"Is that... Lord Hendrix?"
"I think that is him"
"Who would have believed Lord Hendrix himself would return?"
"Why is he dressed like that at a time like this? Doesn't he realize he's in the Citadel?"
"Lower your voice; he might hear your insolent dribble."
The whispers passed through the funeral, barely spoken. Heads turned and eyes narrowed. Even among mourning, the arrival stirred the hall. The man who had vanished to the western fringes had returned.
He entered with long strides, boots still dusted from travel. His steps were heavy and made clear thuds in the hall. His eyes swept the mourners, then settled on the front.
"What killed my father?" Hendrix's voice rang out, sharp and cold as he neared the coffin.
"Looks like everyone in the Crescent was informed", he turned as he looked around at everyone in the crowd.
The chamber went silent and all the eyes were on the man who had disturbed the hall. The new Patriarch, once heir, now cloaked in ceremonial robes, remained silent. His breath was now audible as his chest rose and fell but he didn't change his position.
"You were far away, Hendrix," someone murmured from the side in a low, feeble voice, hoping to soften the tension. "We did not expect your return, Lord Hendrix"
Hendrix scoffed, low and unimpressed. "You expected a lot others."
Then he turned fully to the man Infront of the Patriarch's seat.
"Congratulations… on becoming the new Patriarch"
"Thank you," the Patriarch replied, his tone unchanged. "Now, if you'll allow, we are nearly done with the rites."
"I fear not," Hendrix stepped forward. "Not yet that is."
"You are overstepping," came a voice from among the elders. "Let the burial be done. We can speak afterward."
"All Houses are present?" Hendrix proclaimed, addressing the hall, unmoved.
"They are", Elyrion replied with a hint of irritation "And how is it going to help you precisely?"
"Bring me the Patriarch's chest."
A Senior warden looked at Elyrion, confused. Elyrion hesitatingly nodded to not escalate the situation.
"Each house bring their five young ones forward"
"Make space," the wardens murmured, clearing the way for the young ones.
Hendrix looked at the crowd carefully as if he was looking for someone.
"I don't think I see anyone here from the House of Zergos", Hendrix asked one of the Clan Wardens
"Let me check", the Warden said hurrying, to fetch someone from the house.
Moments later, Larsen returned with him and quietly blended into the crowd of curious teenagers
The air remained heavy. Hendrix stepped forward and placed the chest upon the stone. The elders watched in silence. Infront of them, the younger nobles leaned forward, curiosity lighting their faces.
"I will explain each technique only three times," Hendrix said, his voice carrying into every corner. "If one of you understands it within that, the technique is yours."
He glanced toward the Patriarch, whose jaw had tightened ever so slightly.
"If none succeed, I will repeat it four more times. But the moment one does… I stop."
"This is not just a lesson," Hendrix said. "This is your inheritance and you must earn it."
A warden stepped forward and opened the chest. Inside were scrolls, sealed in clan wax, their edges worn by time.
Hendrix lifted the first scroll high.
"I will demonstrate the forms. Watch carefully. I ask for silence, so the chants may be heard."
He looked briefly toward the elders before continuing.
"I cannot perform these myself, but I will explain them clearly. If any elder wishes to assist, I welcome it."
He broke the seal with care.
"We begin with the first technique.
Scroll of the Fire and Flame
The judgement of Fire"
He moved slowly, speaking the chants as he performed the hand seals. At the third repetition, the young ones mirrored him, repeating each word, following each movement. The hall fell quiet.
By the end, two boys had results, flickers of heat and a faint spark. Among them was Larsen.
Few recognized the Judgment of Fire for what it truly was… a technique said to reveal intent itself.
A few elders exchanged glances, but none spoke. Hendrix nodded once and raised the next scroll.
"We continue.
Scroll of the Wind and Storm
Whispers of the past."
He taught the stance and the chant, guiding them through three repetitions. No one succeeded.
He gave it once more, slower and clearer. Then two boys listened faint voices, though unintelligible.
Larsen was one of them.
Hendrix paused. His gaze found the boy again, lingering this time. There was something in his eyes. Maybe curiosity or something more.
A few heads turned. Not in shock, but in slow recognition. The boy, dull in appearance, plain in robe and posture, was doing what most could not.
He looked like nothing. Thin. Slightly hunched. His face forgettable. Eyes dim. But those who watched more closely remembered: he had topped every examination at the Crescent's Academy. They had simply… overlooked him.
"Didn't know you were hiding such skill Larsen?," Hendrix said at last, with a trace of amusement. "Am I right? From the house of zergos?"
Larsen nodded
"Well done. You too, Mark."
"Thanks", Mark, his older cousin, nodded coolly. The two studied in the same year in the Crescent's Academy.
"Are we finished?" the Patriarch asked quietly, now standing beside Hendrix, his voice laced with weary patience.
"We are," Hendrix said. "Do not let these traditions die. They're all we have left now.", Hendrix addressed the inheritors in low voice.
"Then step aside."
"Of course. Please continue."
The ceremony resumed. The interruption passed like a storm.
Larsen, now at the front, stood with the other heirs of their houses. He watched as the coffin was lifted by the old Patriarch's loyal wardens. The wood groaned faintly. The silence grew reverent.
They walked toward the burial ground, slow and solemn. Elders followed. Nobles. Kin. Foreign guests. Regime men. Each step marked the end of an era.
Edward arrived just as the procession passed beneath the old gate. His robe was slightly rough and old, his face calm. He had been settling final affairs.
Spotting Larsen, he came quickly.
"Larsen," he said in a low voice, "go to the front. With your cousins."
"I'm fine here," Larsen replied softly.
Edward didn't pause. "Do not make me repeat myself."
Larsen obeyed. Quietly, he moved forward. Head down and unsure if he belonged but obedient.
The burial neared its end. Yet something clung to the air.
When the others began to depart, Larsen remained. He knelt beside the grave. His arms circled it not in grief, but in something else.
His hand brushed the dirt near the base.
Then he felt it rough. A slip of parchment. He pulled it free.
"A note…?" he whispered. "Writing?"
He squinted, trying to make out the faded words.
Before he could read them, a hand rested gently on his shoulder.
"Come, now," Uncle Kai said. "Everyone's leaving. This place doesn't have the best stories."
With a gentle grip, he helped Larsen to his feet. The boy cast one last look at the note in his hand before being led away.