The morning sunlight, which crept in through a gap in the thick silk curtains, felt stinging rather than warm. Lying on the king-sized bed, which was far too large for a twelve-year-old boy's body, Calian Larvin tightened his embrace on the soft goose-down pillow.
His face was contorted in a sour grimace. His messy purple hair—the trademark of a pure-blood descendant of the Duke Larvin family—stuck out in every direction, mirroring the chaos inside his head.
"Get up... or just don't get up at all?" Calian muttered to himself, his voice raspy with sleep. He buried his face deeper into the pillow. "If I don't wake up, maybe the world will forget I exist. That's a good idea."
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A polite but firm knock on the door shattered his little daydream. It was not the knock of a loving mother waking her child, but the knock of a servant adhering to a schedule.
"Young Master Calian," Sebastian's deep voice, the head butler of the Ducal residence, came from behind the mahogany door. "It is seven o'clock in the morning. Today is your departure day for the Great Temple. The carriage will be ready in one hour."
Calian let out a harsh grunt. He angrily threw off his blanket, then sat cross-legged on the bed. His amethyst-purple eyes—the same eyes as his father, the Empire's Strongest Duke—stared sharply at the door, as if his gaze could pierce the wood.
"I'm up, Sebastian!" Calian yelled, a little louder than necessary. "Don't come in! I can dress myself!"
"As you wish, Young Master. I shall wait outside the door," Sebastian replied flatly.
Calian slumped back onto the bed, staring at the chamber ceiling, which was painted with a battle scene of the gods. Beautiful, yet terrifying. Just like his family.
"Departure day, huh..." he whispered softly. His hands clenched the fabric of his gold-threaded pajamas. "The day where the Gods will determine whether I am trash or a jewel."
The Larvin family. The name carried a weight that could crush an ordinary person's spine. His father, Duke Maxwell Larvin, was a monster in human form. A man who prioritized power above all else. To the Duke, his children were not beloved offspring, but military assets. His three older siblings—Alaric, Beren, and Clara—had proven themselves geniuses since early childhood.
Then, there was Calian. The youngest. Number four.
Since the age of seven, Calian had begun to feel the difference. At the impossibly long dining table, he sat at the very end, far from his Father and Mother.
"Father," a younger Calian had tried to speak, five years ago. "I finished the book on Imperial history today."
He remembered his father's gaze perfectly. Cold. Empty. As if Calian was discussing irrelevant weather.
"History will not protect you from an enemy's sword, Calian," Duke Larvin had replied then, without pausing his carving knife. "Your brother, Alaric, had already manifested a sword aura at your age. Finish your meal."
The conversation was buried in his memory, but the sting was still fresh. From that day on, Calian stopped trying. He stopped seeking praise. He retreated into a shell, allowing loneliness to embrace him tightly. Five years passed in a void. He lived in the most luxurious palace in the empire, surrounded by hundreds of servants, yet he felt like a ghost haunting his own home.
"Tch," Calian scoffed, snapping back to the present. He jumped out of bed, his feet hitting the cold marble floor. "Power, power, power. If the Gods bless me to become a corn farmer, I will laugh the loudest right in Father's face."
He walked towards the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. The reflection of a thin but handsome boy stared back. He touched his own cheek.
"You look pathetic, Calian," he swore at his own reflection. "Today is your 12th birthday, and the only one who might wish you a happy birthday is the passing wind."
He began to remove his pajamas and put on the formal attire laid out on the mannequin. A white silk shirt, a dark purple brocade vest with gold buttons bearing the roaring lion—the Larvin family crest—and a perfectly tailored long coat. These clothes probably cost enough to feed an entire village for a year, but to Calian, they were merely suffocating armor.
As he buttoned his cuff links, he spoke again, this time mimicking his father's voice mockingly.
"Be strong, Calian. Be the pride of Larvin." Calian snorted, then switched to imitating his mother's voice, who was always busy with socialite parties. "Oh, darling Calian, Mother is busy. Go play with the servants."
"Hahaha..." his laugh sounded hollow in the spacious room. "How pitiful you are, Young Master."
He briefly tidied his hair, letting a few rebellious strands stick out. He didn't care. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool, lavender-scented air from the room freshener, then slowly exhaled.
"Alright. Let's face this judgment."
Calian opened his door. Sebastian stood rigidly there, bowing perfectly.
"The carriage is ready, Young Master."
"Where are Father and Mother?" Calian asked, though he already knew the answer. He just wanted to hurt himself with the confirmation.
"The Duke is currently in a military strategy meeting with His Majesty the Emperor. The Duchess is preparing morning tea with the ministers' wives," Sebastian replied without hesitation, without remorse. "They conveyed the message that you must not disgrace the family name at the Great Temple."
Calian smiled wryly. A smile that did not reach his eyes. "Of course. A deeply touching message. I almost want to weep."
Sebastian did not respond to the sarcasm. He merely gestured down the hallway. "Please."
Calian walked down the opulent Larvin residence hallway. The walls were covered with paintings of ancestors, all of whom looked fierce, holding weapons. The red carpet under his feet felt soft, but his steps felt heavy. Each stride took him away from the solitude of his room, towards a crowd that would likely make him feel even lonelier.
In the front courtyard, a black, gold-ornamented carriage waited. The Larvin lion crest was prominently displayed on the door.