Rowan felt it before Eric saw it.
The air had shifted. Not mana, not killing intent. Something worse. The quiet kind of anger that sat heavy and patient.
Rowan subtly tilted his head and flicked his eyes toward the Duke.
Eric caught the signal mid sentence. He frowned, confused, then turned back.
And froze.
Arthur Wavecrest stood there perfectly still, hands behind his back, posture straight as ever. His face was calm. Too calm. His eyes, however, were not. They were fixed on the training fields, the churned earth, the scattered practice dummies, the sweating knights running laps where rose bushes once stood.
Eric knew that look.
It was the same look his father used to wear right before grounding him for a month or making him run a 100 laps in the rain as punishment. Calm on the surface. Absolute disaster underneath.
Eric's confidence cracked just a little.
Why is he looking at me like that? he thought. I did everything right. I greeted him properly. I wore formal armor. I even shaved.
The Duke finally spoke.
"So," Arthur said, his voice deep and slow, "I see you have… modified the mansion I gave you."
Modified.
The word hit harder than any shout.
Eric's eyes widened a fraction as understanding crashed into him. He looked around again. The torn lawns. The weapon racks. The knights sparring directly in front of the main hall. The once elegant garden now reduced to mud and sweat.
Oh.
Oh no.
This was his father's favorite mansion. The one he personally designed. The one he had once spent an hour explaining the placement of a single tree.
Eric swallowed.
I'm dead.
Arthur's gaze finally shifted to him. "Care to explain why it now resembles a battlefield."
Rowan quietly clasped his hands together.
Please let him survive.
Eric moved fast. Too fast.
"Rowan looks tired and its already evening" Eric said suddenly, stepping sideways and putting himself half between his father and the mansion. "Six hours in a carriage is rough, especially for a first order awakener. We should go inside. Father, you must be tired as well."
Silence.
One knight tripped in the background and fell face first into the dirt.
Arthur's eye twitched.
Rowan bit his lip to keep from laughing.
Eric stood there smiling stiffly, hoping with all his heart that changing the subject would save his life.
"I will deal with you later, Eric. For now, lead the way," the Duke said.
Eric let out a breath he did not realize he was holding. It came out slow and shaky, like air leaking from a cracked bottle. He straightened his back at once.
"Yes, Father."
Later me will handle it, Eric thought with forced optimism. Future Eric is strong. Future Eric can survive.
He turned and led them toward the entrance.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the noise of the training grounds vanished. The heavy doors shut behind them, sealing away the chaos outside.
Inside, the mansion was untouched.
Polished marble floors reflected the chandelier light. The walls were lined with tasteful paintings and family crests. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and old books. No weapon racks. No training dummies. No muddy boots.
Rowan blinked.
The Duke glanced around slowly, his sharp eyes taking in every corner. His expression softened just a fraction.
"I see you at least had the sense to protect the sanctity of the interior," Arthur said, his voice still cold, but no longer dangerous.
Eric nodded quickly. "Of course. I would never touch the inside."
Alfred cleared his throat. "It seems Master Eric has at least some restraint."
Eric shot the butler a wounded look. "At least?"
Alfred's lips twitched. Barely.
Rowan hid his smile behind his hand.
Eric turned back to them, slipping fully into host mode now that his execution had been postponed. "I will have rooms prepared at once. Baths are ready, and fresh clothes have been laid out. Dinner will be served shortly."
Arthur nodded once. "See that it is."
Rowan felt the tension finally ease as servants appeared and guided them away.
By the time they sat down for dinner, Rowan was starving.
Not the polite kind of hunger nobles talked about, but the real one that made his stomach tighten the moment the dishes were uncovered. He had only eaten breakfast, and the ride, the city, and everything that followed had drained more out of him than he expected.
Then he saw the food.
Rowan had to stop himself from staring.
Platters of roasted monster meat filled the table, their scents rich with herbs, oil, and citrus. Olive oil, garlic, wine, salt, simple things done right. It reminded him of Mediterranean cooking from his old world.
Before awakening, Rowan had never been allowed to touch monster meat. His body simply could not handle it. Too much mana, too dense, too dangerous. At best it would have made him sick. At worst, it could have killed him.
Now it sat right in front of him.
Slow roasted cuts from second order beasts, tender fish from mana rich waters, thick stews that smelled like they had been cooking all day. Fresh bread still warm, vegetables grilled and dressed lightly, nothing flashy, just confident food.
Rowan swallowed.
He wanted to dig in. Badly.
But then he glanced up.
His father was sitting straight, calm, eyes sharp even while eating. Eric looked relaxed in a way that screamed temporary safety. Alfred stood nearby, already judging posture, pace, and manners.
Yeah. No chance.
Rowan carefully picked up his utensils and began eating at a measured pace, each bite controlled, even though every part of him wanted to forget manners entirely. He chewed slowly, savoring the flavor, pretending he was not one second away from inhaling the entire table.
The monster meat was incredible. Rich, filling, and warm in a way normal food never was. He could feel it settle into his body without resistance. For the first time, his awakened body accepted it naturally.
So this is what everyone else had been eating all this time.
He forced himself not to smile too widely. Getting grouped into whatever punishment Eric had waiting for him would be a tragedy.
So Rowan ate politely, admired the empire's cuisine in silence, and enjoyed the rare moment of peace.
For now, this was family time.
Of course, Eric broke the silence.
"So, Rowan," he said casually, spearing a piece of food, " Your engagement with your lovely fiancée gets annulled, huh?" he said with a teasing smile. "Honestly, I expected you to throw a tantrum."
Rowan's fingers tightened around his cutlery.
Of course they all knew. Everyone in House Wavecrest knew how openly infatuated he had been with the second princess. His brothers had teased him for years over it, sometimes mercilessly. Even his father had joined in once or twice, which somehow made it worse.
The air shifted.
Duke Arthur and Alfred both looked at him at the same time.
Eric either did not notice or had already forgotten.
That was just how he was.
Cedric, the eldest, was nobility made flesh. Perfect posture, perfect words, perfect future Duke.
Eric, on the other hand, had spent his youth dodging etiquette lessons, interrupting balls, and treating noble decorum like an optional suggestion. He had always been an odd one out.
Give him a sword, though, and he made sense.
That was why their father had pushed him into the knight order, where steel mattered more than manners.
Eric grinned at Rowan, completely unaware that he had just poked a very sensitive subject.
Rowan shot Eric a flat look. His eye twitched, just slightly.
Seeing no immediate reaction, Eric leaned back in his chair and continued, his tone turning more serious. "The king's been wary of our house from the start. The moment Cedric became an Admiral, he sent him straight to the Verdermar Archipelago, one of the most dangerous places in the sea. And when I finally earned my own order, he stationed me here in the capital. Always close. Always watching. Like I'm some kind of threat."
The table fell quiet.
Arthur set his utensils down slowly.
"The king is newly crowned," the Duke said, his voice calm but heavy. "Paranoia comes easily to those who inherit power without earning it. The Wavecrest household stood beside his predecessor through wars and storms alike. To him, that loyalty looks less like devotion and more like a shadow hanging over his throne."
Eric let out a short laugh. "So we're being punished for being useful."
The Duke spoke calmly, his voice steady and measured. "Think of it as a test. The king has interfered with us more than once, but that does not change our path. House Wavecrest has always been loyal to the crown, and it will remain so. Loyalty is not something we abandon just because it is questioned."
Eric glanced at his father, his usual grin gone. "Maybe one day," he said, quieter than before, "the king will come to his senses and realize we were never his enemies."
Arthur met his gaze for a brief moment, then looked back to the table. "Kings rarely come to their senses," he replied. "But they do learn, eventually. Often the hard way."
Eric, sensing the heaviness settling over the table, spoke up again with forced cheer. "Who knows," he said, glancing at Rowan with a grin, "maybe our Rowan will surprise everyone and awaken a gold-ranked trait. Maybe even Master of the Seas, like our grandfather."
I wish, Rowan thought. That would make things so much easier.
Awakening a gold-ranked trait was inevitable for him. He knew that much. If he wanted even a chance at delaying the end of the world, he needed influence, strength, and recognition. In this empire, nothing granted all three faster than a gold-ranked trait.
But my gold traits are a nightmare, Rowan thought grimly.
Awakening a gold-ranked trait was never simple. It dragged you straight into imperial politics, made you a target for rival factions, assassins, and scheming nobles. And then there was the Cult of the Abyss, always hunting for individuals with gold traits to sacrifice for their insane rituals.
But Rowan's traits were worse than most.
The Sword Saint trait was absurdly powerful, the kind that let someone fight far above their natural limits. The feats of the original Sword Saint were legendary, bordering on myth. The problem was not the power itself. It was the history attached to it.
That man had slaughtered dragons. Not one not two but three dragons of the same order as him, enough to shatter the long-held belief that dragons were invincible in the same order. Their pride had never recovered.
Sworn enemy of dragons, Rowan thought bitterly. What a title to inherit.
If the dragons ever learned that he carried the Sword Saint trait, they would hunt him relentlessly. Not out of strategy, not even necessity, but pure wounded pride.
Overgrown, fire-breathing lizards with egos the size of mountains, Rowan thought. Of course they'd want revenge.
Just imagining dragon shadows blotting out the sky made his spine prickle.
And then there was his other trait.
Master of Mana.
If the Sword Saint trait was dangerous, this one was a death sentence.
Gold-ranked traits were rare because of an old, unspoken rule of the world. At any given time, only one individual could possess a specific gold-ranked trait. Lower-ranked traits could appear in many people, like Child of the Sea, but gold traits were singular.
The protagonist had already revealed Master of Mana.
The king knew it. The empire knew it.
If they find out I have the same trait, Rowan thought, I won't even make it out of the mage tower alive.
Dissection. Experimentation. Endless probing to understand how the impossible had happened. The scholars would call it "research."
That thought sent another chill through him.
That bastard author, Rowan cursed silently. You gave me two gold traits, and both are invitations to get killed in the worst ways possible.
Noticing Rowan fall quiet, his expression shifting as if he were arguing with someone only he could hear, Eric softened his tone.
"Hey," he said, leaning back in his chair, trying to sound casual. "Even if you don't awaken a gold-ranked trait, it's not the end of the world. With Child of the Sea alone, you'd still be a genius by anyone's standards."
He glanced at Rowan, then added with a crooked grin, "And honestly? Forget the princess. Life's a lot simpler when you are not involved with the royals."
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't carefully worded.
But for Eric, that was comfort.
Dinner ended quietly, the last plates cleared away as servants guided everyone to their rooms. The mansion slowly settled into silence.
Rowan lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his hands folded over his chest. Tomorrow. Everything hinged on tomorrow. The ceremony, the traits, the moment where the path he once wrote would finally bend.
My original fate ends tomorrow.
The thought made his chest tighten. He did not know what would change, or how far the ripples would spread. Kings, nobles, enemies he had only ever read about—all of them would react. Some with awe. Some with fear. Some with knives hidden behind polite smiles.
And yet, beneath the anxiety, a spark of excitement flickered. Dangerous. Thrilling. He wanted to see their faces. He wanted to feel the world shift, even if only a little, because of him.
Outside, the night lay calm, deceptively serene, as if the world itself was holding its breath for the storm that would come with the dawn.
Rowan turned onto his side, letting his eyes close, the tension and anticipation coiling inside him. Tomorrow would come soon enough and with it, everything would change.