The chamber was dimly lit, torches flickering against the cold stone walls. Lucian entered first, steps measured, posture perfect—the soldier he had always been. Behind him, Merlik followed silently, as a shadow and a witness.
They reached the minister's private hall. Caelum Vireth awaited, seated at a desk cluttered with maps and letters. His expression was calm, almost amused.
"Ah… Lucian," the minister said, voice smooth as silk. "And Merlik, of course. I wondered when you'd arrive."
Lucian's jaw tightened. "You expected us?"
"Of course," Caelum smiled, leaning back. "Did you think a lifetime of loyalty, of battle… of obedience, could ever be enough? You've learned well, haven't you? Every move, every strike… all according to my design."
Lucian's fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword at his side. He had spent every day of his life thinking himself free, thinking himself superior, yet now he felt the weight of all the years he had been manipulated.
"I've learned nothing from you," Lucian said, voice low, deadly. "Except that power always wears a mask."
The minister's smile didn't falter. "Ah… but you wore it yourself, didn't you? Every challenge, every mission… I raised you to be exactly what the world feared. My perfect weapon. And now, you return, grown sharper, bloodied, yet… predictable."
Lucian's gaze flickered briefly toward Merlik. "I am no one's weapon. I am my father's son."
At the mention of the father, the room's tension shifted. A figure stepped from the shadows—Darian Ardent, Draven and Lucian's father, carrying two worn leather satchels.
"Your time has come," Darian said quietly. "I kept these for a day like today."
He opened the bags. Inside were two swords, their steel glinting faintly in the torchlight. Old, forged in secret, balanced perfectly for the hands of his sons.
Lucian took his sword, feeling the weight of everything he had never had—a childhood, a choice, a legacy. His hand shook slightly—not from fear, but from something unfamiliar: hope.
The minister's eyes narrowed. "Your father, here? How touching. I always wondered when you'd realize that even your bloodline bends to my influence."
Lucian's eyes burned. "No. Blood can be guided, yes. But it cannot be enslaved. Not anymore."
The minister leaned forward, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You are still the boy I raised to strike without question. The soldier who never had a childhood. The one who never doubted my word."
Lucian exhaled slowly, his first real calm in years. "I am still the boy you raised to fight… but the man you never expected has returned."
Merlik's gaze flicked between Lucian and the minister. "And your first lesson today," he said softly, "is that the battlefield has changed. Not all fights are won with steel."
Outside the hall, the city slept unaware. Inside, a game of shadows and blood was beginning—one where the minister believed he controlled all the pieces, yet he had never accounted for a son reborn in fire, betrayal, and legacy.
Lucian's voice cut through the tense silence:
"Today, your hand is exposed, Caelum. And I've learned to read it."
The minister's smile was thin, sharp as a blade. "Then let the game begin, my son. Let the game begin."