The evening air was hushed when Rayan walked toward the looming castle gates of Sunreign. The last traces of sunlight bled across the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of amber and violet. Long shadows stretched from the fortress walls, and the torches at the gates flickered to life, casting a wavering glow upon the stone.
Then, just near the entrance, his eyes caught a glimmer of polished metal on a carriage parked beneath the torchlight. He froze. The crest etched onto its door was unmistakable his grandfather's. A faint exhale left his lips, shaky and uneven. For a moment, he almost let himself feel relief.
His grandfather, Lord Athelred Sunreign, was the only one in this house who had ever looked at him as though he mattered.
The memory rose unbidden, sharp as sunlight piercing through clouds. He was ten years old again, lingering at the edge of the training yard, watching the other heirs spar with wooden swords. Their movements were clumsy but filled with laughter, the kind of laughter that belonged to boys who knew they had a future. He had no crest, no magical light pulsing through his veins, no proof of nobility in his blood. His presence there had been tolerated only out of pity.
Then his grandfather approached. The old man's steps had been slow, his cane tapping against the stone, yet his eyes had burned with warmth. He had knelt down beside Rayan, handed him a wooden blade, and spoken words that never left his heart:
"Even if your Crest never shines, you can still learn how to stand tall."
It was the first time anyone had told him he belonged. That memory was a treasure heavier than any title, brighter than any noble mark.
But that same grandfather had fallen ill, bedridden, one month before Rayan was cast out. If he had been awake, if his voice had rung through the halls, perhaps things might have been different. Perhaps the accusations would have been weighed more carefully, the judgment not so swift.
Rayan shook the thought from his mind and took another step forward. The mansion doors creaked open.
And there, at the top of the steps, stood Lucen Sunreign.
His younger half-brother.
Lucen leaned lazily against the carved railing, arms crossed, lips curved into that same smirk Rayan remembered all too well. He had grown taller, sharper in his features, but the cruelty in his eyes was unchanged.
"Brother Rayan," Lucen drawled, voice thick with mockery. "So you actually showed up. I half expected you to crawl in wearing rags."
Rayan did not take the bait. He kept walking, his expression unreadable.
Lucen's gaze flicked over him, settling on the attire the house had sent him for this single night of tolerance. Fine clothing, freshly pressed. A costume meant to disguise the disgrace they had forced upon him.
"They even cleaned you up, huh?" Lucen chuckled low, shaking his head. "Well, I suppose even a stray dog deserves a fancy collar for one night."
He enjoyed this too much. He always had.
Lucen had been one of the loudest voices celebrating his fall. One of the first to whisper poison into the ears of the court, one of the first to cheer when the accusations of theft stripped Rayan of his title and life.
Still, Rayan walked forward. He had learned long ago that silence was a shield stronger than any retort. Words could be twisted, anger mocked, but silence… silence was untouchable.
He passed Lucen without another glance.
The grand doors swallowed him into the Sunreign mansion, and instantly the air changed. The faint perfume of rose incense mixed with the musk of old wood. His boots clicked against polished marble, a rhythm that echoed too loudly in his ears. The place had not changed. Not a single tapestry had been moved, not a single statue shifted. It was as though time itself refused to touch the Sunreign estate.
Yet for him, every corner of it was a battlefield of memory.
His steps slowed when his eyes fell upon a great framed portrait in the main hall. A woman's face looked back at him, serene and timeless.
His mother. Ishari Sunreign.
The artist had captured her in youth, silver-blonde hair cascading like liquid moonlight, eyes luminous with quiet strength. The sight of her made his chest tighten until it hurt to breathe.
"Mother…" His whisper broke the silence.
She had died when he was ten.
He remembered it too clearly. Neither priest nor mage, not even the most skilled healers in the Kingdom of Solara, could save her from the disease that had stolen her away. Duskwither Fever. An illness that drained its victims slowly, without mercy, until the heart gave in to silence.
He remembered her final days, pale and weak, her body wasting away, yet her smile never faltering. Even when she could barely lift her hand, she had stroked his hair and hummed lullabies to soothe him. She had carried strength in her gentleness, strength that no one else in this house had ever shown him.
The memory struck harder now, standing before her portrait. He had been too young, too powerless to stop her passing. Just as he had been powerless when they accused him of theft. Just as he had been powerless when they ripped away his title, his future, his very manhood, casting him out like refuse.
And now, here he stood again inside the house that had destroyed him.
He clenched his jaw and tore his gaze away from the portrait. He would not crumble. Not here.