Weeks turned into a month, and the Volkov manor slowly began to breathe again. Mehandi's new magic wasn't about imposing his will but about coaxing the aether back into the veins of the estate. The cracks in the ballroom floor were now healed, but instead of the polished marble, a web of glowing, crystalline threads pulsed with a soft, steady light. These lines extended into the walls and up the stairs, a visible, luminous map of the manor's restored magical core. The withered roses in the garden blossomed again, their petals now shimmering with a faint, internal light.
Mehandi, no longer in the soiled clothes of the grave, wore simple, unadorned robes of dark linen. He moved through the halls, no longer a ghost but the master of his domain. The surviving servants, initially terrified, had come to accept him. They saw not a specter, but a quiet, diligent young man who spoke to the trees in the garden and hummed a song that made the very air feel clean. He was a different kind of master than the ones they had fled from. He did not command; he restored.
He spent his days in the arcane library, not to find spells of power, but to study the family records, the alliances his parents had forged, and the treaties his brothers had broken. He was a heir to a legacy of deceit and broken promises. He learned of rival families, of political debts, and of a powerful, secretive body known as the Sovereign Magisterium, the ruling magical council that governed the land. His brothers had courted them with gifts and flattery; Mehandi knew he would have to face them with nothing but the truth.
News of the "dead" Volkov heir's return spread like wildfire through the magical community. It was a story of revenge, of a man rising from the grave to take what was his. But the world beyond the manor didn't know the truth. They didn't know the power he wielded wasn't forged in ambition, but in starlight.
One afternoon, a small delegation arrived at the manor's gates. Their crest was the symbol of the Sovereign Magisterium: a golden griffin perched atop a serpent. The lead magister, a stern-faced woman with a severe magical aura, regarded Mehandi with open suspicion.
"Mehandi Volkov," she said, her voice sharp. "You were declared dead three years ago. Your brothers have petitioned for you to be named a usurper, a pretender. They claim you have practiced forbidden magic to return."
Mehandi did not deny it. "My magic is not forbidden, Magister. It is natural. It is from the source itself." He gestured toward the veins of light in the walls. "My brothers sought power for its own sake. They corrupted this place, and they tried to kill me for my weakness. But my weakness was my strength. My power is of this place, not of some petty ambition."
The magister's eyes widened slightly as she felt the powerful, ancient hum of the manor's magic, a resonance unlike anything she had ever encountered. The air was not oppressive, but invigorating. This was not the work of a dark mage.
"Regardless," she said, her voice softer, "your brothers are petitioning for your arrest. They have powerful allies. You have made powerful enemies."
Mehandi looked toward the distant hills, knowing his brothers were out there, plotting their next move. He had won the battle for his home, but the war for his family's name was just beginning. He had to not only defend himself but also prove that the Volkov family, under his guidance, could be a force for good. He was no longer just fighting for revenge; he was fighting for redemption.