The banners of House Darenthal swayed in the corridor drafts — silver threads glinting like fangs under torchlight. They stitched the crest into every surface, every garment, every wall… as if forcing the world to respect their name would keep their bloodline intact.
But bloodlines rot from the inside first.
He moved through the empty wing, steps silent across obsidian tiles. This part of the manor — forgotten, unused — suited him. The walls cracked, the tapestries faded, but the shadows never whispered behind his back here.
The ceremony rang in his skull still. They called it a gathering of legacy — where siblings paraded their achievements, flaunting their flawless auras, their refined mana control. Firstborn Auren, golden-haired, carved by discipline, inheritor of Darenthal's name. Secondborn Selene, veiled in cold beauty, already mastering high-tier aura techniques reserved for the worthy.
And him?
They barely spoke his name.
Third-born. Forgotten-born. The disappointment with eyes like a pit.
He paused by the old mirror tucked between broken pillars — glass smeared, frame rusted, a relic they never bothered to replace.
His reflection bled through — pale, gaunt, black hair spilling past his collar, eyes darker than moonless skies. Abysmal. They all whispered it, thinking walls devoured their scorn.
Good. Let them choke on their legacy.
He raised his hand, fingers trembling faintly. Mana simmered under his skin — weak by their standards, but alive. His aura flickered low, raw, uncontrolled. No instructors. No guides. House Darenthal wouldn't waste resources on a blemish.
But beneath neglect… potential burned quietly.
A crimson spark danced across his palm.
The mirror spider-webbed, lines snaking across his reflection, slicing it apart.
The door behind him creaked.
A servant lingered, wary eyes darting to his hand, voice hushed like the dead. "Your presence is requested," they mumbled. "Lord Darenthal commands it."
His heart steadied. Jaw clenched. This wasn't a request. Summoned to be reminded of his place — or discarded entirely.
"Tell them I'm coming," he muttered, voice low, cold as the stone underfoot.
They buried him beneath this house's weight.
They'd soon regret not burying him deeper.