Mikael laughed, but there was no humour in it—just a harsh, broken rasp. He covered his face with one hand and leaned back against the kitchen wall, shoulders shaking.

  “That story might fool the rabble,” he said at last, voice low and bitter. “But do they really think the world’s strongest warriors and mages are gullible idiots?”

  He dropped his hand. His eyes burned.

  “The Gloria of AEON,” he spat. “They throw that title around like it’s just another badge. Five generations. Five. No one has claimed it since. You don’t get there with power alone. You need virtue. Restraint. A spine that doesn’t bend when the world tries to break it.”

  He leaned forward, palms flat on the kitchen counter, wood and iron groaning under him.

  “Anyone who met Lirian even once would know those accusations are horseshit. Heroic. Fearless. Proud—but never cruel. Never small. He wouldn’t kidnap a woman for base desire. He wouldn’t stab a Vicar in the back like some cornered rat.”

  His breath came fast now.

  “And the idea that a single Seneschal—backed by a pack of Qi Emperors and Magic Pillars—could corner him? Drive him to despair?” Mikael barked out a laugh. “Laughable. Lirian was the greatest martial talent in five hundred years.”

  His control slipped.

  Qi surged from him in a violent gust. Pots rattled. A pan flew from its hook and clattered across the floor. The air grew heavy, pressing down like a storm about to break. The Genesis Stone at his neck pulsed erratically, its glow flickering in time with his rage.

  Elisha stepped closer, voice steady but edged with shared pain. “I know, Father. Big Brother couldn’t have... not that. But the story’s everywhere now. Pushed hard.”

  Mikael’s breathing slowed, just a fraction.

  “There’s something rotten underneath it,” Elisha continued. “People on the Frontier talk. Soldiers, merchants, caravan guards. No one agrees on the details—but the story’s everywhere. And it’s being pushed.”

  “By whom?” Mikael asked.

  Elisha hesitated. “Some say Seneschals. Two, maybe three. Others say the Templo’s letting it happen. The old Vicar’s death still hangs over them, and they’re tearing each other apart over who replaces him. Meanwhile, they’re demanding Ansara pay reparations.”

  He clenched his fists. “Rhodar and the border states are stirring too. Everyone’s testing the walls. If not for His Majesty holding the capital, and Generals Falma and Rafael locking down the borders, things would already be burning.”

  The silence that followed was heavy.

  Lirian De Mikaeli—once Ansara’s pride—was now a cursed name, whispered with fear or spat with hatred, depending on who told the tale.

  Mikael closed his eyes.

  “There’s an old saying,” he said quietly. “Every rumour carries a sliver of truth. We’re not blind.”

  He began pacing, boots scraping against the stone floor.

  “First—someone chased him into the northern peaks. A Seneschal. That much is certain. That day, a Legend’s power shook the edge of the kingdom. Level ninety or higher. I felt it. Anyone worth their title did.”

  He stopped.

  Elisha nodded, fists clenching. “So someone knows who. And they’re burying it.”

  “Exactly,” Mikael growled, pacing now, boots scraping stone. Pots rattled on shelves from the faint Qi gusts trailing him. “Secrets like that... they crack eventually.

  He resumed pacing.

  “Who benefits most?” Elisha pressed, voice low. “The clans? The Templo?”

  Mikael’s eyes narrowed. “The Serakin Clan had the most to lose. That engagement wasn’t love—it was blood and power. If Lirian married Elara, the balances shifted. The Serakin would never accept that quietly”

  Elisha nodded grimly.

  “Luztar’s current Seneschal is Serakin,” Mikael continued. “Whether he was involved or not, he’s worth watching.”

  Elisha’s jaw tightened. “And the Carolin themselves? Old blood, obsessed with lineage...”

  “Less likely, but uglier. To some of their elders, Lirian was a nobody. A prodigy without pedigree. I wouldn’t put it past the radicals to prefer Elara dead rather than married to him, alliance or not.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The words hung in the air.

  Mikael’s gaze dropped. A single tear caught the light before he could turn away.

  He hadn’t cried when he lost his house.

  He hadn’t cried when his name was stripped from the rolls.

  But this—this broke him.

  “They didn’t just kill him,” he said hoarsely. “They buried him in lies.”

  Elisha stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Big Brother’s legacy lives,” he said quietly. “Every time I see Nerion smile, it’s like he’s still here.”

  Mikael’s expression softened, just for a moment.

  “Damn right,” he murmured.

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, tattered scrap of paper. Its edges were frayed, the ink faded.

  “Found this with Nerion,” he said. “In that magic circle.”

  He unfolded it carefully.

  A crude crescent sigil was scratched beneath the words.

  “Lirian’s hand,” Mikael said. “Written in a hurry. The Templo was involved. I don’t care what anyone says.”

  He closed the note.

  “At twelve, you shouldn’t carry this burden,” he said to Elisha. “I never wanted you—or Myra, or the kids—to fight my battles. When I lost everything, I thought AEON had cursed me to rot. I was ready to die in some alley.”

  He smiled faintly.

  “Then I found Lirian. Near Murmur’s border. Starving. A farmer’s boy. Raiders had taken everything.”

  His voice softened.

  “His eyes were clear. Unbroken. Full of hope. He gave me purpose. People think I saved him. Taught him everything.” Mikael shook his head. “Truth is, he saved me.”

  His fists clenched.

  “He took my name. Mikaeli. Swore he’d raise it higher than it had ever been.”

  A bitter laugh escaped him.

  “And he did. Sainthood at twenty-two. Songs of his victories echoed from Murmur to Rhodar. The king offered his daughter—Ansara’s fairest—and Lirian refused. Said the peak was still higher.”

  Mikael’s eyes burned.

  “And then they killed him. Smeared his name with filth. That’s what I can’t forgive.”

  His Qi stirred again, the floor creaking beneath it.

  “I drink because it dulls the pain,” he admitted. “I know it puts you all in danger. Whoever killed Lirian won’t hesitate to crush orphans. Maybe I should let it go.”

  He shook his head.

  “But I can’t let his memory rot.”

  Elisha’s voice was firm. “Nerion is their hope.”

  Mikael nodded slowly.

  “Found in a forest. Cradled in a magic circle. Minutes after that blinding light.” His gaze hardened. “He’s their son. No doubt. Their last trace.”

  He exhaled.

  “If his talent is even half of Lirian’s, I’ll tell him the truth—when he’s ready. Let him choose. But if he can’t reach Monarch by twenty…”

  He looked away.

  “Then a quiet life is mercy.”

  They talked hours—plans, hopes, whispers of rare veins in Radon Woods. Exhaustion settled. Mikael glanced at Elisha, pride flickering through pain. “Rest, kid. Tomorrow’s a new fight.”

  That night, Nerion slipped from his cot.

  The orphanage lay silent. His arm ached beneath Myra’s bandages, the memory of that burning heat still lingering in his limbs. The glowing signs—the power—had felt incredible.

  And terrifying.

  Lucca’s voice echoed in his mind.

  They hadn’t meant it cruelly. But it hurt.

  Mikael’s gruff care. Myra’s scolding. The laughter of the others. He knew they loved him.

  But Mikael’s eyes—heavy with grief when they thought Nerion wasn’t looking—cut deeper than any wound.

  Years ago, he’d asked about his parents.

  That had been the end of it.

  But Nerion needed more.

  He crept to the edge of the Radon Woods.

  Silver eyes watched from the shadows. A massive shape, pale as snow, silent as death.

  “Hey,” Nerion whispered. “Fought some bastards today.”

  The beast didn’t move.

  “I felt strong. Like I could crush them. But it almost broke me.” He swallowed. “Mikael says I’m special. But he won’t tell me why.”

  The creature’s breath steamed softly in the moonlight.

  “I’m gonna get stronger,” Nerion said, voice steady now. “Strong enough that he trusts me with the truth.”

  The woods whispered back.

  In a grimy Teras inn, on the lawless border between Ansara and Rhodar, three hooded figures leaned close around a dying candle.

  “The Corina girl is headed to Radon Woods,” the first whispered, voice thin and sharp. “Naive little princess, chasing some rare flower. This is a good chance. The Gran Maestre wants instability in Ansara.”

  A second figure shifted. Tall, broad-shouldered. Horned. A Rhodar Beastman, with one curved horn piercing through his hood.

  “A clean kill,” he growled. “No traces. If we play our cards right, this becomes the spark we need. One death, and the right accusation, and war follows.”

  His yellow eyes narrowed. “No mistakes.”

  The other two nodded.

  The third figure, draped in muted Templo robes, smiled thinly.

  “When the blame starts flying,” he said softly, “certain houses will find themselves… exposed.”

  The Beastman’s gaze sharpened. “And the rumours? Are they true?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “A Millennium Stone Vein. In those woods.”

  The Templo spy answered without haste. “The Ferocious Tigers claim they saw a glimmer. Nothing more. They came to us seeking aid.”

  He let out a quiet chuckle. “We fed them false leads and began investigating ourselves. So far, nothing solid. No confirmation.”

  “I’ll continue digging,” he added. “Quietly.”

  “Still,” the first figure interjected, impatience creeping into his tone, “don’t fixate on the vein. That’s not the priority. Our master wants Ansara broken. The Vicar’s death was only the first fracture.”

  His eyes gleamed beneath his hood.

  “No one suspects our reach,” he said. “Not even the Seneschals.”

  The Beastman snorted. “If the vein exists, we can’t let it slip. A Millennium Stone Vein is worth more than this entire town.”

  He paused. “More than a kingdom.”

  The Templo spy’s smile vanished, replaced by a hard scowl.

  “Forget the vein,” he snapped. “Focus on the mission. Has there been any whisper—any rumour—from the Frontier regarding the Genesis Stone?”

  The first figure shook his head. “Nothing. Five years of searching this cursed borderland. No trace. Not in any Major Territory. Not along the borders.”

  He hesitated.

  “This region is where Lirian stayed the longest. That’s why most of our efforts are concentrated here and within the Carolin clan. But so far—it’s been all to no avail.”

  The Templo spy ran a hand through his robes, agitation leaking through his composure.

  “They’ve delayed the appointment of a new Vicar, but that won’t last forever. If we don’t deliver results—real results—our spies will start surfacing.”

  His voice dropped to a hiss.

  “We move fast. The Genesis Stone can wait. For now, Ansara must bleed. And Julieta De Corina will be the first sacrifice to a new and better future.”

  The candle guttered.

  Darkness swallowed the table, and the three figures melted into the night, their course set.