The morning sun filtered through stained glass, casting fractured red and gold across the cold stone floor. For a brief moment, the light almost made the estate feel alive. Almost.
Caelum stood in the center of the dining hall, his hands pressed neatly behind his back, posture rigid under the weight of unseen judgment.
At the head of the long table sat Lord Morgain, his father. His presence filled the room not by warmth, but by the suffocating gravity of authority. His dark robes were spotless, embroidered with silver threads that traced the serpent crest. His face, hard as carved granite, was framed by streaks of iron-gray hair.
He did not look at Caelum. Not truly. His gaze skimmed over him the way one might regard a cracked vase—acknowledging its existence only long enough to remember it should have been thrown away.
"You've grown tall," his father muttered finally, voice deep and sharp as steel drawn from its sheath. "But height without strength is nothing. You remain… inadequate."
Caelum's chest tightened, but he kept his face still. Inadequate. The word settled into his bones like ice water.
"And your mother," his father continued, voice low with disdain. "Lysandra wasted her affection on you. She thought you might rise. That foolish hope is gone with her ashes. And still, you—"
The words dug deep. Her name was both a wound and a tether. A memory surfaced—soft hands brushing his hair, a faint lullaby. Before it, a scream. Fire. Blood. And then nothing but silence.
He clenched his fists under the table. The old scar on his forearm burned faintly where discipline had left its mark.
If I speak, he'll punish me. If I stay silent, he'll forget I exist. Which is worse?
The silence stretched. His father sipped his wine, already moving on as though Caelum were nothing more than furniture in the hall.
At the far end of the table, Rivena laughed softly, a cruel melody. His sister's amber eyes glimmered with malice as she leaned forward, crimson hair catching the light.
"Father, maybe we should just send him to the stables. At least the horses would have company."
Her words were daggers, casual yet precise.
The servants chuckled under their breath. Not loudly—never loudly—but just enough to echo.
Caelum forced his breathing steady. Endure. Just endure.
But even in that humiliation, the Core thrummed faintly inside his chest, reminding him of last night's discovery. His sword swings. His instinct. His left hand's destructive spark.
They knew nothing. And he would keep it that way.
Lord Morgain rose from the table, his cloak whispering against the stone. "Do not embarrass me further, Caelum. If you fail to prove useful in the trials to come, you will not remain in this house."
The words fell like a verdict. Then he was gone, the echo of his steps fading into the corridors.
Caelum stood frozen. His body wanted to shake with rage, but he swallowed it down. Not here. Not yet.
Later, in the quiet of the empty hall, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His reflection glimmered faintly in a silver platter left on the table—ice-blue eyes staring back, burning with something his father hadn't seen. Wouldn't see until it was too late.
You think I'm inadequate? Then I'll carve strength until you choke on it.
That night, he returned to the training hall. The guards' patrols were clearer now, their routes memorized. He slipped through like a shadow, silent, unseen.
This time, when he lifted the practice sword, his grip no longer trembled. His swings cut cleaner, sharper. Sword Insight whispered corrections faster, almost eager. Apprentice level—still low, still fragile, but progress all the same.
Each movement was defiance. Each swing, a vow.
By the time the torches burned low, his body ached, sweat dripping from his skin. But when he placed the blade back on the rack, his heart was steady.
For the first time since awakening in this cursed place, he felt a small victory. Not in their eyes—never in theirs—but in his own.
And it was enough. For now.