The rain fell like a slow dirge over the land, shrouding the hills and graveyard in a misty, sorrowful veil. It wasn't a storm—no, it was the sort of melancholy drizzle that seemed to linger deliberately, as though the heavens themselves were reluctant to say goodbye. The Balthazar family, one of the oldest wizarding houses in the western provinces, gathered before the crypt of their late kin—Lord James Balthazar, brother to the patriarch and once a formidable adventurer of the old world.
Jaeson stood among them, his black coat weighed down not by the rain, but by the eyes of those around him. The young man was silent, his face unreadable beneath the dark brim of his hat. His mother, Merisa, stood beside Valerius, the man she shouldn't have been seen with, both of them wrapped in somber colors that couldn't quite hide the unease in their eyes. His father, Lord Garrick Balthazar, kept his expression tight, his hands clasped around an ebony cane topped with a silver wolf's head—a symbol of their ancient house.
The funeral was a quiet affair, though silence here was not born of grief but of calculation. Even the whispers that occasionally broke through the rain were muffled, careful.
The priest of the Circle of Lumina droned his sermon, his voice echoing off the wet stones:
"From dust we rise, and to dust we return. The soul of Lord James shall pass through the Veil, beyond the mortal realm, to where the light of truth awaits…"
But Jaeson barely heard him. His gaze lingered on the coffin—oak, polished, inlaid with silver runes. His uncle's crest, the Serpent and the Lantern, gleamed faintly under the flickering lanternlight.
James Balthazar had been the only one who ever treated Jaeson as more than a shadow. When Jaeson was younger, and already alien to the rest of the family because his magic had never manifested, it was James who had taught him that there was strength outside sorcery. He had introduced him to relics, devices from the forgotten ages, even crystals that hummed with psionic resonance—the only things that had ever truly responded to Jaeson's esper abilities.
And now James was gone.
The pallbearers lowered the coffin into the earth. The mud clung to their boots, and each shovelful of wet soil that followed sounded like the slow beating of a hollow drum.
Valerius whispered something to Merisa. She didn't reply, but her eyes flicked briefly toward Jaeson. It wasn't grief that crossed her face—it was something colder. Calculation. Regret, perhaps, but not for her brother-in-law's passing.
When the final rites were done, Garrick stepped forward. "Let him rest," he said simply. "May the light of the Old Ones guide him to peace." His tone was more a formality than a blessing.
The family began to disperse, the nobles and dignitaries murmuring their condolences before retreating to their carriages. The sound of hooves and wheels in the distance filled the air, and soon, only the family remained.
Beneath a large umbrella, Jaeson's eldest brother, Lord Edward Balthazar, turned toward their father. "We'll need to see to the estate," he said in a low tone. "James's holdings are extensive. His vault, the manor… the artifacts."
Their father's brow furrowed. "It will be settled once the will is read."
"Of course," Edward replied, but his eyes told another story.
Jaeson, standing apart, heard every word. His mind, sharper than any of theirs, pieced together what would come next. His family had never shown interest in his uncle until there was something to gain. And James's estate was not just wealthy—it was legendary. The man had traveled across ancient ruins, hunted forgotten relics, and bargained with spirits of the deep world. His mansion was said to house artifacts that could rival the treasures of royal vaults.
The rain eased into a mist as the procession made its way back to the waiting carriages. Jaeson lingered a moment longer, staring at the fresh mound of earth before him. He bent slightly, brushing his gloved fingers against the headstone where James's name was freshly carved.
"Rest easy, Uncle," he murmured. "I know what they'll try to do. And I'll be ready."
He turned then, his coat swirling behind him as he walked toward the carriage waiting for him.
The ride back to the ancestral manor was silent. The roads were muddy, the wheels creaked, and inside the enclosed carriage sat five people who shared blood but little affection.
Lord Garrick sat upright, his face turned toward the window, lost in thoughts of lineage and reputation.
Merisa sat beside him, her gloved fingers tracing idle circles on the silk of her gown. Valerius sat opposite her, pretending to mourn while keeping his gaze lowered to avoid Garrick's scrutiny. Jaeson sat near the edge, one hand against his chin, watching. Observing.
The youngest sister, Clara, broke the silence at last. "Will… will we have to travel to Uncle's estate, Father?" she asked softly.
Garrick gave a grunt. "We will, when the solicitors call us for the reading of the will."
Valerius spoke next, voice smooth as ever. "It's said Lord James had more than relics. He kept tomes, knowledge of the Old Sorcery—things lost even to the Academies. If those were to fall into the wrong hands…"
Jaeson's lips twitched. The hypocrisy in Valerius's tone was almost amusing. The man who lusted after his mother now spoke of wrong hands.
"Then we must ensure," Edward added, "that they fall into our hands. For the sake of the House, of course."
"Of course," Merisa echoed softly, though her eyes briefly met Valerius's.
Jaeson said nothing. He didn't need to. His esper mind could feel the faint ripples of intent emanating from them. The flicker of greed, the pulse of envy, the faint shimmer of fear. He could sense their inner tides like faint whispers brushing against his consciousness.
When they reached the manor, the servants had already prepared the dining hall. It was customary after a funeral to hold a wake, though this one felt more like a masquerade of sorrow. Long tables were laid with food no one touched. The chandelier above gleamed gold, reflecting off the crystal glasses filled with untouched wine.
Garrick stood to address the few close relatives who had joined them. "Lord James's passing marks the end of an era. He was… unconventional, but his deeds brought honor to this house."
He paused, as though struggling with sincerity. "His possessions will be managed with the respect due to his name."
Respect. Jaeson almost smirked. That word was often used in this family when they meant control.
Later that evening, as the guests departed and only family remained, the conversation turned sharper.
Edward leaned across the table. "The letter Jaeson received. Mother, you read it, didn't you? What exactly did it say?"
Merisa hesitated, her eyes darting toward her youngest son before she answered. "It said that James had passed and requested Jaeson to come at once. Nothing else."
"That can't be all," Edward pressed.
Jaeson met his gaze coolly. "Why would Uncle write to anyone else but me?"
"Because," Edward replied, voice tightening, "you were barely in his will the last time he made one."
"Things change," Jaeson said, his tone deceptively calm. "Especially when the rest of you were too busy pretending he didn't exist."
The tension thickened. Garrick's hand slammed the table lightly. "Enough. This isn't the time."
But it was. Jaeson knew it. The real game had begun the moment the coffin hit the ground.
As night fell, the manor fell into uneasy silence. Rain continued to tap against the windows like restless fingers. In the dim corridors, candles flickered in glass sconces, throwing long, trembling shadows across the portraits of long-dead Balthazars.
Jaeson stood by his window, watching the rain, his reflection faint in the glass. His uncle's face seemed to flicker in his memory—stern, patient, and oddly kind.
"Artifacts of unimaginable power," James had once said. "But the greatest treasure, boy, isn't power itself—it's control over those who seek it."
Jaeson exhaled softly. "You were right, Uncle. They're already circling like vultures."
He turned from the window, eyes settling on the sealed letter he had received earlier. The crest was broken now, but inside, folded between the pages, was a second note—one only he had noticed.
Written in James's neat, deliberate script were the words:
"For your eyes only, my boy. If you are reading this, it means I have left behind more than gold and relics. You must come quickly. They will come for what's mine. And they will come for you."
Jaeson's hand clenched around the parchment. The words weren't a warning. They were a challenge.
Outside, thunder murmured low in the distance. The storm was coming—not from the heavens, but from within his bloodline. And when it broke, Jaeson Balthazar would be ready.