his back on them, walking toward a black carriage that emerged from the mist like a mobile coffin.
"Niko, stop whimpering like a wounded pup," Igor barked without looking back. "Stand up. A servant's rags do not befit the son of a high-ranking figure, even if he is but a son by adoption."
Niko rose slowly, wiping the blood from his trembling lip. His gaze flickered between Igor and Adrian. He felt as though the world was perpetually conspiring against him.
"Father?" Niko whispered to himself bitterly. "Adrian accepted him simply because he has no heart. But me... how can I call him that while my blood is still fresh on his staff?"
After hours of heavy silence within the citadel walls, the two were forced to strip off their tattered rags. For the first time in fourteen years, they touched fine fabric: black silk, high collars embroidered with silver thread, and heavy robes that concealed the scars covering their bodies.
Adrian stood before a cracked mirror. He studied his reflection; he looked like a young noble. His serious, marble-like face and carefully styled black hair exuded dignity. He possessed deep, dark eyes and a sharply defined jawline.
This new cover... Adrian thought, buttoning his shirt with a detached coldness. Every ounce of the human nature he possessed as a writer had been stripped away, replaced by a lethal apathy.
"These clothes are not for decoration," he muttered. "They are 'Rhetorical Armor.' In the world of nobles, words are swords, and appearances are the shield..."
The door creaked open, and Igor entered, draped in a long velvet robe. He looked as if he had aged an extra twenty years to embody the role of a weary father. Yet, he looked remarkably elegant, almost like a different person entirely. His black robe flowed behind him, highlighting his neatly trimmed white beard and styled white hair. He wore silver-rimmed spectacles that made him look like a university professor from my former world.
Igor took notice of me and said, "Look at the two of you," his voice dripping with falsehood. "Adrian Vanit and Niko Vanit. Who would believe you were born in the depths of the incinerators?"
Igor approached Niko, who was clenching his fists in rage behind his back. Igor placed a hand on Niko's shoulder and squeezed with a force that made the boy buckle slightly.
"Remember, my little son... at the Dusk Academy, you are not a wrathful warrior. You are the loyal son who follows in his elder brother's footsteps. If you think of rebelling or showing your true strength prematurely... I will ensure that your funeral is the first celebration of our new family."
Then he turned to Adrian.
"And you... do not be too clever in front of strangers. Genius invites suspicion."
"Of course, Father. You are right," I replied.
"Well said, my son," Igor remarked.
The three climbed into the carriage. The black horses set off, leaving behind the "Death Factory" where they had spent their entire lives. The journey took them through the Pass of Bones, the only road connecting the citadel to the rest of the world. From the carriage window, Adrian saw for the first time the vast stretches of land and the purple fires burning in distant villages.
"So," Niko broke the silence, whispering as he looked at Adrian with deep-seated hatred. "Are we going to keep up this play forever? Am I to call you 'Brother' while I long to rip out your throat?"
Adrian turned his head slowly toward him. There was no anger in his eyes—only an eerie, haunting stillness.
"Niko," Adrian spoke in a low voice. "At this stage, call me whatever you wish. But in front of people, remember that your life depends on the precision of your performance. If the mask slips from your face... I will be the first to end your existence before Igor even gets the chance. Do you understand?"
Niko shivered, not out of fear of the threat, but from the absolute coldness in Adrian's voice. He felt as if he wasn't speaking to a human, but to a "Void" wearing a noble's clothes.
The carriage came to a sudden halt. The sound of giant metal gates groaning open filled the air. Igor looked out the window, his face shifting into an expression of dignity and sorrow.
"We have arrived," Igor whispered.
Before them loomed the Dusk Academy—a towering fortress built of black stone, shrouded in thick magical mist. A massive clock sat atop its highest tower. On the balconies stood students wearing the robes of the Great Dark Families, while others strolled through the gardens.
Adrian stepped down from the carriage first. He inhaled the toxic air with a cold indifference and straightened his silver collar. Then, he entered the Academy.