Roran's head throbbed. Not from drink which he had barely touched but from the endless sycophants who'd approached him all evening with sweet words and praises.
"My lord, another tale of your exploits in Volgard?" A minor lord's son had asked, breath stinking of fermented berries.
"Perhaps later," Roran had replied, the trained smile widen beautiful on his face.
As the night went on, the heat and noise of the celebration became stiff. Roran felt his patience wearing thin.
"I need some air," he said to his father, who barely heard his words through the haze of the wine.
Lord Torren waved a dismissive hand. "Don't... don't be gone too long. More toasts to come."
Roran nodded and slipped away from the high table, moving with the practiced grace of a noble.
Guests reached for him as he passed, eager to touch the prodigal son, but he avoided their grasping hands with subtle shifts in his movement.
The night air hit him like a blessing when he stepped onto the stone porch overlooking the sprawling Ardent estate offering a view of rolling hills that stretched far toward the distant wall that encircled their lands.
All of it would be his someday. All of it, yet not enough.
The quiet was shattered by the silent movement behind him—a disturbance in the air so quite that only someone with his training would have detected it.
In one fluid motion, Roran drew the dagger hidden at his waist, spun, and pressed the blade against his assailant's throat while clamping his other hand over their mouth.
Only when he saw familiar blue eyes widening in surprise.
"What the hell!" Roran hissed, immediately withdrawing the blade. "I nearly killed you, Uncle."
"You still have the reflexes I trained into you," Valdric observed, rubbing his throat where the blade had pressed. "Good. Volgard hasn't made you soft."
Roran snorted, sheathing the blade. "The only skill i learned from you was how to bed a woman with her husband sleeping in the next room."
His uncle's face flushed red. "I never taught you that!"
"Didn't have to," Roran smirked. "Watching you was education enough."
His uncle's embarrassment dissolved into a bark of laughter. "You little shit."
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. Of all his family, only Valdric truly understood him—had shaped him into the weapon he'd become.
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, both gazing out over the estate bathed in moonlight.
"Thank you for the elixir," Roran said finally. "It proved... useful."
His uncle nodded, moving to stand beside him. "Anything for my favorite nephew." When Roran raised an eyebrow, Valdric added, "Fine, my only nephew. Was the beast truly strong as the reports claimed?"
Roran's jaw tightened. "Worse. After the dungeon break, we lost dozens. Children, farmers, even S-rank beast slayers from the noble houses." He stared at his hands, remembering how they had looked covered in blood—not the beast's, but the blood of a girl no older than eight who'd been slashed before he could reach her. "It's over now."
"Happy return from the shit hole royal capital, then," Valdric said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Though I suspect serving your homeland wasn't your only motivation for coming back."
Roran stiffened. His uncle had always seen through him. Others might believe he'd returned due to exhaustion or familial duty after the traumatic events in Volgard.
But Valdric knew better. Valdric always knew better.
"I know why you came back," his uncle said softly. "It's because of him."
A cold smile crept across Roran's face. "Clever as ever, Uncle. You already knew."
"You're worried about the child. You see him as a threat." It wasn't a question.
Roran scoffed, pushing away from the railing to face his uncle directly. "Why would a mere infant be a threat to me? You underestimate my strength, Uncle."
"He's not just any child," Valdric countered, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He has the eyes of the gods. Remember that."
"Don't tell me you believe that fairy tale," Roran laughed again, though the sound held no humor. "Golden eyes that grant immense power? Such nonsense. I came only to see how strong he might grow."
Valdric's smile. "Never underestimate your enemy's power, Roran—even if they seem as an ant beneath your boot. The smallest serpent often carries the deadliest venom."
"He's an infant my brother, not an enemy," Roran replied, but the words rang false even to his own ears.
"Your sister Lira was born with the eight-pointed star that everyone dismissed as a mere birthmark—another fairy tale," Valdric voice hardened. "You underestimated her, and now look. She awakened her powers at birth, not at fourteen like the rest of us mortals. In a few years, she'll surpass even you, despite all your hard work and sacrifice."
Roran's fist clenched so tight his knuckles whitened. The thought of his little sister—or anyone—eclipsing him after everything he'd endured, everything he'd done... The mere imagination of it felt like acid in his veins.
"That won't happen," he growled. "Not while I'm here."
Valdric studied him with those knowing eyes that missed nothing. "You know what needs to be done, nephew."
As his uncle turned to leave, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Remember what I taught you about weeds in the garden. Pluck them while they're seedlings—wait until they've rooted, and they'll strangle everything you've built."
When Valdric disappeared into the doorway, Roran remained on the porch, his mind churning with possibilities and plans. His gaze drifted toward the nursery wing of the estate, where Kael slept, unaware of the forces already gathering around his cradle.
"No one will stop me," Roran whispered to the night. "Not my father, not my siblings, not some prophesied child. If I must become the villain in this story to claim what's rightfully mine, so be it."
He lifted his cup, which he'd been carrying since the celebration, and finally drank it in one long swallow. The wine tasted of blood and iron on his tongue—a fitting flavor for the oath he was making to himself.
"Not even the gods themselves."
---
The greatest cruelty isn't killing a man's body—it's extinguishing his potential before he understands what he might have become. That's not murder; it's erasing a future that dared to threaten yours.
- Roran Ardent