The scent of polished marble and blooming duskroses filled the air as Aden Vasco entered the Inner Courtyard of Chrono Palace—a place where titles held more weight than swords, and every smile was a lie waiting to draw blood.
Nobles and high-ranking courtiers flanked either side of the grand passage leading to the Ceremonial Hall, dressed in fine robes embroidered with family crests and power plays.
The moment Aden crossed the threshold, the atmosphere changed—conversations faltered mid-sentence, laughter clipped short, and the warmth in the courtyard dropped several degrees.
All eyes turned to him.
The Black Knight's armor caught the morning light, casting a sharp gleam across the faces of the waiting crowd. Aden walked slowly, deliberately, as if the weight of his gaze alone could set the stones beneath his boots alight.
Behind him, his escort peeled away, leaving him to ascend the last flight of ivory stairs alone—just as tradition dictated.
And yet there was no honor in the glances thrown his way.
Some masked their contempt with thin smiles.
Others stared openly, eyes glinting with challenge or disdain.
He passed nobles who had once watched him dragged in chains through the Academy's halls.
He remembered their expressions then—fearful, gleeful, hungry. Now, those same lords and ladies offered shallow bows, as if compelled by duty, not respect.
He could smell the venom in their greetings.
"Sir Vasco, how refreshing to see such… rapid advancement. Lord Ed must be immensely proud."
"A fine uniform. Does the blood come pre-polished these days?"
"How bold of the Vasco House to send a child to play among wolves."
Aden said nothing. His silence was his blade.
But their taunts were not meant to provoke—they were meant to test. To see how far he would bend before snapping.
And one of them overreached.
A man in pale gold stepped forward. His robes bore the seal of House Dandriel, one of the Twelve—a count with thinning hair and sharp eyes dulled by years of unchecked power.
"Sir Aden," he said, bowing with mock elegance, "no doubt your recent elevation had nothing to do with your… esteemed uncle's influence. A shame we all can't be born with the right blood in the right bed."
The chamber grew still.
Egmund stirred, his voice curling like smoke in the back of Aden's mind."Ah... this guy, Shall I?"
Aden didn't hesitate.
"Do it."
The air shifted.
At first, it was subtle. The wind ceased. The light dimmed—not because the sun faltered, but because something else eclipsed it.
Then it came—Fear.
A crushing, soul-piercing authority poured from Aden like an opened abyss. It wasn't a shout.
It wasn't even a roar. It was presence—the ancient, abyssal truth that something monstrous now stood among men.
The results were immediate.
Dozens of nobles dropped to their knees, gasping for breath. Some collapsed, unconscious, their minds unable to withstand the pressure. Veterans of war clutched at their hearts.
Even the Imperial Knights, trained not to flinch in the face of dragons, staggered and bowed instinctively.
Only silence remained—and Aden, unmoving in its center.
The Count who had spoken quivered on all fours, eyes wide, lips trembling.
Aden stepped forward slowly, his shadow stretching long across the pristine floor. His voice, when it came, was cold and razor-sharp.
"Does it still look like I curbed favor, Count Dandriel?"
The man choked on his breath, unable to respond.
"Good," Aden said.
"Then let me give you a gift of wisdom, since your family's lineage clearly left you with none: Keep your voice low when you speak my name. It might just save your life."
Gasps rippled through the court.
Egmund laughed inside him—a slow, echoing chuckle.
"Now that, boy… now that is a Vasco."
The power withdrew as suddenly as it came.
Fear lingered in its wake like smoke after fire.
And Aden continued walking, not sparing another glance at the broken nobles in his path.
He was no longer merely a candidate.
He was a storm, wearing a blade and the name Vasco.