The morning came like a slow drum, pressing gold and dust into the cracks of the city. Isaiah Saul woke to the smell of smoke and roasted grain, to the distant clamor of merchants setting up stalls. Yet the city felt hollow, as though the houses themselves waited for judgment.
House Lion's capital sprawled in layers: the upper terraces where elders and heirs spoke in quiet, cutting tones; the middle tiers where soldiers and scribes moved in orderly chaos; the lower districts where the poor whispered prayers to Luna, Sol, Midnight, and Eclipse for mercy that rarely came. And everywhere, the echo of lions - bronze statues, carved beams, banners embroidered with golden manes - reminded the inhabitants that pride was both shield and shackle.
Isaiah walked through the upper terrace, coat drawn tight against the wind. Each step felt measured, heavy with expectation. Even here, among his own blood, he felt the eyes of ancestors - silent and relentless. Every wrong word, every falter in posture, might be remembered as failure.
A voice called from a courtyard below, sharp and commanding. "Isaiah!"
He turned to see his cousin, Malak, striding toward him. Malak was all certainty, all pride, a polished blade of what Isaiah was expected to become. His hair was cut short, clean, and his boots struck the stone with a rhythm that demanded attention.
"You wander as if the world will not remember," Malak said, eyes narrowing. "Do you not know what it is to be a Saul?"
Isaiah's jaw tightened. He remembered the exile, the nights of hiding, the taste of ash in his mouth from his father's fury. "I know," he said. "I also know what it is to be remembered for what I cannot undo."
Malak's laugh was a blade. "Then perhaps you will finally learn. The Covenant will see you, yes, but it is not mercy they offer - it is purpose. You are not ready."
Isaiah wanted to argue, but another presence made him stop. Across the terrace, a figure moved with deliberate slowness: one of the Covenant's watchers. The man wore the plain gray of the order but carried a weight that made the air shiver. Isaiah felt the subtle pull of a DOMA, something old, patient, and sharp.
Malak followed his glance. "Do not be distracted. The Gentleman's Covenant is not for the weak. Nor for the foolish. Only those who have been broken enough - and survived."
Isaiah swallowed, feeling the stirrings of his own DOMA. Presence, weight, aura - the pulse in his chest that had whispered since the cliffs. Today, it hummed, restless. He had yet to master it, but he could feel its hunger, its demand for acknowledgment.
The courtyard doors opened. A council of elders had arrived, carrying scrolls and ledgers that smelled of ink and time. Their eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over him. Some nodded in recognition of his birthright. Others looked as if he might crumble at any moment, and they would be the first to record it.
A bell rang - a deep, hollow tone that carried across the terrace. It was the signal for the morning assembly, where heirs and soldiers, scribes and servants, gathered to hear the day's decrees. Isaiah stepped forward, each movement measured, feeling the unseen weight of ancestors, of House Lion, of every failure remembered and unforgotten.
He found a place at the edge, near the shadow of a bronze lion. The crowd murmured around him, the hum of expectation pressing against his ears. And then he saw the old man - the leader of the Gentleman's Covenant - standing near the far gate, hidden in plain sight. His cane tapped once, twice, slow and deliberate, drawing eyes without moving lips. Nocturne. The name whispered through Isaiah's mind like a promise or a threat.
The bell tolled again, and Isaiah felt the pull of his own DOMA, stronger now. It was hunger, presence, pressure - small, but insistent. He clenched his fists beneath his cloak, feeling the air thicken around him, feeling the first taste of what it meant to carry a House, a legacy, and the memory of blood.
Malak leaned close. "Remember this," he said quietly. "In House Lion, the roar is never yours alone. It carries the weight of every shadow before you. Fail, and they remember. Endure, and they will whisper your name, yes - but only after death."
Isaiah nodded, heart tight. The world had already begun to measure him. And somewhere deep inside, the roar stirred, faint but alive - a soundless echo that would demand recognition in the days to come.
He was not ready.
But he had no choice but to try.