Lucien stood at the river's edge, rolling his shoulders experimentally. His body, once gripped by that suffocating pressure during the ritual, was now free—every joint moving cleanly, every muscle no longer burdened by invisible chains.
All thanks, apparently, to the strange, disembodied voice.
A voice that, Lucien thought dryly, definitely has some kind of twisted master-slave fetish.
He grimaced to himself but pushed the thought aside. There were more pressing matters now. He waited patiently, keeping his breathing even, until the bishop called for him.
Lucien turned and, without ceremony, waded back toward the riverbank. Each stroke through the water felt effortless now compared to the earlier slog. He realized just how much of that struggle had come not from the river itself—but from the illusionary chains binding him during the ritual.
He reached the shore quickly this time, water streaming off him in sheets. Just as he planted one foot into the grass, a wave of sudden heat blasted against his soaked clothes. His instincts screamed for a moment—an attack?! Mana surge?!—but he quickly steadied himself, catching the faint flicker of familiar gold in the corner of his eye.
Titus stood nearby, hand outstretched, channeling a gentle stream of warming magic to dry him.
Lucien nodded once in thanks, saying nothing aloud. Words felt unnecessary between them.
As the last droplets steamed off his robes, the bishop approached, robes billowing slightly in the river breeze. He clasped Lucien's hand in both of his own and beamed with genuine warmth.
"Brother," the bishop said solemnly.
Lucien accepted the handshake with mechanical respect, his face composed but distant. Brother, he thought, the word tasting foreign in his mouth. He didn't fight it. Didn't acknowledge it either. Just let the moment pass like a leaf downriver.
As the bishop moved to address the gathering priests, Lucien cast his gaze around, searching.
Titus appeared at his side once more. He smirked lightly, voice pitched low.
"Father's waiting for you," he said. "He's in the hall. There's a feast. In your honor."
He paused, expression halfway between amused and resigned.
"Every main branch family member is being forced to attend."
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
"Forced, huh?" he said dryly.
Titus snorted. "You'll see."
Then, grinning mischievously, Titus leaned in and added in a faux-earnest tone:
"So... shall we be on our way, brother?"
Lucien cringed so hard his jaw visibly twitched. He sent Titus a glare sharp enough to skin a rabbit.
Titus just grimaced in solidarity, equally disgusted by the word, and shrugged helplessly.
Together, they walked back the way they came.
Servants ran past them in a frenzy—polishing floors, hanging fresh banners, lighting new torches. Their haste bordered on desperate panic, as if the mere idea of an imperfect welcome for the Viscount's newest "son" was a death sentence.
Lucien observed it all with an arched brow, unimpressed.
Finally, a set of wide double doors loomed into view. Surprisingly modest, compared to the grand halls Lucien had already seen.
Titus noticed his glance.
"Father doesn't see the point in a massive hall we never use," he explained. "Says it's for functionality, not theater."
Lucien hummed, amused. Efficient and intimidating. Very on brand.
As the doors swung open, the dining hall came into view—and with it, the gathering inside.
Four figures were already seated.
At the head of the table sat the Viscount himself, composed and sharp-eyed.
To his right was a woman—blond-haired, regal, smiling politely.
Across from her were two young men, both blond, though one had tried—and failed—to dye his hair black. Lucien caught it immediately; the poorly hidden roots and uneven tone made it obvious.
All four pairs of eyes snapped toward Lucien as he entered.
The tension was immediate. Palpable.
Lucien schooled his expression into something cold and haughty. His steps were measured, shoulders squared. He allowed no humility to slip through—not even a hint of uncertainty. His gaze slid across the assembled nobles with the same interest one might show livestock at market.
The woman was good. She kept her composure, her smile only tightening slightly.
The two boys, however, were less controlled. Lucien could feel the irritation radiating from them like a bad smell.
The woman rose, dipping her head gracefully.
"I am Lilya Ravelin," she said warmly, her voice carrying the practiced charm of nobility. ""
Lucien, still walking forward, replied in a tone so dead it might as well have been a gravestone:
"My name is Lucien."
No titles. No honorifics. No courtesy.
He didn't stop at the first empty seat he passed.
Instead, he kept walking—straight toward the head of the table where the Viscount sat.
The entire hall seemed to draw a collective breath.
Without hesitation, Lucien gestured lazily to the Viscount's seat.
"This ceremony is in my honor," he said, voice calm but dripping with cold finality. "I believe this should be my seat."
The silence cracked like ice underfoot.
Everyone froze.
Titus smiled—a rare smile, full of wicked amusement.
The Viscount tilted his head slightly, studying Lucien with a strange gleam in his eye. Then, without argument, without even a sigh, he rose from his seat and moved one chair to the left.
Lucien sat down.
The Viscount to his left.
Lilya to his right.
The room struggled to breathe again.
Titus, still standing, narrowed his eyes, posture stiff.
"As heir," he said, voice iron, "I should sit at the front."
His tone was nothing like the easygoing Titus Lucien had met before. This was something harder. Sharper. A sword drawn without ceremony.
Lilya chuckled awkwardly, rising with a helpless little gesture, and shifted down a seat.
The two boys looked like they had bitten into lemons.
The blond one—the louder of the two—sneered.
"Titus, do you not think you're being rude to the Lady of the house?"
Titus tilted his head in mock concentration.
"Huh. Lady of the house?" he repeated, as if genuinely confused. "You must be mistaken."
He let the silence build for just a breath, then continued, voice sharp enough to leave cuts:
"The Lady of the House is mother to the heir. And unless I'm very much mistaken... none of you are heirs."
He smirked.
"And," he added, "you would do well not to lecture me about rudeness, brothers."
The two boys paled slightly, fury and humiliation warring on their faces.
For a moment, the entire room teetered on the edge of collapse.
And then—
Lucien laughed out loud
The sound shattered the tension like a hammer to glass.
The two boys whipped their heads toward him, faces darkening with open hatred.
Lucien leaned back lazily in his chair, draping one arm across the backrest, golden and gray eyes gleaming with vicious amusement.
The rest of the feast was a bore.
Everyone just stared at their plates, poking at their food with mechanical precision, pretending they weren't stealing glances at each other. It was like sitting in a mausoleum where the corpses were still pretending to be alive.
Lucien ate, because the food was good. Better than good, actually. The flavors were rich, the spices expertly balanced, the cuts of meat practically melting against his tongue. Everything about it screamed luxury and status. It was the kind of meal designed to seduce loyalty, to weigh you down with comfort, to make you forget yourself.
He didn't fall for it. He chewed methodically, barely tasting it after the first few bites, already bored out of his mind.
He needed to break the dull atmosphere. Needed to do something before he lost what was left of his patience.
As he opened his mouth—half-formed, already planning to say something obnoxious just for the shits and giggles the Viscount looked at him.
Not just looked—gazed.
A sharp, measuring stare, like he already knew what Lucien was about to do, like he was already a step ahead.
And before Lucien could speak, the Viscount said, in that calm, scalpel-sharp voice:
"Titus's mother was my concubine."
Lucien blinked once. He'd heard this before. He let it pass over him without reaction.
But the Viscount kept going, like he was stripping the last pieces of theater away from the room.
"As for why she is not here..." His gaze was steady. Flat. "She went missing. Several years ago."
Lucien nodded indifferently, not bothering to feign interest.
It didn't matter to him. He didn't know the woman, didn't feel any great sympathy or horror. People went missing all the time. Especially around power. Especially in families like this.
He made sure his expression made that crystal clear. No sympathy. No curiosity. Just polite, bare acknowledgment.
The silence crept back in. Heavy. Suffocating.
Lucien stared down at his plate for a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose, annoyed. He wasn't going to rot at this table all night with nothing but stiff conversation and the clink of forks.
A thought slid into his mind, sharp and bright like a blade.
Inheritance.
The rule here was simple. Every child of House Ravelin had the right to choose an inheritance once recognized.
The tradition was old. Binding.
Lucien's lips curled into a slow, gleaming smile.
benefits is that why i joined this family he said internally
Without warning, he shoved back his chair and stood up, the sudden motion scraping against the marble and snapping everyone's attention to him.
He grinned wickedly as he stared down the Viscount.
"I want my inheritance," Lucien said, voice carrying through the hall, loud enough that no one could pretend not to hear.
Dead silence.
Across the table, the younger sons froze mid-bite, eyes wide. Lilya stiffened, her fingers clenching subtly against her wine glass. Even Titus looked at him, a strange mixture of amusement and warning flashing across his face.
Lucien didn't look away.
Didn't flinch.
Every child of the Ravelin family was allowed to pick an inheritance. once they had awakened a sacred gear
And he was going to claim his.
Right now.