The trial was over, but the weight of it lingered long after the council dismissed him. Servants whispered in the corridors as Eryndor walked past, their eyes flicking toward him with a mix of curiosity and doubt. Rumors spread quickly in the Vaelith estate, and he could feel them gathering around him like storm clouds.
But it wasn't the council's suspicion that unsettled him. It was his father.
Lord Vaelith summoned him that evening. The patriarch's private chambers were unlike the rest of the estate—bare, quiet, almost austere. No tapestries, no vanity, only weapons mounted on the walls and a desk stacked with maps and reports.
Eryndor entered, bowing his head faintly. "You called for me."
Lord Vaelith didn't look up at first. His quill scratched across parchment, signing something with quick, sharp strokes. Finally, he set it aside and raised his gaze.
"You handled yourself well before the council," he said flatly.
Eryndor smirked faintly. "I don't plan on failing in front of anyone."
For the first time, something flickered in his father's eyes—not approval, not pride, but a quiet recognition. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Tell me, Eryndor. Who are you really?"
The words struck like a blade. The air in the room felt heavier, the silence sharper.
Eryndor didn't flinch. "I am your son. Eryndor Vaelith."
Lord Vaelith's lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a smile. "No. My son is dead."
Eryndor's breath stilled.
"I knew the moment you woke," Lord Vaelith continued, voice low, almost dangerous. "Your posture, your eyes, the way you carry yourself. The boy who died was soft, careless. You are not him."
Eryndor said nothing. His mind sharpened, measuring each word, each possible answer.
"You don't need to explain," his father said, finally standing. His presence filled the room like a storm rolling over the horizon. "Whoever—or whatever—you are, you are stronger than the weakling who bore my name before. That is enough for me."
Eryndor studied him carefully. "So you'll keep this secret?"
Lord Vaelith's eyes hardened. "I'll bury it deeper than the grave. The family doesn't need to know the heir they lost… only the one who stands before them now. But understand this—" He stepped closer, his voice like cold steel. "If you falter, if you shame the Vaelith name, I will not hesitate to replace you again. Blood or not."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Eryndor gave a small smile, calm and sharp. "Fair enough. Just know this—I don't plan on falling. Not here. Not ever again."
Lord Vaelith's gaze lingered on him, then he turned back to his desk, dismissing him without another word.
Eryndor left the chambers with his mind racing. His father knew the truth—and had chosen silence. Not out of kindness, not out of trust, but because power mattered more than anything else.
As he stepped into the moonlit hall, he caught sight of a figure waiting by the courtyard. Lyanna. Her expression softened slightly when she saw him, though her eyes still held that calculating gleam.
"You've been quiet since the trial," she said.
Eryndor gave her a half-smile. "Quiet is good. It means I'm listening."
She tilted her head. "Listening to what?"
"To everything," he said simply.
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. You'll need that. The council isn't the only one watching you."
Eryndor glanced back toward his father's chambers, then to the stars above. No… not the only one. And maybe not the most dangerous either.