Back to the estate, the morning began like any other. Pale sunlight crept through the high arched windows of the Alchemist Quarters, gilding the marble floors in streaks of gold. The scent of bitter herbs and boiled poultices hung in the air.
One of the junior alchemists, barely in his twenties, was making his usual rounds, moving from ward to ward with a tray of morning tonics. He was used to the quiet murmur of the sick and injured: the faint rustle of blankets, the groan of a patient shifting in pain, the soft clink of potion bottles as he set them down.
But when he pushed open the door to Ward No. 9, the familiar sounds were absent. Instead, the stillness inside was thick, wrong.
The sight waiting for him made his heart lurch violently.
Three beds. Three bodies lying unnaturally still. The white sheets were soaked through with a dark, sticky red that had already begun to dry in ugly, rust-colored patches. But it wasn't just the blood. Each body was headless, the severed necks clean and precise. Whoever had done this hadn't just killed, they had executed. And from the sheen of the blood on the floor, it had happened only a few hours ago.
The tray slipped from the alchemist's hands and crashed to the floor, glass shattering and liquid splashing across his boots. He staggered back a step, his breath catching in his throat. For a heartbeat, he could only stare, frozen in shock, before his training took over. He spun on his heel and bolted for the door, sprinting down the hall, his shouts echoing through the stone corridors.
Guards came running.
When they entered the ward and pulled the covers back, their faces hardened immediately. They knew these young men, Gaven, Jorren, and Malik.
The same three who had been carried in yesterday, half-conscious and bloodied, after a savage beating dealt to them by none other than Rowan Vexlaar.
The guards exchanged grim looks. They didn't need to speak the thought they all shared. It was too neat, too deliberate to be coincidence. They fanned out at once, sending two men to fetch Rowan from the guest quarters for questioning.
But when they reached his rooms, they found them stripped bare. The boy was gone.
The report moved swiftly up the chain. The Duke's aides confirmed that Rowan had already been formally exiled that very morning, placed under the escort of Crownlands knights and sent toward the capital.
That sealed it in the guards' minds. Who else would have motive? Who else would be capable of slipping into a ward unseen, killing three men in their sleep, and leaving without so much as a whisper?
But even with the truth staring them in the face, there was nothing they could do. To lay a hand on someone under Crownlands protection was political suicide. The Duke's wrath would be one thing, but the Crownlands could crush them before it ever came to that.
And besides, these three weren't worth it. No one would mourn them. Their lives, in the grand scheme, meant nothing next to House Vexlaar's stability.
Still, the whispers began. By midday, the gossip had reached every corner of the estate, trickling from kitchens to training yards to noble dining halls.
When Jaffery Vexlaar heard the news, he was lounging in the east garden, sipping chilled fruit water while daydreaming about his bright future. Only twelve, fresh from his magical awakening ritual, and already preparing for his eventual enrollment into the Crownlands Magic Academy.
The words hit him like a spark to dry tinder. Gaven. Jorren. Malik. Dead.
They had been his tools, little more than disposable extensions of his will, but they were still his. To kill them was to spit in his face.
His jaw clenched, knuckles whitening around the delicate glass until it threatened to crack.
"That little ant…" he muttered, his voice trembling, not with grief but with fury. "This is disrespect. He thinks he can walk away and be done with it?"
He set the glass down with deliberate care, his eyes narrowing to slits.
"I'll make him pay," Jaffery swore, voice low and certain. "One day, Rowan… you'll regret this."
That morning, before going to the guest quarters, Rowan had made one last stop. Officially, it was to thank Mr. Harnes in the Alchemist Quarters. But once he left the man's office, he didn't head toward the guest quarters. His steps carried him deeper into the building, to the patient wards.
Security here was lax. No one expected danger in a place reserved for the sick and injured. Slipping past an inattentive apprentice on duty, Rowan reached Ward No. 9.
Inside, Gaven, Jorren, and Malik lay motionless under white sheets, still battered and bruised from the beating he had given them yesterday for spitting on his mother's name. Their breathing was shallow, their faces slack with either exhaustion or lingering unconsciousness.
The dim lanternlight carved long shadows across the room, pooling darkness at the foot of each bed.
Rowan stepped inside, his movements silent, deliberate. He drew his blade, the steel whispering free in the still air. There was no hesitation, no words exchanged.
Three swift strokes. Three heavy, wet thuds.
The heads rolled, sheets darkening beneath the ruin left behind.
He stood over them for a moment, the lantern's glow catching the cold glint in his eyes.
"Human trash like you," he murmured, voice low and steady, "have no right to live. It will be the same for all of House Vexlaar in time."
Then he wiped the blade clean, slid it back into its sheath, and left as quietly as he had come, just another shadow in the hallways of the estate.
They made camp in the shadow of a sprawling oak grove, the last night before reaching Vareth's capital. The journey had taken three days, three nights of sleeping in the wild, no taverns, no warm beds, only the crackle of a campfire and the rustle of the forest for company.
The knights had split into two watches, three Crownlands men patrolling the perimeter, three Nirathal on the opposite side, leaving Ferris, Velria, and Rowan close to the embers at the center.
Rowan sat on a log, chewing a strip of dried meat, his gaze fixed on Ferris. The older man sat cross-legged by the fire, cleaning his sword with the care of someone who had done it thousands of times before.
Rowan broke the silence."Did you know my mother?"
Ferris didn't look up. "No."
Rowan's eyes narrowed. "I saw you react in the Duke's hall when he spoke of her. You did know something."
Before Ferris could answer, Velria, leaning back on her elbows, smirked lazily."Of course he knew her. He liked her. One-sided love and all that."
Ferris's head snapped toward her. "Velria."
She continued anyway, clearly amused. "Makes sense, doesn't it? That's why he volunteered for this little escort job. Wanted to guard the boy, honor the mother's memory, all that sentimental nonsense."
"Tell him you're lying," Ferris said sharply.
Velria tilted her head. "Fine, fine. I'm lying."
Ferris finally looked at Rowan. "I reacted in court because your mother was a Nirathali princess. Even though the Duke admitted to treating her unjustly and letting her die, there's nothing I can do about it now."
Rowan's gaze dropped to the fire, the crackle suddenly louder than it should have been.
The air grew heavy, until Velria broke it with a brisk question. "How old are you, Rowan? And what's your magical affinity?"
Ferris shot her a look. "You didn't even read the report, did you?"
Velria shrugged. "Should I have?"
"He's under twelve. He hasn't gone through the magic awakening. And his recorded potential is low, very low."
Rowan said nothing, only poking at the fire as Velria's smirk returned.
"Now that I think about it, challenging House Vexlaar with that kind of potential wasn't brave," she said. "It was stupid."
"Enough," Ferris cut in. "From what I've heard, he's already disciple rank. That's rare for an eleven-year-old."
Velria blinked at Rowan, her smirk fading into genuine surprise.
Rowan didn't answer right away, just poked the fire with a stick, the embers flaring red.
"Low potential, huh…" Rowan muttered under his breath, his voice nearly lost in the sound of the carriage wheels crunching over the dirt road.
He knew the truth. His potential wasn't low because of him. It was because the test had been flawed from the start.
Back then, they had run the test on the original Rowan, the one who died, and he had possessed this body. The result had branded him as nearly talentless, and the house had treated him that way ever since.
Still, a small, stubborn corner of his mind couldn't help but wonder. What if? What if, during the real awakening, he discovered something worth more than pity? Fire, maybe, wild and powerful. Or perhaps darkness, cold, steady, unyielding.
But he quickly forced the thought away. Dreaming like that would only leave him disappointed. Just because the first test was wrong didn't mean his actual potential would be anything impressive. For all he knew, he didn't even have any magic potential. He could only focus on his knight training.