"But Father… I'm only ten. How can I possibly compete for it?"
Ronan's voice rang clear through the hall, young yet resolute. The question wasn't his alone—it carried the subtle weight of his mother's will.
Vitra looked down at his son, pride flickering in his eyes.
"Don't worry, my son," he said, his tone firm and filled with quiet assurance. "Time is on your side. And destiny… well, it often favors those who are born for greatness."
A heavy silence followed his words. Servants froze in place. Elders exchanged cautious glances. But all eyes eventually shifted to the first wife—and her tightened jaw spoke louder than words.
Her brows were drawn into a storm of fury and calculation. I understood the fire behind that cold gaze. Ronan stood in the way—a rising star that outshone her own son, Dave.
And she wasn't entirely wrong to feel threatened.
Ronan wasn't just talented. He was terrifyingly gifted.
A prodigy born once in generations—perhaps once in centuries. His progression defied logic, as if the heavens themselves carved a path for him.
In contrast, her son Dave, though strong, was already sixteen and only at the 2nd Severance. That would be admirable in most noble houses. But here… it paled beside the storm that was Ronan.
Worse still, Dave's arrogance and temper made him brittle.
But Ronan…
Ronan was calm, controlled, and frighteningly intelligent for his age. The kind of boy who didn't just aim to inherit—he was born to rule.
And she knew it.
That's why she glared. That's why her hands curled into fists beneath her silken sleeves.
Because in that moment, with just one question, a ten-year-old boy had shaken the balance of power.
"The successor test will begin ten years from now," Vitra declared, his voice as composed as ever—yet beneath it simmered a quiet storm.
"Martial prowess will be considered, of course. But know this— it will not be the deciding factor."
The room fell still.
Chairs creaked softly as the wives straightened. Servants froze mid-step. Even the youngest at the table, like Ronan, could feel it—that shift in the air. This wasn't just an announcement. It was a challenge wrapped in truth.
Vitra sat at the head of the long dining table, his hands clasped firmly on the polished wood before him. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, swept across the faces around him.
"There are qualities that far surpass the sword," he said. "A vast territory such as ours cannot be governed by power alone."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a more measured, commanding tone.
"We, the Kaels, command the entire southern expanse—a land blessed with wealth, but burdened by responsibility. Our territory forms the gateway to the South Sea. And beyond those waters lies the continent of Elora."
He gestured subtly to the far wall, where a grand map hung—aged parchment inked in crimson and gold. The South Sea glistened between coasts, a silent witness to centuries of trade and war.
"Through our ports flows a river of riches—spices, silk, steel, salt. Trade runs through our domain like blood through a heart. And where there is wealth…"
He paused, voice heavier now, "…there is always envy."
The room tensed.
"Pirates, traders, rival territories—even our allies—they all watch us. Some with admiration. Others with hunger."
He let the silence stretch, then continued with deliberate finality.
"That is why the heir will not be chosen by strength alone. Strategy. Diplomacy. Vision. Control. These will shape the successor's path."
His gaze landed on Ronan first—then lingered on Dave.
"The future of the Kael territory will not rest on brute force… but on the mind and will of the one who can bear its weight."
The flickering firelight behind him cast long shadows across the table and faces around it. And in that moment, beneath the clink of distant silverware and the scent of cooling food, something shifted.
The room remained quiet. But the unspoken truth was deafening:
Though ten years remained, the battle for succession had already begun.
Not on the battlefield.
But in every word, every glance, every move.
"Hmm."
I hummed softly as those words echoed through the dining hall. Slowly, I shifted my gaze across the room, observing each reaction—measured nods, narrowed eyes, the twitch of tension in clenched jaws. Everyone was digesting his declaration, each calculating what it meant for them.
Although his other qualities aren't particularly outstanding, I mused, he is a wise ruler.
That much, I could respect.
"Which is why," he continued, "you should all begin studying our territory, the structure of the continent, and most importantly—our rivals. Knowledge is just as crucial as strength."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Sword training is important, yes. But without knowledge, it is just a tool. Learn. Read. Understand the land you wish to one day rule."
Perfect.
I nearly smiled—but didn't. My face remained a picture of calm indifference.
Most of them heard those words and saw a banner being raised—a signal that the race for succession had begun.
But I saw something else. A window. An opportunity.
They'd throw themselves into this contest with everything they had.
Let them. Let them bleed, boast, and bargain for their future.
As for me… I would walk a different path.
I am interested in the seat of power—just not in the way they expect. I don't seek a throne shackled by tradition or paralyzed by politics. I seek command—not over titles, but over people. Over outcomes.
Even if I were to win the succession, it wouldn't be enough. Not unless those beneath me moved at my word, followed without resistance.
Like pieces on a board. Like pawns.
And pawns must never know they're being played.
"You all know that we are one of the five great powers of this continent," Vitra began, his voice firm and resonant.
"That's why smaller factions can't move against us. They don't have the strength. But…"
He paused, letting the weight of his next words press down.
"Never take them lightly."
The room fell silent.
Eyes sharpened. Backs straightened.
"You never know what kind of weapon a man may be hiding. Desperation breeds danger. And even the smallest force, when underestimated, can become fatal."
He let his gaze sweep across the table, lingering on each of them with quiet intensity.
"As for the other four great powers…"
His tone dropped—colder, sharper now.
"They watch us. Just as we watch them. Suspicious. Paranoid. Calculating."
"Yes, the Hundred-Year Treaty exists," he said, almost with disdain, "but don't mistake it for friendship. In the face of true profit… even an old ally will stab you in the back without hesitation."
One of his wives stiffened at the words. The other glanced away, her expression unreadable.
Of the three children seated at the table, not one dared speak.
"With that said," Vitra continued, "you would do well to broaden your knowledge. Study our enemies. Study our strengths. Study yourselves."
Then, he slowly pushed back his chair.
The carved wood legs scraped softly across the polished floor as he rose to his full height.
"Now go. Rest. And reflect on this—how would you handle a territory as vast as ours?"
With that, he turned without another word.
The commander stood swiftly and followed him, their boots echoing in unison as they left the dining hall.
Behind them, the fire crackled in the hearth.
And the weight of rule—unspoken yet undeniable—settled over the room like a shadow.
****
As I pushed my chair back and rose to leave, something caught my attention.
Lady Elena.
Her presence had slipped beneath my notice during the conversation, but now, with her calm gaze resting on me, a spark of curiosity stirred. Wasn't she from the Drake household? Yes. The biological sister of the current patriarch. A woman of noble blood—and not just that—she held power. Real power.
Interesting... Perhaps she wasn't married to Vitra for nothing.
She might be useful… in more ways than one.
Ignoring her gaze I turned and began walking through the corridor, each step echoing softly against the stone walls. The air smelled faintly of incense and burnt oil. My thoughts churned.
Once I reach First Severance, I'll finally be able to use Footless Steps.
A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
It's a good skill…
No—it's more than that. It's priceless.
A technique stolen from the heart of the Holy Kingdom of Veer—a place where even the wind walks with sanctity. Footless Steps could deceive even a warrior of Fifth Severance if used correctly. With it, my plans going forward would be somewhat easy. A shadow among men.
But just as I began contemplating my next move, a voice called out behind me.
"Brother."
I stopped. My eyes narrowed slightly.
Ronan.
I turned my head. There he was—eyes bright, steps hurried—trailing behind him was none other than Lady Elena herself.
She looked poised. Unreadable.
They didn't hate me, not exactly.
But affection wasn't the reason for this sudden call.
Of that, I was certain.
So… what do they want now?