When Roshan regained consciousness, he found his soul lingering in a realm unlike anything mortal.
Suspended among glimmering constellations and floating islands of shimmering mist, he stood before Sylvara Eonveil—the god of Peace and Natural Order.
There, the deity revealed truths beyond mortal imagining. Through ancient artifacts and visions, Roshan glimpsed the workings of this new world—magic older than time, kingdoms locked in war, beasts unseen by mankind, and lands forgotten by maps.
And then—
a pull.
A falling sensation.
Darkness.
Roshan opened his eyes again.
He was no longer among the gods, but on a soft bed draped in unfamiliar fabrics. His head throbbed. The air tasted different—fresh, fragrant, alive.
Before him stood the woman he had seen earlier—the one in strange clothing.
"Young lord, are you alright?" she asked, breathless with worry.
"I was frightened to death when you suddenly collapsed! Your eyes turned completely white! I carried you to bed and immediately informed the lord of the manor. He ordered me to fetch a priest at once!"
Priest?
Roshan blinked, still swimming between two worlds.
His thoughts churned.
A priest... right. They don't have doctors here.
Lord of the manor... and she keeps calling me Young Lord. So this body—its father must be someone important.
He forced himself upright and stared at her.
"What... is my name?" Roshan asked.
The woman's face twisted in confusion. "My lord, have you forgotten? Truly?"
"Uhm... yes," he replied, rubbing his head. "I... must have hit it when I fell. I don't remember much. Could you tell me?"
"Oh! Yes, yes—my apologies!" she sputtered. "Earlier you grabbed a lamp and—well—you tried to attack me i guess that lamp must have hit your head young master. I was terrified!"
Right... I did do that, he winced inwardly.
She straightened her back and spoke clearly.
"Your name, my lord, is Arell reinhardt valenhart, son of Lord reinhardt Soros Valenhart, the Second Duke of the Eldorian Empire."
The words sounded regal—heavy—with meaning he did not yet fully grasp.
Arell swallowed. "And your name?"
She bowed her head slightly.
"I am Mira Lanelle, your servant and personal attendant."
"And... whats a duke?" Arell pressed.
"A duke, my lord," Mira explained patiently, "is among the highest ranks within the empire. A ruler entrusted with vast lands and authority over his domain. A man respected—feared, even."
So that man is someone important...
Then why do I know nothing?
Arell's hand brushed the ring Sylvara had given him.
I guess sylvara's ring didn't tell me everything...
"I see..." Arell murmured. "Mira, I need you to explain me everything.
The kingdom, its people, about magic... and everyone who lives in this manor."
Her eyes widened, but she nodded with unquestioning loyalty.
"As you command, my lord. I shall tell you all I know."
Evening shadows lengthened across the manor by the time Mira finished her explanation.
Arell rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly.
"So... let me see if I've got this straight."
Magic, she explained, was not merely a tool or a trick.
It was a living force, a current of invisible energy—mana—that stirred through the air, seeped through soil, and flowed within every creature born of this world.
Those gifted enough could sense this unseen river and draw it into themselves, shaping it with willpower, emotion, runes, or ancient incantations.
But mana came with a price.
Too little control and a spell fizzled like embers in rain.
Push beyond one's limits, and the consequences were far worse—burning veins, drained lifeforce, scorched souls... even the attention of hungry spirits eager to feast on unstable power.
Magic shaped the world in every form imaginable—fire and frost, lightning and shadow, healing arts, illusions, contracts with unseen beings... even rumored forbidden paths that twisted time, fate, or death itself.
Some scholars swore mana was a divine gift. Others believed it to be the dying echo of a fallen celestial age.
Whatever the truth, kingdoms rose and fell by it.
And in this particular household, magic was everything.
The Duke—Arell's father—had once taken three wives.
The first wife bore three sons:
Edmund, twenty years old , a drunkard and a bully,
Cedric, eleven years old, petty and cruel,
Emrys, only seven, not much is known about him.
The second wife gave him three daughters:
Vivienne, twenty years old, political and smart
Selene, sixteen, magically proficient in every field
Amanda, eleven, a true genius and witty
Arell's own mother, the Duke's third wife, died when he was five.
He had no siblings of his own blood—no allies, no one to stand at his side.
And worse—women were forbidden to inherit.
The daughters were already written out of the future of this house.
The sons, meanwhile, were sharpening knives beneath polite smiles.
Arell grimaced.
"So basically, the entire family wants each other dead for a chair," he muttered.
"Feels like some bizarre royal drama."
Mira only nodded.
Political maneuvering.
Stepmother schemes.
Brothers who treated him as prey long before he ever understood why.
In the Duke's manor, the inheritance was war, and the battlefield was talent, power, and magic.
As Arell was still trying to swallow that reality, the doors to the chamber slammed open.
A tall figure entered—commanding presence, cold eyes, bearing the weight of authority with every step.
The Duke had arrived.
The Duke's presence hit harder than the closing doors behind him.
To a ten-year-old like Arell, the man was an overwhelming force—tall, composed, and wrapped in an aura that seemed to thicken the very air.
Mana stirred restlessly around him, like a storm compelled to kneel.
Beside him stood another figure—a man carrying a sword nearly as tall as Arell himself.
His eyes were sharp, his presence honed like steel.
This, Arell realized instantly, was not someone to be trifled with.
Arell swallowed, breath catching in his throat.
His heart pounded louder with every step the Duke took.
"Why was I not informed of his awakening, Mira?"
The Duke's voice carried the weight of judgment.
Mira flinched, dropping to her knees in an instant.
"I–I am deeply sorry, my lord! I should have reported young master Arell's condition at once! Please forgive me!"
The Duke's gaze turned colder than winter steel.
"Do you consider my son's life equal to your convenience? This insolence will not be tolerated."
His eyes flicked to the knight.
"Captain Rodric, remove her from my sight."
The man with the greatsword stepped forward.
Mira trembled.
Arell watched as a gauntleted hand reached for her shoulder—and something inside him snapped.
"Hey!"
His voice cut through the room sharper than any blade.
"Take your hands off my attendant!"
Rodric paused—only for a breath—then glanced down at the boy.
"I do not take orders from children," he said coldly, and continued to drag Mira away.
Arell lunged forward, grabbing the knight's wrist with both hands.
"I said—let her go!"
For a heartbeat, the room froze.
Then the Duke spoke, voice like thunder barely held in check.
"That is enough, Captain Rodric."
The knight immediately released Mira and stepped back.
The Duke strode toward Arell, each footfall echoing like judgment.
He stopped mere inches away and stared directly into the boy's eyes.
Arell's breath hitched.
His legs trembled.
Oh no. I think I'm about to pee myself, he thought wildly.
The Duke's voice cracked through the chamber like a blade drawn across stone.
"You dare go against my words, boy? What reason do you have for protecting this lowly servant?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Mira stiffened beside Arell, fingers trembling as she clasped her apron.
Captain Rodric's hand drifted instinctively toward the hilt of his sword.
Arell's throat tightened. He could feel every beat of his racing heart echoing in his ears.
But he forced himself forward, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths.
"I—I apologize for raising my voice, Father," he said carefully. "But Mira is not at fault. I stopped her from carrying out her duties."
The Duke's gaze sharpened, like a predator assessing prey.
"And what reason did you have for that?"
Arell swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry.
He could feel Mira's wide eyes digging into the side of his face—pleading, scared, confused.
"She was educating me," he answered. "On certain subjects. And it has been... valuable guidance. It has helped me find my future direction."
A ripple of surprise passed through the room.
Mira's eyes widened.
Rodric raised a brow, lips tightening with irritation.
"And what education would that be?" the Duke asked, voice dangerously calm.
Arell lowered his head—not in fear, but in restraint.
"I cannot say. But in time, you will know."
Rodric stepped forward immediately, armor clinking sharply against the silence.
"Mind your tongue! You are speaking to the lord of the house, boy—"
The Duke's hand lifted, palm outward.
Rodric froze mid-sentence as if the air itself had hardened around him.
The Duke's voice softened—but the softness only made the threat beneath colder.
"You have changed, Arell," he said. "Once you couldn't meet my gaze. You trembled at every word I spoke. Now you stand tall and look directly into my eyes."
His boots clicked slowly across the marble as he approached.
Arell could smell faint steel polish and old parchment on him.
"What brought this sudden shift?" the Duke asked.
Arell's fingers clenched behind his back—his only betrayal of nerves.
"I am merely fulfilling my role as the son of this house," he said. "Acting as a young master should... and perhaps as a future lord must."
holy shit!, Arell screamed internally.
That sounded badass. Did I really just say that? Please let someone write it down.
The Duke's eyes narrowed further, studying him like a puzzle piece that no longer fit.
"Are you declaring yourself the next lord of this domain?" he demanded.
"No, my lord," Arell replied. "Not yet. But the future is never fixed. No one knows who will rise to lead."
Mira covered her mouth as if afraid he'd crossed a line beyond saving.
Rodric's knuckles whitened around his sword hilt.
The Duke inhaled slowly.
"Are you saying you intend to compete with your brothers for the throne—even without backing from your mother's family?"
Arell's mind spiraled.
Competition... battles... swords... magic... blah blah blah... who cares.
Fine. I'll say yes. Worst case? I die a dramatic death? I'll run away before that! First, survive THIS conversation.
"Yes," Arell said, voice clear and sharp despite the thunder in his chest. "I will compete."
A long silence followed.
Even the air felt trapped, waiting for judgment.
Then, unexpectedly, the Duke smiled—just a faint curve of lips.
Not warm. More like a man amused by a storm forming on the horizon.
"Very well." He turned away. "Rodric, we are done here. Servant Mira, return to your duties. And Arell... rest. We will speak another time."
"Yes, my lord!" Mira and Rodric replied instantly, both bowing.
The Duke's cloak whispered across the floor as he left, Rodric's heavy boots following like thunder.
The door shut.
Arell's legs nearly gave out.
He staggered back, sitting heavily on his bed as the adrenaline finally crashed through him.
So that's the Duke of this kingdom, he thought, chest heaving.
Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.
He glanced toward the door.
And that walking giant ass mountain they call a captain... equally terrifying.
He let out a long, shaky breath.
Yep. This house is going to be way more exhausting than the orphanage ever was.
TO BE CONTINUED...