The air above Mehandi's grave shimmered. He was no longer a sickly boy, but a vessel filled with a wild, cosmic power that hummed just beneath his skin. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the familiar contours of his bone structure, yet finding a new, vital strength. His eyes, once dull and shadowed, now held a bright, deep-blue fire, a reflection of the aetherial energy that had pierced the earth to find him. His weak, flickering aura was gone, replaced by a constant, gentle pressure that felt both ancient and new—a silent song of starlight.
The voice of the star's spirit echoed within him, a calm, patient presence that felt like a part of his very being. It was a guide, a silent mentor, showing him not just the memory of his brothers' betrayal, but the true nature of his new gift. His magic was not a volatile flame like Leo's, nor a solid, unyielding force like Ivan's. His was the magic of quiet places, of the root and the stone, of the starlight that nurtured life in the dark. It was the power to create, to heal, and to change.
With his mind, he reached for a nearby stone, and it floated into his palm, a perfect, weightless sphere. He felt the life within the earth, the slow, patient pulse of the forest. He looked at his own tombstone, now split in two by the meteor's impact. The name, MEHANDI VOLKOV, was a lie, a marker for a boy who no longer existed. He was a new being, forged from the death of his old self.
He turned his back on the grave and began to walk. The ground felt different beneath his feet, the forest floor a tapestry of life he could now feel and sense. The journey from the back woods to the main manor should have taken hours, but with a new, effortless grace, he found himself moving at a supernatural pace, a blur in the moonlight. He was no longer a burden; he was a force of nature.
As he neared the estate, he felt the oppressive weight of his brothers' magic. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket of ambition and greed that had replaced the familiar warmth of his parents' rule. He crouched behind a line of ancient yew trees, a silent ghost watching from the shadows. The manor was ablaze with light, a loud, jarring party in full swing. He saw Leo standing on a balcony, laughing boisterously, his aura a triumphant orange glow. Ivan was at his side, a silent, predatory smile on his face as he surveyed the guests.
The manor was no longer a home. It was a monument to their deceit, a gilded cage built on the foundation of his so-called death. A righteous fury, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, settled deep within Mehandi. They had taken his family, his name, and his legacy. They had buried him and forgotten him.
But now, he was a reckoning. He would no longer be the frail boy who faded into the background. He was the Volkov heir with the power of a star, and he had come to claim his birthright. And for his brothers, the night was just beginning.