Isabelle's voice wavered as though even the act of speaking reopened wounds she had stitched closed long ago. Her shoulders trembled despite her effort to remain composed.
"When he came back," she whispered, "he told us everything. That night, professors who had ties to the Dreadmore family gathered in the Headmaster's office. Some had lost students, some their comrades, and some…" Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard before forcing the words out. "…some had lost their life-and-death brothers.
"At first, we thought Ciara Dreadmore—my dearest friend—had survived. But when Virelius told us that her life-bound daggers had been found, while her body was missing…" Isabelle's voice cracked like glass under pressure. "I broke. She was the closest friend I had. And she was about to bring a child into this world."
Damien's head lifted slowly, strands of black hair falling over his eyes and veiling his expression. He did not speak. He could not. His body sat still, but inside his chest, a storm churned.
Albert, for once, said nothing. The parasite who always had some sharp comment, some dry remark to throw, was silent. Bound to Damien's soul, he felt the revelation as Damien did: suffocating, raw, an iron weight pressing down on the spirit itself. And though Albert had seen much in his existence, even he recoiled from the sheer cruelty Isabelle described.
For several long moments, the silence in the room was so thick it felt alive. And then Isabelle's voice returned, fragile, trembling.
"Yesterday… when Virelius saw you, he hoped. Even if the chance was small, he hoped you were Ciara's child. When he touched your soul, he saw damage—damage no commoner could carry. He left it alone because it was healing. And then he remembered… the gathering that night, Damien, was not ordinary." She hesitated, as if the words themselves burned her tongue. "…It was a celebration. A celebration of the birth of the child of two of the most powerful heirs—Raymond Dreadmore and Ciara Dreadmore. Your birth."
The room seemed to collapse inward, crushing Damien in a silence sharper than steel. His thoughts reeled back—back to Dreadmore's words, spoken with weight: You have survived in this world… The pause. The shift. The unsaid words.
It all clicked.
His breath stuttered in his chest. His lips parted, but no sound came. The truth roared through his mind like thunder splitting the sky.
He had survived. He—the child. The infant born to Raymond and Ciara—had lived through the massacre that erased his family.
How?
Memory flickered. His mother's voice. His mother's touch. A face blurred by time and trauma. It was her. It had to be her. Somehow, she had carried him through death's jaws.
Damien's eyes burned, but no tears fell. His chest heaved once—and then went still again, like the surface of a lake freezing in an instant.
Isabelle's voice pressed on, gentler, though each word still seemed to cut her own heart open.
"…So you must understand where Virelius is coming from. In his mind, your birth may not have been the cause of what happened that night. But it gave the enemy the chance to strike. To ensure no Dreadmore lived, they acted when everyone was gathered. Perhaps—perhaps if there had been no celebration, some might have escaped."
Damien did not reply. His head remained bowed, his hair veiling the expression on his face. His silence was heavier than words, dragging the air into suffocation.
Then, in one slow motion, he pushed the black strands back, slicking them away from his eyes. And he smiled.
It was not a grin of joy. Nor bitterness. Nor sorrow.
It was warm. Almost kind.
And yet… it chilled Isabelle to her marrow.
Because this was not the smile of a boy who had just learned of his parents' brutal deaths, of his family's extinction. It was the smile of someone who had walled away every flicker of pain, sealing it behind something colder, sharper, more dangerous.
Miss Beckar's words echoed in Damien's mind: Hide your emotions. Never show them what lies beneath.
He had listened. He had learned.
For the first time, Isabelle felt something she never imagined she would feel when looking at Ciara's child. Fear.
Damien's voice was steady, almost gentle. "I understand. There's no need to worry."
Her breath caught at the sound of it, at the false warmth woven into the syllables.
Then, smoothly, he shifted. "Professor… can you continue? Tell me what happened to the organization."
The suddenness of the question snapped Isabelle from her dread. She blinked, gathered herself, and answered.
"They were hunted," she said, her tone hardening. "The continent rose in outrage. The organization's leaders were killed. Many noble houses were persecuted in the purge that followed. Their name was erased."
But before she could say more, Damien's voice cut in again, sharp as a knife sliding through silk.
"How many great houses of Dravonne were persecuted?"
The question stunned her. She froze, lips parting but no words forming.
Damien leaned forward, closing the distance between them, his black eyes steady and cold. "Don't tell me, Professor… that no great noble house was involved in an organization this powerful."
Her composure fractured. "Th-There was no evidence…" she stammered. "No evidence connecting this to any of the Nine. Including… mine."
Damien studied her for a long, unreadable moment. Then he smiled again, saying nothing.
Finally, he asked, voice softer now, but edged with steel: "Is that why you came? To ask me to take the name of Dreadmore. To use it, to gain the power and talent tied to it?"
Relief flickered across Isabelle's features like a drowning woman gasping for air. She seized the escape his question offered.
"Yes," she said quickly. "Yes… I wanted you to become the heir of House Dreadmore. To carry the name once again."
Damien tilted his head slightly. "And you think it is safe now? That the organization is gone, and I should step into the open to claim what belongs to me?"
Her golden eyes widened. That was exactly what she believed. "Yes," she admitted softly.
But Damien's lips curved faintly. "You know, Professor… I have no talent in the Mystic Path. Carrying the Dreadmore name won't change that."
Her answer was immediate. "It will still enhance your gifts. Even if you walk the path of the body, keeping only a single name will leave something missing. A part of you—your powers—will remain locked away."
Damien fell silent, his mind working. He thought long and hard before speaking again.
"And how can you decide something like this without consulting Virelius? That man had no intention of telling me any of this. Not yet."
Isabelle smiled faintly, almost bitterly. "There's no need to worry about him. I've already… settled that matter."
His eyes narrowed, but he let it pass for now. "Then give me until Sunday," he said finally. "On Sunday, I will give you my answer." He paused. "And… I want a leave from the classes till then."
She hesitated. The first week of the semester, students learned little. Missing it would not matter much. After a moment, she nodded.
"Very well. Granted."
Before she could take her leave, she added, "One more thing. Tomorrow, all first-years must declare their subjects to me. What will you choose?"
"Only the five compulsory ones," Damien replied without hesitation.
Her eyes widened. "Only five?"
Ciara had excelled in all ten disciplines—compulsory and elective both. For him to restrict himself to five was unthinkable. But then she remembered—he was a body cultivator. Perhaps he needed the time. Slowly, she closed her mouth and let it be.
She rose to leave. At the door, she turned back once, her expression softer, gentler.
"You are not alone, Damien," she whispered. "I… could be considered your aunt."
And then she left him in the quiet room, with his silence, his storm, and the smile that no longer reached his eyes.