The east wing of the D'Aureville estate had been transformed.
Torches blazed in golden sconces, casting flickering warmth over carved pillars and polished marble floors. Musicians strummed soft court melodies, their notes weaving through the chatter of nobles draped in velvet and jewels. They spoke in brittle laughter and guarded tones—most loyal to Reynard, or too cowardly to oppose him. The air itself seemed heavy with unspoken alliances and veiled threats.
At the grand staircase, a hush fell like a blade through silk.
Lucien descended slowly, step by deliberate step. He was no longer the frail boy the court remembered. Now, he was striking. His tailored black doublet hugged his lean frame, silver trim catching the torchlight with every movement. His once-pale features now held color; his eyes were clear, piercing, alive. Dark hair framed his angular face, and there was a quiet, smoldering confidence in his stride.
At his side loomed Garron.
The Champion-tier powerhouse wore a ceremonial cloak draped over gleaming armor. Though his blade remained sheathed, no one mistook him for a mere escort. His every movement radiated controlled power. Silent, alert—like a storm barely leashed.
Gasps and murmurs stirred the hall.
"He walks…"
"By the gods… is that truly him?"
"I thought he was dead—or close enough."
Reynard stood near the dais, a goblet in one hand, a welcoming smile carved into his thin face. His silver hair was slicked back, and his crimson robes gleamed with the golden lion of House D'Aureville, as if daring anyone to question his rule.
"Lucien," Reynard said, his voice like sweet wine poured over poison. "How good to see you among the living."
Lucien stopped just shy of the bottom step and offered a shallow bow. "It would seem the rumors of my death were… premature."
A few nobles chuckled uneasily. Reynard's gaze flickered, only for a moment, before returning to its rehearsed warmth.
"A toast, then," the regent said, lifting his glass. "To my dear nephew's miraculous recovery. May he grow strong and wise under our care."
Selene, ever-watchful, appeared at Lucien's side with a crystal goblet of deep red wine. He accepted it with an elegant nod.
"To strength and wisdom," Lucien said, voice carrying across the hall. "And to those who would seek to take what is not theirs—may they find only ash in their mouths."
The silence that followed was sharp, a blade drawn in a quiet room.
Reynard's smile froze mid-crease. His fingers tensed around the stem of his goblet.
"Careful, my boy," he said, still smiling, but now it was all teeth. "Words can cut deeper than blades."
Lucien's gaze didn't flinch. "Then let them draw blood."
Garron shifted subtly, one gauntleted hand resting near the hilt of his sword. The nobles watched, breath caught in their throats, caught between fascination and fear.
Reynard laughed lightly, the tension in the room deflating—but not disappearing.
"Well said," he murmured. "The lion's tongue sharpens with age."
As the music resumed, the nobles dispersed into polite conversation once more, but all eyes flicked back to Lucien—this boy who was supposed to be a corpse, now standing tall like a returned heir of legend.
Lucien moved through the room with Garron at his shoulder, his presence unsettling. The men bowed stiffly. The women studied him with cautious interest. Even those who had dismissed him weeks ago now recalculated his worth.
Selene whispered at his side, "You've shaken the nest, my lord."
"That was the point," Lucien replied under his breath. "Let them swarm."
Across the hall, Count Malren approached. A minor vassal with eyes too eager and a smile too wide. "My lord Lucien, what a relief to see you recovered. We were… terribly concerned."
"Your concern warms me, Count," Lucien said, then added, "Though I don't recall your visit during my illness."
Malren faltered. "The roads, you understand. Unstable times—"
Lucien let the silence hang just long enough to wound.
"I see."
The Count retreated with an awkward bow. Lucien's lips curled faintly. Every word, every glance tonight, would be a message: he was no longer a boy confined to bed and forgotten chambers. He was the heir, and he was watching.
He moved toward the dais at the hall's front, where Reynard stood flanked by his advisors. The regent turned, wine glass still in hand, and met Lucien with another smile.
"You've made quite the impression," Reynard said, voice lowered now. "Even Garron at your side—very theatrical."
Lucien smiled politely. "I don't believe in half-measures anymore."
"Indeed. But careful, Lucien. There are rules in this game. Push too far, too fast, and you might fall before you've even stood."
"I've already fallen, Uncle. I've just learned how to rise."
Their eyes locked.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Reynard placed a hand on Lucien's shoulder. "You're your father's son, I'll give you that. But remember—his ambition killed him."
Lucien's voice turned cold. "I remember everything."
A flicker crossed Reynard's face, something old and bitter. Then he turned and stepped away into the crowd, his cloak trailing like blood on the floor.
Lucien exhaled, pulse steady. He had survived the first move. The banquet had been Reynard's idea—a display of power and control. But Lucien had turned it into a statement. He wasn't afraid anymore.
Garron leaned closer. "He knows."
Lucien nodded. "Good. Let him wonder how much I know."
They stepped out onto the moonlit balcony. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of roses and smoke. Selene joined them moments later, her gaze flicking back toward the hall.
"You've rattled every snake in that room," she murmured.
"I hope so," Lucien said. "I want them scared. Desperate men make mistakes."
Garron crossed his arms. "Desperate men also try to kill."
Lucien smiled faintly. "Let them try. I'm not alone anymore."
Below the balcony, the gardens stretched in eerie quiet. Statues of past D'Aureville patriarchs loomed like silent judges. Somewhere in the darkness, ravens croaked.
Lucien stared out over his estate.
He remembered the crypt. The system awakening. The coin spent to cleanse the poison. The voice that had echoed in his mind: Gold is power. Spend well.
Now, with his wealth, he would buy strength. Buy loyalty. Buy vengeance.
Reynard had made his move.
Now it was Lucien's turn.