I woke up to a room that felt illegal.
The sheets were too soft. Not "comfortable" soft—unreasonably soft, like the fabric had never met dirt in its entire existence. The pillow cradled my head with the confidence of someone paid to do it. Even the air smelled expensive: clean linen layered with herbs and sharp alcohol disinfectant, faint enough to be polite but impossible to ignore.
For a second, I wondered if I'd died.
Then my side pulsed.
A deep, heavy ache that reminded me I was still very much alive and very much breakable.
My hand shot to my stomach on instinct and met bandages—thick, tight wraps beneath my fingers. I felt more bandages along my left arm too, and when I tried to move it, nothing happened the way I wanted.
My left arm was wrapped from shoulder to forearm and supported by an arm sling. It hung there like it belonged to someone else.
My chest tightened. My first thought punched through everything.
Myrina.
I tried to sit up.
Pain immediately punished me for the attempt. It wasn't sharp like a stab; it was worse—deep and spreading, like my body was warning me that pride was a bad habit.
I fell back onto the pillow with a sound that was half grunt, half curse.
The door opened with a quietness that made me angry. Even doors here had manners.
A man stepped in wearing the calm expression of someone who had never been rushed in his life. He carried a small tray—cloth, glass vial, tools laid out neatly as if he was about to fix a clock, not a person.
"Good morning," he said smoothly.
I stared at him, still trying to breathe through my side.
He glanced at my bandages, then at my face, as if checking whether I was awake enough to understand words.
"You have been unconscious for one full day," he continued, voice gentle and controlled. "Yesterday's… incident occurred in the afternoon. It is now the next morning."
A full day.
My stomach turned.
"Myrina," I croaked. "I need—"
"Please remain calm," he said immediately, as if "calm" was something you could choose like a shirt. "You suffered a severe wound. Movement will reopen it."
I tried to push myself up again anyway.
My legs swung toward the floor.
The room tilted.
My side screamed.
My vision pulsed at the edges like it was threatening to leave.
The healer—because that had to be what he was—reached out with surprising speed and pressed a hand firmly against my shoulder.
Not rough. Not cruel.
Just… absolute.
"Do not," he said, still polite. "You are not allowed to leave yet."
Not allowed.
The words were soft, but they landed like a lock clicking into place.
I stared at him. "I'm… a patient."
"Yes," he agreed without hesitation. "And you are also under the Vonel household's care. For your safety."
I didn't miss the way "for your safety" sounded like a ribbon tied around a cage.
My jaw tightened. I stopped struggling because struggling was pointless and painful.
The healer adjusted something on the tray and checked the edge of my bandage with practiced fingers.
"Your left arm also sustained significant strain," he said. "It was stabilized. You will regain full use with time, assuming you do not behave recklessly."
I almost laughed. Reckless. As if my life had been a series of careful, responsible decisions lately.
A knock came at the door.
Before the healer could answer, the door opened.
Lyan stepped inside.
He was alone.
The healer straightened instantly, eyes lowering.
Lyan's gaze flicked once to the man, then back to me.
"Leave," he said.
The healer hesitated only long enough to be respectful. Then he gathered his tray and slipped out silently, closing the door behind him like the room itself didn't want to be caught listening.
My body tensed.
I expected it automatically—my muscles bracing for mockery, for "worm," for another humiliation while I couldn't even stand properly.
I kept my right hand open on the sheets.
Kept my breathing steady.
Lyan took two steps forward.
Then he bowed.
Not a lazy nod. Not the half-bow nobles did for performance.
A deep, perfect bow, spine straight, head lowered, arms placed with practiced precision—so flawless it froze my brain.
For a moment I genuinely wondered if I'd passed out again.
Was this a dream?
Was my concussion making me hallucinate polite Lyan?
His voice came out low and strained.
"I'm sorry."
Not theatrical. Not loud enough for the audience.
Just… regret.
He kept bowing. Kept his head down like he was afraid to look at me.
"I'm sorry for what I did," he said again, voice thick. "I pushed it too far. I—"
He stopped, as if the words jammed in his throat.
I stared at him, sitting there in a bed that felt too expensive for my blood.
He still wasn't moving.
He was still bowing.
A strange panic rose in me—because I didn't know what to do with this.
"Lyan," I blurted.
He flinched slightly, but didn't lift his head.
"Stand up," I said quickly. "Just… stand up."
He hesitated, then straightened slowly, as if he needed permission to exist upright again.
His face looked wrong.
Not because he was injured—though there were faint signs, a tightened jaw, a shadow under his eyes.
Wrong because his arrogance was gone.
He looked shaken. Guilty. Like he'd been awake all night arguing with himself.
I swallowed, suddenly aware of how awkward my own position was—bandaged, weak, trying to speak like anything about this was normal.
"You're fine," I said, and the lie came out automatically, because that was what you said when someone apologized and you didn't want to make it worse.
My side throbbed like it wanted to contradict me out loud.
Lyan stared at me as if he didn't understand the concept of forgiveness.
"Really?" he asked. His voice cracked slightly. "Is it really okay?"
He sounded like he wanted me to say "no," so his guilt would have somewhere to live.
I didn't know what to answer, so I didn't.
He took a breath.
Then another.
His hands clenched, loosened, clenched again.
Finally, he spoke, quieter.
"Thank you."
I blinked. "For what?"
Lyan's eyes dropped to my bandages, and something in his expression twisted.
"For not dying," he said, then shook his head sharply as if he hated himself for saying it like that. "No—sorry. That's not—"
He swallowed.
Then his voice steadied into something heavier.
"For yesterday."
I said nothing.
He continued anyway, as if he'd been carrying it too long.
"Every month… I do it," Lyan said. "The spar. When Father returns to the estate."
His fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve.
"I go around the city and look for someone my age who might last long enough to matter. Someone strong enough that the match won't be… pathetic."
His mouth tightened.
"But it always is. They fall fast. They cry. Or they beg. Or they try too hard and break something." He looked away. "And Father never looks."
The last sentence came out almost like a child's complaint.
Except it was laced with years.
"He doesn't care," Lyan continued, voice low. "Because my oldest brother exists."
There was bitterness there. Not jealousy exactly—more like the weight of living in someone else's shadow until your own shape disappears.
"He's… set. The successor. He's strong. He's everything Father wanted. So when I do anything—when I win—Father just thinks it's noise."
Lyan's gaze snapped back to me.
"And you have no idea what that does," he said, intensity flaring. "To know you're strong and still be invisible."
I didn't interrupt.
I couldn't. My throat was tight in a way that wasn't pain.
Lyan exhaled sharply.
"So I tried harder," he said. "And then harder. And then I started getting angry. And after that…" His voice lowered. "After that I started doing things I didn't even realize were wrong anymore."
He looked down at his hands as if they were evidence.
"Kids stopped agreeing to spar," he admitted. "They didn't want the bruises. The injuries. The humiliation. So I…"
His jaw clenched.
"I forced them."
The word hit the room like a stone dropped in water.
"I blackmailed them," he said, almost whispering now. "Threatened families. Used money. Used influence. Whatever worked."
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second.
"And then I saw you."
My chest tightened.
"You weren't supposed to be special," he said, and there was shame in the honesty. "I didn't target you at first. But then I saw you punch Arlo. And all of a sudden you looked… different."
His gaze flickered up, then away again.
"I thought you'd be easy," he admitted. "A quick match. A quick performance. Something I could put in front of Father."
He swallowed hard.
"But yesterday…"
His voice faltered. He looked genuinely shaken again, like the memory had teeth.
"Yesterday was the first time," Lyan said slowly, "that I saw Father's face change."
I remembered the patriarch's stillness. The way the arena had obeyed him without him speaking.
Lyan's voice dropped even lower.
"Fennec told me once," he said, "that Father only makes that expression when something truly interests him. The last time was when my oldest brother sparred with him… evenly."
His throat bobbed. He breathed in like it hurt.
"And yesterday," he whispered, "Father looked like that because of you."
I stared at him.
Lyan's eyes shone, not with arrogance.
With desperation.
"With your… perseverance," he said, "I felt something inside me snap into place. I didn't even understand it until it happened."
His shoulders sagged, like the confession had drained him.
"I awakened my aura," he said quietly. "At eleven."
He gave a short laugh that sounded like it wanted to be joy and ended up shaking.
"I'm the fastest among my siblings," he added, but it didn't sound like bragging. It sounded like someone reading proof of worth aloud because he was afraid it would vanish if he didn't.
Then his face tightened again.
"And I almost killed you," he said, voice breaking. "Because I couldn't control it."
Silence filled the room.
My side throbbed.
My left arm hung uselessly.
I stared at Lyan and felt something strange twist in my chest.
It was wrong.
All of it was wrong.
He'd bullied me. Harrassed me. Called me a worm like it was breathing.
And now he stood here, shaking, apologizing like a normal boy who'd made a horrible mistake.
I didn't know what to do with him.
I swallowed, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Did you… meet your father? After yesterday?"
Lyan shook his head.
"No," he said quickly. "He—he spent the night at a banquet. Resting. I didn't… I didn't get to—"
His voice faltered.
I could hear what he didn't say.
I didn't get to hear him say it directly.
Another knock came at the door.
Before either of us could react, it opened.
Fennec walked in like the room belonged to him.
He brought warmth with him, casual and bright, like he hadn't stepped between a lethal strike and a bleeding body yesterday.
"Well," he said, eyes scanning the bed, the sling, my expression. "Look who decided to return from the afterlife."
My brain stalled for a second.
That was almost… normal.
Fennec grinned at me. "How's the bed? Too soft? Don't worry, it's not enchanted. You're just poor."
Lyan made a sound that was half groan, half warning. "Fennec."
Fennec turned his grin on him immediately. "Champ."
Lyan's ears went red. "Don't call me that."
Fennec's smile widened. "Why not? You awakened your aura at eleven. You're basically a legend now."
"I nearly killed him," Lyan snapped, then immediately looked at me like he regretted raising his voice.
Fennec's expression didn't change much, but his eyes softened slightly.
"Yeah," he said, still light. "I noticed. I was kind of there."
Then he stepped closer to the bed, voice gentler.
"How're you feeling, Trey?"
I hesitated. "Like… I tried to argue with a wall and lost."
Fennec laughed once, genuinely. "Good. That means you're honest."
He glanced at Lyan, and his tone stayed warm, but there was something quiet underneath it—an older brother who'd seen too much.
"And you," he said, "stop looking like you swallowed a funeral. He woke up. That's what matters."
Lyan's jaw tightened. "He shouldn't have been hurt in the first place."
Fennec nodded once, easy. "Correct. Which is why you'll apologize properly later without bowing so long your spine breaks."
Lyan glared. "I wasn't—"
"You were," Fennec said cheerfully, then turned back to me. "Anyway."
The cheerfulness didn't leave his face when he delivered the next sentence.
"The patriarch wants to see you."
The room changed.
Not like a door slamming. Like a shadow sliding across sunlight.
Lyan stiffened immediately. "No. He can't. Trey can barely move."
Fennec shrugged, still wearing that calm smile. "I know."
"He's injured," Lyan insisted, voice rising. "He needs rest. He can't walk up those stairs."
Fennec's smile thinned just a little—not in anger. In reality.
"I know," he repeated. "But Father is demanding it. Now."
Lyan's hands clenched.
"Even you can't—"
Fennec cut him off gently. "Champ."
The word was soft.
But it stopped Lyan like a hand on his chest.
Even Fennec—who carried the estate like he belonged everywhere—couldn't refuse that order.
I exhaled slowly and looked at the edge of the bed.
My body protested before I even moved.
But there was something stronger than pain pulling me upright.
Myrina.
I need to know about floor forty-three.
About the the Abyss.
I forced my legs off the bed.
The moment my feet touched the floor, my side flared. My vision swam.
Lyan reached out instinctively, hovering like he wanted to catch me but didn't know if touching me would make it worse.
"You don't have to," he said, voice sincere. "You really don't."
I didn't answer.
Not because I was angry.
Because if I opened my mouth, pain might come out instead of words.
I stood.
Slowly.
My left arm remained pinned in the sling, useless weight. My right hand steadied me against the bedpost. My knees shook, but I locked them anyway.
Fennec nodded like he approved.
Then he turned and walked out, leading the way without hurry.
Lyan fell into step beside me, worried. The concern on his face looked real enough that it made my chest feel strange.
It was still hard to trust.
A part of me expected the "worm" to come back any second.
But I shoved the thought down.
I couldn't afford it.
Not now.
Not when everything I'd done—every bruise, every humiliation, every step into this place—had only been for one reason.
For Myrina.
We moved through corridors that felt too wide and too quiet. The estate swallowed footsteps, swallowed voices, swallowed hesitation.
After a while, we reached the massive staircase.
It rose like a monument—red carpet down the center, gold ribbon on the sides that glittered in the light, as if even the stairs needed to show wealth.
I stared up at it and had a ridiculous thought.
Myrina would hate this.
Not hate, exactly.
She'd stare at it with that blank face and then whisper something blunt like, "Why is the floor wearing a ribbon?"
The idea nearly made me smile.
Nearly.
Then pain tugged me back.
I climbed anyway.
Step by step.
At the top, a massive double door waited—tall, luxurious, carved with patterns that looked more like declarations than decoration.
Two butlers stood before it.
They greeted Fennec with flawless politeness.
"Young Master Fennec."
Fennec gave them a casual nod, like he was greeting neighbors.
One butler knocked.
The door opened immediately, silent as a blade drawn from a sheath.
We were guided inside.
The hall beyond was spacious and too formal to be called a room. A red carpet ran down the center, the same gold ribbon pattern as the stairs. On the far end, an elevated platform rose above the floor we walked on.
Alcatraz du Vonel sat there.
Beside him was a woman—his wife, I assumed—composed, elegant, expression unreadable.
Below the platform, a few nobles stood in arranged positions, their clothes rich, their faces attentive.
And behind them—
My eyes widened.
A white-haired lady knight stood there, armor catching the light with quiet authority.
The same one I'd stumbled into at the guild days ago.
My brain made a small, helpless sound.
Of course she was here.
Why wouldn't the world do that to me?
Then the door closed behind us.
And whatever humor I had left died quietly.
Fennec dropped to one knee.
Lyan did too.
Their movements were practiced, synchronized.
I scrambled to follow.
My knee hit the carpet wrong. My balance wobbled. I ended up in something that was vaguely a kneel and vaguely a bow and mostly a mess.
I felt every eye in the room on me.
My face heated.
I forced myself to breathe.
Calm.
Just breathe.
Alcatraz didn't react.
Not with laughter. Not with annoyance.
He simply looked at us like he was reading a report.
Then he spoke.
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
"I summoned you," he said, "because the awakening occurred."
His gaze flicked to Lyan.
"You did well," he continued, tone even. "Awakening aura at eleven is rare."
Lyan's head stayed lowered, but I saw his shoulders tremble slightly.
Alcatraz's gaze shifted to me.
"And because," he said, "it seems you were instrumental in creating the conditions for it."
The words were polite.
But they felt like a hand turning me over to inspect what I was.
He continued calmly. "Your contribution is… acknowledged."
Lyan's breath hitched.
Then Alcatraz added, "What is more interesting is the nature of the aura itself."
A ripple went through the nobles below.
Alcatraz's gaze sharpened fractionally.
"His aura is of a rare type within the kingdom," he said. "A void-type aura."
The word landed differently here—spoken by someone who knew exactly what it meant.
"It allows the weapon to cut through anything," Alcatraz continued, "not by force alone, but by principle."
My stomach tightened.
Images flashed—Fennec's steel, the broken katana, and still… my blood.
Alcatraz stood.
The movement alone shifted the room. Everyone stiffened.
He looked at Lyan.
"Come," he said simply.
Lyan rose with shaking knees and walked up toward the platform, like each step was a prayer.
When he reached Alcatraz, the patriarch placed a hand on his shoulder.
A small gesture.
But Lyan reacted as if it was the sun touching him.
"Well done, son," Alcatraz said. "You are truly living up to the Vonel's name."
Lyan's mouth trembled.
His eyes shone.
And then he cried.
He tried to hold it in—jaw clenched, shoulders tight—but the tears came anyway, spilling down his cheeks as he stared at his father like he couldn't believe he was finally being seen.
The room stayed silent.
Alcatraz didn't look uncomfortable.
He looked satisfied.
After a moment, he glanced toward Fennec.
"Escort him to sit," he said.
Fennec rose and approached Lyan, placing a hand lightly on his back, guiding him to an empty chair behind the patriarch's seat.
Lyan sat there like his legs no longer worked, wiping at his face like he was embarrassed by the proof of his need.
Then Alcatraz's attention turned fully to me.
His gaze pinned me in place more effectively than chains.
"You are owed a reward," he said. "Speak."
My heart thudded.
This was it.
The opening.
The reason I came here.
Pain roared through my side as if trying to stop me.
I ignored it.
I lifted my head.
And for the first time, I looked directly into Alcatraz du Vonel's eyes.
"There is only one thing I want," I said.
A murmur spread through the hall—displeased, already judging.
I forced the words out anyway.
"I want to know what happened to the dungeon expedition on floor forty-three," I said, voice steady despite the tremor in my body. "And if there were any survivors… especially anyone with the name Austere."
The room shifted.
Not in movement.
In temperature.
Voices rose immediately.
"What insolence—"
"A commoner asking about classified matters?"
"Uncivilized—"
"Just a random boy—"
The buzzing grew.
My skin prickled.
I didn't look away from Alcatraz.
Then Alcatraz raised one hand.
He spoke a single word.
"Silence."
The effect was immediate.
The hall fell quiet as if sound itself obeyed him.
He lowered his hand slowly.
Then he looked at the nobles below, expression unchanged.
"Leave," he said.
The word wasn't angry.
It didn't need to be.
The nobles hesitated only for a breath, then began filing out—faces stiff, eyes darting, servants following. Even the white-haired lady knight turned with controlled grace, leaving without a word.
The doors closed again.
When the last footsteps faded, only four remained in the hall.
Alcatraz.
Fennec.
Lyan.
And me.
Alcatraz's gaze returned to my face.
And the quiet that followed felt heavier than any shout.
"Now," the patriarch said softly, "repeat your question."