The dawn over Viremont Estate always looked far more beautiful than the people who lived inside it.
Dorian Viremont stood on the eastern balcony, staring across the pale orange horizon as if it personally offended him.
The morning breeze tugged at his grey hair, an unusual shade inherited from the woman who birthed him and then left the world too early. His violet eyes, sharp and restless, betrayed how little sleep he had gotten… again.
Not that anyone in this house cared.
He adjusted his round glasses, the thin metal frames glinting as the sunlight caught them.
Another day in this loveless mansion.
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled an unrestrained sigh.
At nineteen, Dorian Viremont cut a striking figure, tall, lean, with a quiet, simmering presence that made servants avoid eye contact and nobles whisper behind fans. He had the kind of face that should've belonged to a scholar or a refined mage… and once, perhaps, it almost had.
Before reality carved disappointment into his bones and before the world decided he was an error.Before magic itself turned its back on him.
His morning peace was broken by hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor.
The latch of his double doors rattled, and a small figure pushed his way inside.
"Brother Dorian!"
Only one person in this manor used his name without so informally
Dorian turned, already softening. "You're up early, Bart."
Bartholomew Viremont, the youngest of Nicholai Viremont's legitimate children, toddled across the polished marble floor with the enthusiasm of a puppy discovering grass.
At eight years old, his golden hair stuck out in all directions like he'd wrestled with his bedsheets and lost. He always looked slightly disheveled but in an endearing way.
The kid launched himself at Dorian like a projectile.
Dorian caught him with practiced ease.
"You know," Dorian said, raising a brow, "most people knock."
"But Brother Dorian always says knocking is for people who don't belong." Bartholomew puffed with pride. Then his expression brightened even further.
"And I belong!"
Dorian snorted a laugh. "I did say that. Didn't think you'd remember it."
"I remember everything you say!" Bartholomew insisted. "Even your bad words."
"…Forget those."
"No."
Dorian groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're going to be the death of me."
Bartholomew giggled pure, innocent and delighted.
Dorian couldn't help smiling.The estate was cold marble, colder stares, and coldest hearts. If he hadn't had Bartholomew, he might've genuinely frozen.
"Is it true?" Bartholomew asked suddenly. "That Father is angry again?"
Dorian leaned on the balcony railing and shrugged, affecting an air of indifference he had perfected through years of necessity.
"He's always angry. It's one of his two emotions."
"What's the second?"
"Disappointment."
Bartholomew puffed his cheeks. "That's not fair."
"It's a noble society," Dorian said dryly, "fairness is a myth."
Just then, a shrill voice pierced the moment like a needle to a bubble.
"There you are, Bart. Honestly." Lady Esmeralda Viremont stood in the doorway, her finely embroidered gown swaying as she crossed her arms. "Running into… that room first thing in the morning? You'll catch something."
Dorian rolled his eyes. "Good morning to you too, stepmother."
"Don't call me that." Her upper lip curled slightly not enough to be vulgar, just enough to be insulting. "We are not related."
"Believe me," Dorian said blandly, "if I could rewrite my bloodline, I would."
Esmeralda clicked her tongue. "Always a sharp mouth. No wonder the courts despise you."
"I don't think despise is the right word for what they feel towards me," Dorian said cheerfully. "Fear. That is more appropriate."
She paused. "…For your antics, perhaps."
"Fear is fear."
Bartholomew looked between them nervously and Esmeralda's gaze hardened as she addressed him. "Come away from him, Bart. Let's go. Your sisters are waiting."
"Oh joy," Dorian muttered under his breath.
His sisters; Seraphina and Mirabelle, were exactly the kind of noble daughters who would rather eat slugs than acknowledge the bastard who shared their roof.
Seraphina, the eldest, was twenty-one and possessed a tongue sharper than most swords. Mirabelle, a year younger than Dorian, wasn't as verbally vicious but her disdain ran colder.
"Go on, Bart," Dorian said, flicking the boy's forehead lightly. "Before she faints from being in my presence this long."
Esmeralda huffed.
Bartholomew hesitated, tugging on Dorian's sleeve.
"I'll come play with you later!"
"I'll be drunk later," Dorian said.Esmeralda stiffened, scandalized
Bartholomew giggled. "Okay!"
Esmeralda grabbed his hand and whisked him out. Before leaving, she cast one more disdainful glance at Dorian.
"You were such a promising child once. It's a shame what you became."
Dorian offered a lazy smile. "I could say the same about you,"
Her face reddened. The door slammed.
And just like that, the room returned to silence.
Dorian leaned back, stretching out his limbs.
"Promising child," he murmured, almost amused. "Right."
The memory drifted back unbidden.
Age sixteen. A talented scholar, praised by instructors, envied by peers. His mind was sharp enough to grasp intermediate spell structures before anyone else his age. The adults whispered of potential. Of greatness.
Then came his magical affinity assessment.
A simple exam.
A basic spell demonstration.
A spark. A flicker. A—
Nothing.
Silence.
The mana gauging crystal remained dull. His mana pool, nearly nonexistent. His affinity near zero.
The examiners had exchanged pitying looks.
His father, Nicholai Viremont, Patriarch of House Viremont and a respected archmage, had gone very still. Then, without a word, he simply turned and walked away.
He had never looked at Dorian the same way since.
Then his mother died shortly after and the last gentle anchor in his life snapped.
T
hat was when the spiral began.
Lavish spending. Gambling. Drinking. Women. Parties that lasted until dawn. Fights with noble brats. Wagers he shouldn't have won but somehow did. Scandals that spread across the kingdom like wildfire.
Dorian Viremont had become the kingdom's favorite mess, a beautiful disaster no one could ignore and if people whispered behind their hands that the bastard son of Nicholai was worthless, hopeless, talentless, unfit for magic…
Well.
Dorian made sure he gave them something far more scandalous to whisper about.
If he couldn't be a mage, he would be a menace at least they'd remember him.
Late that afternoon, Dorian lounged in his private parlor while a servant read out his list of expenditures from the previous week
.
"—five gold for three bottles of Scarletwine, twenty gold for… ah… two nights at the Velvet Hall, fifty-five gold for repairs at the Moonbridge Inn, reportedly after you… fell through the window—"
Dorian waved a hand dismissively. "The window fell into me, actually. I was defending myself."
"Against… gravity, sir?"
"Yes. Gravity is a vicious force."
The servant stared blankly.
Dorian plucked a grape from the bowl on the table. "Tell the innkeeper to build sturdier windows."
"Sir, the windows are enchanted."
"Then tell him to enchant them harder."
The servant sighed in resignation and scribbled down the instruction.
Dorian threw a leg over the armrest of the chair, lounging like sin incarnate. "Anything else?"
"Only one thing, sir." The servant swallowed nervously. "Lady Mirabelle requests that you refrain from attending dinner tonight. She says your presence… affects her appetite."
"Good," Dorian said. "I hope she starves to death"
The servant froze.
"I'm joking," he added lazily. "Mostly."
Hours later, the mansion had quieted. Moonlight pooled across the floorboards as Dorian made his way back to his bedroom, humming softly. The night was deep, heavy, peaceful.
He pushed open his door , "Oh good," he said, sounding genuinely pleased.
Two women lay sprawled across his bed both naked, both asleep, their limbs tangled around Dorian's sheets like lazy cats. One had silver hair, the other auburn. He couldn't remember their names, he didn't care enough to try.
He shed his coat, tossed it onto a chair, and flopped between them.
Warm bodies curled against him immediately.
Dorian smirked. "Maybe today wasn't so bad."
He closed his eyes but sleep did not come immediately. His mind wandered to solitude, to magic he could never wield, to expectations he could never meet.
Whatever.
He shoved the thoughts away.
Liquid comfort and soft skin were easier to understand than destiny.
Just as his breathing evened, the door burst open.
"Dorian." A deep, commanding voice. Dorian cracked an eye open.
Nicholai Viremont stood in the doorway.
Patriarch. War hero. Father in name only.
His gaze swept across the room, the discarded clothes, the empty wine bottle on the floor, the two naked women, and finally, Dorian himself.
Disappointment radiated from him like heat.
"Father," Dorian drawled. "If you wanted to join, you should've knocked. I won't tell on you, No one would find out and even if they did, I don't think anyone would blame you seeing as you're stuck with that woman"
Nicholai's jaw tightened. "Get dressed. Now."
"And if I don't want to?"
"You don't have a choice."
Dorian sighed dramatically and sat up, sheets pooling around his waist.
"What is it this time? Another lecture about responsibility? About how I shame the family name? About how a bastard like me should at least make an effort—"
"You've been entered."
Dorian blinked. "Entered… into what?"
Nicholai crossed his arms. "The Selection."
The room fell silent.
Even the women seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere.
Dorian straightened, his smirk fading just a little.
"You're joking."
Nicholai shook his head. "It's time you made something of your life. Enough of your foolery."
Dorian stared.
For the first time in a long while…He didn't know what to say.
The Selection?
Of all things?
Nicholai held his gaze.
"You will participate," he said coldly. "Your future begins now."
Then he turned and left.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Dorian sat motionless, violet eyes wide, one thought pounding through his skull.
What the hell has that old man done?Why?