Lyria's fist clenched as she stared at the boy with the terribly dyed black hair—the youngest of her twins, Rellen—as his eyes were cast down. He was being quietly consoled by his brother Callum, whose hand rested on his shoulder with a quiet firmness. Lyria had initially wanted to build a friendly relationship with Lucien and speak to him about the inheritance, maybe even advise him if he seemed sensible, but that moment had slipped away the instant he walked into the hall and stole all attention like it was his right. As a Viscount family they had a good foundation, well established, well maintained, stable. Over the last two generations the house had expanded steadily, not explosively but with purpose. They had not gained rank, yet, but more importantly they had integrated 40% of the whole East of Harlen—through alliances, trade, blood, and marriage—and built positive relationships with the rest, careful not to overextend.
But that was actually the problem.
It was the reason the good inheritances were drying up.
Too much talent. Too many heirs. Too many adopted branches and legitimate scions, all of them trained, groomed, cultivated. The older generation had left a legacy, yes—but now the younger one was forced to fight over what little was left. Not scraps. But nothing like what their predecessors had enjoyed.
Lucien had been the first for this generation's main branch, the first to arrive, the first to be adpoted. But it was not like he was uniquely talented. It wasn't about skill or affinity or even power. It was just that the main branch got him first. Claimed him before anyone else could. And in this house, firsts mattered. First to awaken. First to kneel. First to be recognized.
But you could access the inheritances after you awakened a Sacred Gear. That rule was firm. Even if you had two, which was rare but not unheard of, the rule still held. Most people stuck to one path—one inheritance—because that was enough. Because one was already a legacy. One was already power. One was enough to build multiple different fusion combinations, sometimes extending past even rank 7 if cultivated properly.
But that greedy heir Titus...
Titus had taken a mostly discarded beast inheritance. for his fist A path no one wanted, because their were only mortum around . A path left to rot, left for the stragglers. And he had taken it despite having a flame Affinity. He had awakened an A-rank potential Sacred Gear later—a flame serpent, powerful and rare. And somehow, somehow, he retained his first Sacred Gear as well. Not only that, but then he had taken one of the three most potent and coveted inheritances in the family. One of the ones that should have been locked behind being the heir but Titus had taken it before even becoming heir and had seemingly not even used it
It had belonged to a figure from their ancestral records: Tyland Ravelin. A retainer of one of the Three Duke families of Merrow, specifically the Duke family of Harlen—House Vaerin. Tyland Ravelin, known as the Rotting Cloud. He had studied both the storm path and the poison path. He was remembered as a master of disruption and annihilation. And neither of those paths had anything to do with beast or flame.
But Titus took it anyway.
Ignoring what would have benefited him.
Ignoring what had been meant for Callum.
Callum, who had a lightning Affinity. Callum, who had trained with that in mind. Callum, who had been aligned with that inheritance from birth.
But now he had been forced to take a lesser inheritance.
And now the younger twin—Rellen—who had still not awakened his first Sacred Gear, despite being talented, despite being capable, despite everything—stood at risk of losing his future too. He had a water Affinity. And that matched with one of the best three inheritances left. One of the very few that hadn't been consumed, twisted, or monopolized by politics.
But now...
Lucien had the chance to take it.
Despite it not being his Affinity.
Despite it not being his path.
It was still one of the best three. And it was probably the easiest to digest. And—if used well—probably the easiest to abuse early on. The one with the highest short-term gain for the least effort. The one that could make an average heir look like a genius, even if he didn't know how to wield it properly.
And that was the problem.
And that was why Lyria's fist clenched tighter.
"Wait… husband," Lyria said slowly, deliberately, as though weighing every word, "I thought it best to discuss the inheritances… as you know the incident last time cannot be repeated."
Her voice was light, but her eyes were sharp. As she said that, she turned her gaze to Titus—steady, cool, pointed.
"We won't want to use resources ineffectively."
Then her eyes drifted—almost lazily, almost kindly—toward Callum.
But the Viscount answered before she could build momentum, his voice low and edged with something halfway between weariness and steel.
"Dear… I have told you many times. We are not changing our ancient tradition because Callum feels he was wronged."
There was no heat in his voice. Just exhaustion. As if the matter had been closed long ago.
He raised his hand, palm half-open, dismissing the notion even as he explained.
"The three best inheritances have requirements. He did not meet them."
His eyes flicked—only for a moment—toward Callum, then toward Rellen, and then back to the wine in his hand.
"That's all there is."
Lyria's lips parted, the corners drawn tight in restrained protest.
"But the system itself isn't sacred. It was built to reward talent, not—"
"It was built," the Viscount interrupted, still not raising his voice, "to test more than talent."
He leaned slightly back in his chair. A stillness settled over the room.
Titus's fork clinked softly against his plate. He didn't look up. He didn't need to.
Lucien sat motionless, watching the exchange with mild curiosity and not a trace of sympathy.
The Viscount's gaze returned to his wife—measured, firm.
"You and I both know it. The house doesn't rise because we coddle our children. It rises because we sharpen them."
He took a slow sip from his glass.
"And if they break," he added, after a beat, "they were never worthy of what they sought."
Lyria exhaled slowly though her fingers still twitched against the tablecloth. She did not speak again immediately.
Callum stared at the table, jaw tight. Rellen looked as though he might start to cry into his own shadow if he could.
And Lucien… just watched.
His expression unreadable. His posture relaxed. But his eyes—they flicked between each face, not missing a single reaction.
He wasn't a Ravelin by birth.
But he was learning the rules fast.