I did it, Aren thought, narrowing his eyes against the searing brilliance of the sun. I tore this body's fate—this story's predetermined ending—right from the very first page and cast it into the void.
A different smile touched his lips—not the cunning mask of the courtroom, but something raw and satisfied.
He could almost hear the vitriol of the crowd fading behind him and envision Serena Winter, likely trembling with impotent rage in her private chambers.
They dragged me onto that stage to be their sacrificial criminal, he mused. What a pity for them. I have no intention of playing the role they assigned me.
As the wind brushed against his face, the lingering sense of alienation was replaced by a strange, newfound ownership.
This world was no longer just a novel he had been dropped into; it was the first battlefield where he had fought for his life and won.
Now, he told himself, slipping through the shadows of the street to avoid the lingering eyes of the mob, it is time to see what this "innocence" can buy me.
As he descended the stone stairs, seeking a quiet exit, a man in a sharp black suit intercepted him.
"Mr. Aren Donovan," the man said, his tone professional yet guarded. "This letter is from a madam who requested I deliver it to you personally."
Aren paused, his eyes tracing the fine parchment of the envelope as he reached out to accept it.
On the red wax seal of the envelope, he recognized the lightning-wrapped spear—the unmistakable emblem of the Donovan family.
The messenger stepped back as if his duty were a burden finally lifted. Aren did not linger; he slipped through the courthouse's rear exit and vanished into the labyrinth of the city.
Finding a secluded side street, he retreated into the shadows and broke the seal. On the parchment inside, written in a hand so neat and deliberate it felt cold, he read:
Aren,
The spectacle that unfolded today beneath the temple dome may have granted you legal absolution, but it has done nothing to cleanse the stain splashed upon the honor of the Donovan dynasty.
Once a Donovan's name is filed alongside criminal records on a dusty shelf, there can be no talk of family.
This letter serves as a formal declaration: all blood and legal ties between us are hereby severed.
From this moment onward, your right to bear the Donovan surname is revoked. Your name has been struck from our genealogy; your existence reduced to a dark footnote in our history.
Not out of sentiment, but to prevent one who once shared our blood from wandering the streets in wretched destitution, I grant you one final mercy.
A sum sufficient to begin a new life—and to ensure you remain out of sight—has been transferred to the enclosed account.
This is your final share of the Donovan legacy, and the last mercy you shall ever receive from us. Your path and your fortune are now entirely your own.
— Beryl Donovan
"So, you truly are merciless toward your own blood," Aren muttered, his tone mocking—yet he felt no sting of disappointment.
On the contrary, he viewed this excommunication as a stroke of brilliant luck. In a family as rigid as the Donovans, who lived and died by the hollow concepts of glory and honor, every move he made in the future would have been scrutinized, stifled, or stopped.
Now that they've cast me out, he thought, a predatory glint in his eyes, they will claim my actions have nothing to do with them. They will ignore me until it is too late.
The irony of being handed a fortune and told to vanish felt sweet. He wasn't being exiled; he was being funded for his own rebellion.
When he reached the end of the street, the magnificent facade of the Holy Kingdom Central Bank rose before him in all its cold splendor.
The structure was carved from pristine white marble, supported by colossal columns that pierced the sky.
Its architecture felt less like a financial institution and more like a cathedral where gold had been deified.
The moment Aren stepped through the heavy bronze doors, the chaos of the outside world was severed.
In its place was the hollow echo of footsteps and the rhythmic, dry rustling of parchment. The interior possessed a sterile, unsettling order.
Along both sides of the hall, behind towering oak counters that dwarfed any man, sat clerks whose faces were devoid of even the faintest trace of emotion.
Clad in identical silver-gray robes and peering through runic magnifying spectacles, they feverishly transcribed entries into massive ledgers.
The silence here, Aren thought as he crossed the black-veined marble floor, is heavier than the stone walls of a prison.
Floating beneath the vaulted ceiling were not chandeliers, but slowly rotating orbs of spectral light.
These spheres illuminated the hall with a shadowless brilliance, ensuring no secret could hide in a corner.
This was a fortress built of wealth and silence.
Silver bands etched with glowing runes ran along the walls like veins, pulsing toward the vault—a sanctuary protected by both arcane wards and cold steel.
When Aren reached the "Asset Management" counter at the far end, the clerk did not deign to look up. His voice rang out like metal scraping against stone.
"Account number and identification."
Aren handed over the details from the letter along with his temporary documents. The clerk adjusted the spectacles sliding down his nose and flipped through the massive ledger with practiced speed.
When the pages stopped, a micro-shift crossed the man's blank expression—a flicker of an eyebrow that betrayed his shock.
The clerk engraved a series of runes onto a silver plate and slid it toward Aren.
The figure was staggering—far greater than Aren had anticipated.
Well, damn, Aren thought, staring at the sum. Beryl Donovan... she truly believes her son is a monster, yet she fears a stain on her name even more.
She didn't give me a parting gift; she gave me enough gold to buy a small kingdom.
It wasn't maternal affection. It was a bribe that whispered, "Take this and stay dead."