Leo, for the first time in his life, felt the cold hand of true fear. His fiery aura, so long a source of pride, was inert. The petrified staff in his hand was just wood. He looked at the vast, splitting chasm in the floor, at the blinding light of the Volkov magic, and then at the brother they had buried. A ghost with the power of a god.
Ivan, ever the pragmatist, saw the situation for what it was. A fight was impossible. This was no longer a question of who was more powerful, but of who was more in tune with the very essence of their family's power. And Mehandi was a living conduit. Ivan pulled on Leo's arm, his voice a low, urgent hiss.
"We leave. Now. We can't defeat this."
Leo tore his arm away, his eyes wild with defiance. "I am the heir! We will not flee from a dead boy!"
Mehandi took another step, and the light from the core pulsed with a threatening intensity. The walls groaned in protest, and a heavy chandelier crashed to the floor, its glass shattering into a million shards. This wasn't a show of power; it was a promise. A promise that he could, and would, bring the entire manor down on their heads.
Ivan's terror overcame his pride. He grabbed Leo's collar, hauling him back. "He's not a boy anymore, you fool! He's the source. We'll return. We'll find a way." With a final, furious glance at Mehandi, Ivan began to run, dragging a still-protesting Leo behind him. They disappeared through a side exit, leaving behind the wreckage of their party and the silent, terrified few guests who remained.
The ballroom was quiet again, the only sound the settling dust and the crackling light from the exposed core. Mehandi stood alone in the center of the broken floor, the blinding light illuminating his form. The fury that had driven him was fading, replaced by a profound sense of emptiness. He had taken his home back, but what did that mean? The manor was a ruin, his brothers were gone, and the people he had loved were dead.
The star spirit's voice, now a gentle, guiding whisper, settled in his mind. This is just the beginning, little one. The house is a reflection of the family. The power you command must be used to heal, not just to punish.
Mehandi knelt, placing a hand on the exposed magic. The raw energy felt like pure, concentrated life. He closed his eyes and, for the first time, used his magic not to destroy, but to mend. He didn't force the stone back together. Instead, he reached into the core, drawing out a different kind of energy, one of growth and restoration. The cracks in the floor began to seal, the broken marble mending itself, not to its former polished state, but with veins of pure, glowing aether that pulsed with a faint, steady light. It was an art, not a weapon. He had a lifetime of work ahead of him.
He looked around the shattered room. The party was over, and his family was truly gone now. He had won the battle, but the war for his legacy was just beginning. His brothers would not forget. They had allies, power, and centuries of Volkov ambition on their side. They would be back, and they would be even more ruthless.
Mehandi stood, no longer a ghost but a guardian. He had returned to cleanse his family's name, to restore what was broken, and to prepare for the inevitable. The manor was his, but he knew, with chilling certainty, that it would not be a place of peace for a long, long time.