The Magisterium's emissary left in silence, but her visit left a powerful echo in the stillness of the manor. Mehandi stood at the window, watching her golden-griffin crest disappear down the long, winding drive. He had expected an ambush, a frontal assault from his enraged brothers, but this was a far more insidious opening move. They weren't just fighting for power anymore; they were fighting for the narrative.
They have allies. Powerful enemies, the Magister's words replayed in his mind. He wasn't just defending his home from a personal vendetta. He was challenging the status quo, the intricate web of magical society his parents had helped build, and his brothers had corrupted. The family name, once a symbol of power, was now a tattered flag of deceit.
That evening, as dusk settled over the restored gardens, the first of the attacks began. It was not a magical assault, but a mundane one. The estate's well-guarded outer walls, which had stood for centuries, suddenly crumbled in a few places, as if eroded by an unseen force. Simultaneously, the manor's wards, an ancient spellwork that had been weakened by his brothers' neglect, began to flicker and fail. Mehandi felt the source of the attack not with his eyes, but with his new magic. It wasn't a powerful, direct assault. It was a subtle, creeping corruption, a kind of magic that gnawed at the foundations and the spells of the land itself. It was Ivan's work, cold and calculating.
Mehandi moved swiftly. He knelt by the cracked stone of the wall, placing his hands on the fissures. He didn't try to force the stone back into place. Instead, he reached for the life force of the land, coaxing the ancient magic of the ground to flow into the gaps. The stone did not simply re-form; it became alive, the cracks filling with luminous, glowing veins of aether that pulsed with a steady, unbreakable energy. The process was slow, methodical, but it was permanent.
As he worked, a figure emerged from the shadows of the garden—an old man with a kindly, wrinkled face and a quiet aura. It was Elara, the head gardener, a loyal servant who had tended to the Volkov grounds since Mehandi was a child. He carried a lantern, its light casting long shadows on his face.
"My Lord," Elara said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "I thought you were a ghost. But you're not. You're the heart of this place." He looked at the glowing veins of aether in the wall. "This manor has been crying for three years. Your brothers, they were like a blight. But you... you are the rain."
Mehandi stood, feeling a strange warmth spread through him. He wasn't alone. "They will try again, Elara. Not with brute force, but with poison."
"They have always been cowards, my Lord," Elara replied, a sad knowing in his eyes. "But they have a new ally. The whispers in the villages speak of them seeking refuge with the Lord of the Wailing Barrows. A necromancer who commands not magic, but spirits and shadows."
The news was a gut punch. His brothers weren't just plotting a return; they were dabbling in forbidden arts, seeking a power that would defy even the Magisterium. Mehandi had a home, a legacy, and a new power. But his brothers had something far more dangerous: a desperate, unquenchable thirst for revenge. They had sacrificed their honor, their magic, and their souls. They had returned from the dead in a different way, and Mehandi knew, with a chilling certainty, that this time, he would not be the only ghost in the story.