"Lord Hendrix is here."
"Who would have believed Hendrix himself would return?"
The whispers passed through the funeral like wind—barely spoken, but unmistakable. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. Even among mourning, the arrival stirred the hall. The man who had vanished to the western fringes had returned.
He entered with long strides, boots still dusted from travel. His eyes swept the mourners, then settled on the front.
"What have you done to him?" Hendrix's voice rang out, sharp and cold. "And why was I not informed?"
He did not address the hall. He spoke to one man—the new Patriarch.
The chamber stiffened. The new Patriarch—once heir, now cloaked in ceremonial robes—met Hendrix's stare with the calm of long-learned restraint.
"You were far away, Hendrix," someone murmured from the side, hoping to soften the tension. "We did not expect your return."
Hendrix scoffed, low and unimpressed. "Well, I am here now."
Then he turned fully to the man upon the Patriarch's seat.
"Congratulations… on taking the Citadel's throne."
It sounded less like praise, more like an accusation in disguise.
"Thank you," the Patriarch replied, his tone unchanged. "Now, if you'll allow, we are nearly done with the rites."
"Hold the ceremony," Hendrix stepped forward. "I have a duty yet to fulfill. The final rites of the true Patriarch are not complete."
"You are overstepping," came a voice from among the elders. "Let the burial be done. We can speak afterward."
"All Houses are present, are they not?" Hendrix called, unmoved. "Then bring the Patriarch's chest. It is time the inheritance was passed."
The new Patriarch rose, but said nothing. He understood what Hendrix intended.
A hush fell. Then murmurs returned, moving like wind among the mourners.
"Where is House Zergos?" someone whispered. "The uncle is not here. Nor Edward. I did see Larsen earlier, though."
"The uncle is unwell," another answered quietly. "And Edward… he is in the back, overseeing the final details."
"What?" Hendrix's voice rose slightly. "Where is Larsen? Bring him forward."
More glances. More whispers. A servant slipped away without a word.
Moments later, Larsen returned with him and quietly blended into the crowd.
Outside, the wind had settled. But within the Citadel, the air remained heavy. Hendrix stepped forward and placed the chest upon the stone. The elders watched in silence. Behind them, the younger nobles leaned forward, curiosity lighting their faces.
"All the young ones of every House," Hendrix called. "Step forward."
"Make space," one of the guards murmured, clearing the way.
"I will explain each technique only three times," Hendrix said, his voice carrying into every corner. "If one of you understands it within that, the technique is yours."
He glanced toward the Patriarch, whose jaw had tightened ever so slightly.
"If none succeed, I will repeat it four more times. But the moment one does… I stop."
A ripple passed through the hall. The weight of tradition settled like dust on old stone.
"This is not a lesson," Hendrix said. "This is your inheritance. You must earn it."
A servant stepped forward and opened the chest. Inside were scrolls, sealed in clan wax, their edges worn by time.
Hendrix lifted the first scroll high.
"I will demonstrate the forms. Watch carefully. I ask for silence, so the chants may be heard."
He looked briefly toward the elders before continuing.
"I cannot perform most of these myself, but I will explain them clearly. If any elder wishes to assist, I welcome it."
He broke the seal with care.
"We begin with the first technique.
Discipline: Fire Manipulation.
Tier Range: I to III.
Technique: Fire Generation."
He held it up.
"This can rise to Tier Three, though rarely. That will depend on your aptitude. Now—follow with me."
He moved slowly, deliberately, speaking the chants as he performed the form. His steps were rooted in old discipline. At the third repetition, the young ones mirrored him—repeating each word, following each movement. The hall fell quiet.
By the end, four boys had results—flickers of heat, a faint spark. Among them was Larsen.
A few elders exchanged glances, but none spoke. Hendrix nodded once and raised the next scroll.
"We continue.
Discipline: Air Manipulation.
Tier: II.
Technique: Air Jump."
He taught the stance and chant, guiding them through three repetitions. No one succeeded.
He gave it once more—slower, clearer. Then—two boys lifted, barely an inch off the ground, but enough to be counted.
Larsen was one of them.
Hendrix paused. His gaze found the boy again, lingering this time. There was something in his eyes. Curiosity—or something more.
Two more techniques followed, from different branches of the old sciences. Again, most failed. And again, Larsen succeeded. Each time. However slight, however imperfect—the response came.
A few heads turned now. Not in shock, but in slow recognition. The boy, dull in appearance, plain in robe and posture, was doing what most could not.
He looked like nothing. Thin. Slightly hunched. His face forgettable. Eyes dim. But those who watched more closely remembered: he had topped every examination at the Crescent's Academy. They had simply… overlooked him.
"Didn't know you were hiding such skill, Larsen," Hendrix said at last, with a trace of amusement. "Well done. You too, Mark."
Mark—his older cousin—nodded coolly. The two had studied in the same school, though in different classes.
"Are we finished?" the Patriarch asked quietly, now standing beside Hendrix, his voice laced with weary patience.
"We are," Hendrix said. "Do not let these traditions die. They're all we have left."
"Then step aside."
"Of course. Please—continue."
The ceremony resumed. The interruption passed like a storm behind a curtain.
Larsen, now at the front, stood with the other heirs. He watched as the coffin was lifted by the old Patriarch's loyal guards. The wood groaned faintly. The silence grew reverent.
They walked toward the burial ground, slow and solemn. Elders followed. Nobles. Kin. Foreign guests. Regime men. Each step marked the end of an era.
Edward arrived just as the procession passed beneath the old gate. His robe was slightly askew, his face calm. He had been settling final affairs.
Spotting Larsen, he came quickly.
"Larsen," he said in a low voice, "go to the front. With your cousins."
"I'm fine here," Larsen replied softly.
Edward didn't break stride. "Do not make me repeat myself."
Larsen obeyed. Quietly, he moved forward. Head down. Unsure if he belonged—but obedient.
The burial neared its end. Yet something clung to the air. A feeling. A pull.
When the others began to depart, Larsen remained. He knelt beside the grave. His arms circled it—not in grief, but in something else. Something unspoken.
His hand brushed the dirt near the base.
Then he felt it—rough. Uneven. A slip of parchment. He pulled it free.
"A note…?" he whispered. "Writing?"
He squinted, trying to make out the faded words.
Before he could read them, a hand rested gently on his shoulder.
"Come, now," Uncle Kai said. "Everyone's leaving. This place… doesn't have the best stories."
With a gentle grip, he helped Larsen to his feet. The boy cast one last look at the note in his hand before being led away—back into the line of the living.