The celebration raged on, but to Mehandi, it was a cacophony of hollow laughter and false joy. From his vantage point in the shadows of the ancient yews, he watched as a servant's tray of silver goblets suddenly tipped, sending the polished metal clattering across the marble floor. A moment later, the grand candelabra in the main hall dimmed, its flames flickering as if in a sudden, unseen gust of wind. Leo, on the balcony, scoffed. "Ivan, get one of the guards to fix that. Such a display of weakness."
Ivan, his eyes narrowed, didn't respond. He had felt the pulse—a faint, ethereal pressure that felt like the earth itself had sighed. It was the whisper of magic, but unlike any he or Leo had ever felt. It was too subtle, too pure. He dismissed it as a trick of the moonlight, a momentary disturbance in the estate's power.
But the whispers grew louder. Mehandi, walking from the trees with a newfound, silent gait, felt the resonance between his magic and the world around him. He passed through the manicured hedges, and the vibrant, well-tended roses along the path wilted slightly, their petals curling in on themselves. A silent tribute to the life he had lost. His steps were deliberate, each one a step closer to justice.
He walked into the brightly lit ballroom, a figure of stark contrast against the celebratory backdrop. Heads turned, and the music, a joyous waltz, faltered and died. The room went silent. The guests saw a stranger in tattered, soiled clothes, his face and hands streaked with dirt from the grave. But it was his eyes that held them—glowing with a deep-blue fire that seemed to hold the power of a thousand stars.
Leo, from his balcony perch, scowled. "Who is this?" he demanded, his voice booming with the authority of the estate's master. "Throw this vagabond out!"
But Ivan felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. He saw not a vagabond, but a ghost. A terrifyingly familiar ghost. He saw the sharp jawline and the silver-blue eyes of their lineage, now radiating an impossible power. The boy they had buried.
Mehandi looked up, his gaze locking with Leo's. "I am no vagabond, Leo. I am the Volkov heir." His voice was low and steady, not the meek whisper they remembered. "And this is my home."
Leo's laugh was a sharp, brittle sound. "Our frail little brother has finally lost his mind. Do you think we don't recognize our own dead?" His aura flared, an angry orange flame of power. "Guards! Seize him!"
As the guards advanced, Mehandi raised a hand, and the very air in the room seemed to compress around his fingers. He did not conjure fire or throw a lightning bolt. Instead, the heavy, aggressive auras of Leo and Ivan simply vanished. The oppressive weight that had filled the manor for three years lifted, replaced by a clean, sharp stillness that left them feeling exposed and weak.
Leo's eyes widened in fear, his fiery aura replaced by a desperate, panicked flicker. Ivan's smooth mask of control finally broke, a look of pure terror on his face. This was not a power they knew; it was something ancient and fundamental, a force that could simply unmake their magic.
"Your magic is of ambition and greed," Mehandi said, his voice now a calm resonance that filled the room. "It is a lie. But my magic is of the earth and the stars. It is the truth." He took a single, deliberate step forward, and a crack ran through the grand marble floor, a thin line that grew into a fissure that stopped at Leo's feet.
"You took everything from me," Mehandi said, his eyes burning. "My family, my home, my name." He looked at each of his brothers in turn, a cold, righteous fury replacing the grief that had once defined him. "Now, I've come to take it all back."