Rowan followed the butler and guards through the long corridor, boots echoing faintly against the marble floor. His mind churned restlessly with questions. Why now? Was this about the fight? But why would the Duke, the head of House Vexlaar himself, get involved in something so petty? It didn't make sense.
Rowan had never seen Duke Angus in person. All he had were scraps of stories and hushed whispers. The man was said to be cold, merciless, a commander who treated family like soldiers and soldiers like pawns. A man who valued strength above all. Surely, someone like that wouldn't bother with a squabble between boys.
And yet… here Rowan was, led by guards through corridors gilded in red and gold. With every step, the air seemed to grow heavier, pressing on his lungs. He clenched his fists to keep his breathing steady. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut.
When they finally reached the massive double doors of the main hall, the guards pushed them open with a groan of ancient hinges. Light spilled through towering windows, pale and golden, bathing the throne room in a ghostly sheen. The space was vast, eerily so. The ceiling arched high above, lined with banners bearing the crimson-black sigil of House Vexlaar: a snarling wolf, jaws parted wide. The cold marble beneath his feet echoed with each hesitant step he took.
Nobles and high-ranking retainers sat in neat rows on either side of the carpeted path, their gazes flicking toward him like hawks spotting prey. Some looked curious. Others indifferent. A few openly sneered. But Rowan barely noticed them. His eyes were drawn forward, to the dais.
There, at the highest seat in the room, sat the Duke. Angus Vexlaar. Even seated, the man exuded power. Broad-shouldered, draped in polished black and silver plate armor, with a thick fur cloak wrapped over one side, he looked more like a warlord than a noble. His face was hard, lined by age and battle, with eyes like chipped ice: cold, sharp, and utterly unfeeling.
Rowan hesitated at the edge of the aisle. Then a voice called out, calm, clipped, and old. "Rowan Vexlaar," said the man standing near the Duke, a stern-faced elder with white streaks in his hair and a voice that carried like a bell. "You have been summoned to witness the result of decisions far greater than yourself, matters that concern the Empire."
Rowan blinked. The Empire? He didn't move. Just listened.
The elder continued, his voice echoing through the vast marble chamber. "For years, war simmered between Vareth and Nirathal over control of the mana-rich borderlands. It drained resources, claimed lives, and frayed the fabric of diplomacy. But now, through the arbitration of the Crownlands, and with Nirathal's acceptance of Vareth's conditions, a fragile peace has finally been forged."
A low murmur spread through the assembled nobles. Whispers of surprise, suspicion, or perhaps relief, but they died quickly beneath the silent weight of the Duke's presence.
"The mana stone mine shall be shared," the elder went on. "Both sides will have equal access and equal rights. Nirathal has agreed to all terms."
Then why am I here? Rowan's heart thudded faster in his chest.
"But in return," the elder added, his voice growing cold, "Nirathal has requested a gesture. A sign of goodwill. One that Vareth has accepted without protest." The old man turned his eyes toward Rowan. His gaze shifted, slow, deliberate, until it landed on him. "You."
That single word hit harder than any blow. Rowan's breath hitched.
"You, Rowan Vexlaar, are to be exiled from House Vexlaar and the Vareth Empire. From this moment on, you no longer hold title or standing. You will be handed over to the Nirathali delegation present here today, to be transported under their guardianship."
Rowan's mind reeled. "What…?" The word slipped out before he could stop it. "Why—?"
The man spoke over him. "Seated among us today are two representatives. Lady Velria, a Third Circle Mage of the Crownlands… and Lord Farris, Third Circle Mage of Nirathal. They will ensure your safe passage."
Only then did Rowan notice them, seated quietly among the gathered nobles, not next to the Duke, but apart. They hadn't spoken a word. Hadn't moved. A pale-haired woman sat with regal poise, robed in misty silvers and whites, her long braid gleaming in the filtered light. Her expression was unreadable, distant. Beside her sat a broad-shouldered man with deep eyes, robed in blue. His arms were crossed, but his presence was solid, grounded, like a mountain watching a storm.
Rowan's heart was thundering in his chest. "Do I… have any say in this?" He forced the words out.
"No," Duke Angus said, the first word he had spoken himself. A single word. Final.
Rowan's jaw clenched. There were so many things he wanted to say, wanted to shout, but they tangled in his throat. The Duke tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "You have something on your mind, boy? Speak. Nothing will happen to you. You're too valuable right now. Enjoy it while you can."
Rowan exhaled, trembling. "Who killed my mother?"
The room froze. The Duke didn't flinch. "From what I was told, it was her illness."
Rowan stared at him. "Why was her illness ignored by the House even after me asking for help? And why were we treated the way we were?" he asked, voice low. "Like we were already dead?"
The Duke didn't hesitate. "Because you were useless," he said flatly. "House Vexlaar is no place for the weak. Maybe not so useless… Your mother became useful in the end because of her Nirathali birth. And now you also…"
He didn't finish the sentence. But the meaning rang clear. Rowan's eyes flicked toward Lord Farris. Just for a moment, something changed in the man's expression. His posture tensed. His jaw tightened.
Rowan smiled, cold, brittle. "Good," he said softly. "That makes things easier. I won't feel any guilt for what I do in the future."
Gasps rang out. Outrage exploded from the nobles like a wave. "How dare he—!" "Such insolence—!" "Throw him in chains!"
But before the guards could even twitch, the Duke let out a deep, thunderous laugh. "Hah!" Angus Vexlaar barked. "If only you had talent to match your tongue, boy. I've seen many youths like you. They all die a dog's death. Hopefully, you get to live a little longer than them."
Then he turned to the delegation. "He's under your care now. Take him when you wish."
And just like that, it was over. The Duke waved a hand, and the hall began to stir. Lord Farris rose from his seat, motioning calmly. "Come. We'll speak in private."
Rowan followed silently, his steps slow but steady, as they left the cold grandeur of the throne room behind. They walked through winding halls until they reached the guest quarters, more elegant than anything he had ever known, but they felt hollow. Once the doors closed behind them, Rowan finally exhaled. He had just been exiled. And yet, for the first time in years… he felt free. Whatever Nirathal had in store for him, Rowan thought, it had to be better than this. Even exile sounded like relief compared to the cold cruelty of House Vexlaar.
They arrived at a finely adorned wing of the estate, reserved for dignitaries and foreign guests. A pair of servants bowed as they opened the doors, revealing a spacious chamber lined with velvet curtains, glass-lantern sconces, and a sitting area draped in silk and fur. The walls were adorned with old tapestries, likely expensive, likely meaningless. Lady Velria stepped inside first, her footsteps light but certain. She turned, and for the first time, addressed him directly.
"You've got guts, boy," she said, arching one pale brow. "I like that."
Rowan blinked, unsure how to respond. She turned slightly toward Lord Farris. "Well? What do you think?"
The Nirathali mage gave Rowan a long look, measuring. Finally, he gave a short nod but did not say anything else. Rowan straightened slightly, unsure whether that was a compliment or a warning.
Farris looked at him again, more formally this time. "Be here by sunrise. We leave for Nirathal at first light. Do not be late."
Rowan gave a single nod. "Understood."
Without another word, Farris turned and left, his cloak trailing behind him. Lady Velria followed, pausing briefly at the doorway. "For what it's worth," she said, her voice quieter now, "not all chains are made of iron. Some are inherited. Others... you break yourself." Then she was gone.
Rowan stood alone in the richly furnished room, surrounded by the wealth of the House that had just cast him aside. He didn't feel sorrow. Or fear. Only resolve.