The next morning, Eryndor walked through the grand halls of the Vaelith estate. Sunlight poured through the high windows, catching the gold embroidery on tapestries depicting ancestors who had shaped kingdoms. The walls seemed alive with silent judgment, each portrait a reminder that this family demanded strength—and loyalty above all.
"Master Eryndor," the servant boy said nervously, falling into step beside him. "There's… someone waiting for you in the courtyard."
Eryndor raised an eyebrow. "Someone?"
The boy hesitated. "Cousin… Malrik Vaelith."
Eryndor's lips curled into a small smirk. A cousin with a grudge. How convenient.
When he stepped into the courtyard, Malrik was already there, arms crossed, leaning casually against a stone fountain. His dark eyes flicked up, a faint sneer tugging at his lips. "So, this is the new… heir," he said, voice smooth but dripping with challenge. "I hear the original boy is gone… replaced by some stranger."
Eryndor stopped, letting the words settle. Calmly, he replied, "You must be Malrik. I've heard of you too." His tone was even, controlled, but carried an unmistakable weight. "And I suppose you're here to test me?"
Malrik's eyes narrowed. "Test? No. I'm here to see if the Vaelith blood still matters—or if we've truly been replaced by a weakling."
Eryndor's smirk deepened. Weakling? I've been through fire on Earth. I've faced pain, death, and despair. Weakling is a word for someone else.
"I wouldn't be so sure about calling me weak," Eryndor said smoothly. "Perhaps you'll find I'm… different."
The wind seemed to pick up, ruffling Malrik's dark hair. For a moment, the air between them felt charged—not just with tension, but something deeper. Both boys could sense the unspoken challenge: one would dominate, one would falter, and the court would watch.
Before anything could escalate, a soft voice cut through the tension.
"Eryndor, there you are."
Eryndor turned to see a young woman approaching. She was elegant, yet her steps were purposeful, confident. Her eyes were a deep shade of green, sharp and curious. Her presence alone seemed to shift the energy in the courtyard.
"Lyanna Arvelis," she introduced herself, bowing slightly. "I've been… looking forward to meeting the new heir."
Malrik's sneer faltered slightly. "Ah. The scholar from the Arvelis house," he muttered, voice low. "Interesting. Perhaps your timing is… convenient."
Lyanna's eyes met Eryndor's. There was no fear, no hesitation—only curiosity. A spark of something unspoken passed between them. Eryndor felt it—the first subtle pull of trust, or perhaps… something more.
Eryndor inclined his head politely. "Lyanna. It's a pleasure. I've heard much about your family… and their talents in magic."
She smiled faintly. "And I've heard about you… from rumors, of course. But actions speak louder than words, don't they?"
Malrik stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. "Actions… yes. Perhaps a demonstration is in order. Shall we test your skills, cousin?"
Eryndor's pulse quickened—not from fear, but from anticipation. He adjusted his stance, subtle yet ready, every movement a lesson learned from a lifetime of training. The courtyard was silent, as if the world itself waited.
And in that silence, Eryndor realized something: this wasn't just a family rivalry. This was the beginning of everything—the path to power, to mastery, and to a life where no one would ever underestimate him again.
He smiled faintly. Let them come.