The Weight of a Name

As the last echoes of cheering faded and the noble children scattered, the energy of the duel settled into the air like the remnants of a storm. I was still gripping the wooden sword, my fingers slightly numb from the impact of our clashes. Arthur, still smiling, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

That was… fun. More fun than I expected.

I hadn’t realized how much I missed the thrill of a real fight—not the kind from my past life’s fantasy novels, but an actual physical exchange, one where I had to react, adapt, and think on my feet. Arthur was strong. He wasn’t just some spoiled noble’s son swinging a sword like a toy; he had real talent.

A few meters away, standing just beyond the garden path, two familiar figures were watching. Grilda and Alessa.

Their expressions were soft, filled with something I wasn’t entirely used to—pride.

Alessa was the first to react, walking over with quick strides before pulling Arthur into a tight hug. The boy barely had time to register the motion before being smothered by his mother’s embrace.

"You did so well, Arthur!" Alessa cooed, ruffling his golden hair as he squirmed in embarrassment.

"Mother, please!" Arthur groaned, attempting to pry himself away.

Meanwhile, Grilda knelt before me, her violet eyes glistening with warmth. Without warning, she wrapped her arms around me, nuzzling her cheek against my hair.

"You were amazing, Castiel," she whispered. "I’m so proud of you."

A strange feeling settled in my chest.

I didn’t hate it.

It was warm, comforting—soothing in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. And yet… it didn’t feel entirely real.

She’s kind. She’s caring. And in this life, she’s my mother.

But deep down, I can’t see her as one.

Not completely.

No matter how much time passes, the memories of my old life still linger. I remember my mother from before. Her face, her voice, her laugh—even if they’re fading, they’re still there.

Grilda’s affection stirs something in me, but there’s always that distant disconnect. Like I’m playing a role I can’t fully commit to.

I hug her back, though. Just for a moment.

After the duel, we were led to a grand banquet hall within the palace. The sheer size of it was overwhelming—tall, gilded ceilings with chandeliers glowing like captured stars, walls adorned with lavish tapestries, and rows upon rows of dining tables draped in silk. The scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and exotic spices filled the air.

For a five-year-old, this was paradise.

I ate as much as my tiny body allowed, which, in the grand scheme of things, wasn’t much. But compared to my usual meals at home, this was a feast fit for a king.

Music played softly in the background, nobles engaged in quiet discussions, and for the first time, I felt like I was truly experiencing the world outside of the Lachius mansion.

But like all good things, it eventually came to an end.

***

The journey back was a stark contrast to the lively banquet.

The carriage rattled along the stone-paved roads, the night air cool against the glass windows. The moon hung high, casting a silver glow over the landscape as we moved through the dimly lit streets of Eryndor.

Inside, Lucian sat by the window, his sharp blue eyes staring at the passing scenery, lost in thought.

Silence stretched between us, until—

"You must be proud, Lucian," Grilda suddenly spoke.

Lucian barely glanced at her. "Of what?"

"Of Castiel," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Did you see him? He held his ground against Gurstag’s son."

For a brief second, Lucian’s eyes widened.

It was quick—almost imperceptible—but I caught it. A flicker of surprise, as if the idea of me holding my own in a fight had never even crossed his mind.

Then, just as quickly, he composed himself.

"Hmph. It seems Castiel has more than just a talent for magic," he said coolly, closing his eyes. "I’ll have Mara refine that talent in the art of the sword."

I blinked.

Wait. Mara?

Mara—the woman who spends her days polishing floors and scolding me for taking books? That Mara?

I almost laughed.

There was no way. No way she was some secret combat instructor.

But Lucian wasn’t joking.

"She’s an expert in weapons and hand-to-hand combat," he continued. "While Lina has a natural affinity for magic, Mara is her counterpart—more than capable of handling your training."

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

I had a hard time imagining it. Sure, Mara was tall, elegant, and always carried herself with poise, but a combat expert? She barely looked like she broke a sweat doing housework.

This had to be some kind of joke.

Still, if Lucian was ordering it, then it was happening.

That night, as we arrived at the mansion, I was more exhausted than I realized. The moment I climbed into bed, sleep dragged me under like a tidal wave.

At least… until thirst woke me up.

Groggily, I stumbled out of bed, rubbing my eyes as I padded barefoot through the dimly lit halls. The mansion was eerily silent, the usual warmth replaced with the cool stillness of the late hour.

I made my way to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water using the Aquapura spell—which I had already mastered thanks to training with Lina and was able to use without enchantment. The first sip cooled my throat, but just as I was about to head back to my room—

Voices.

Muffled but urgent.

I froze, my ears picking up the hushed tones coming from Lucian and Grilda’s bedroom.

Curiosity got the better of me. Quietly, I crept closer, pressing my ear against the heavy wooden door.

"The nobles are suspicious, Grilda." Lucian’s voice was low, sharp. "They think we’re hiding something from the crown."

A pause.

Grilda sighed. "They’ve always been wary of us, Lucian. It’s nothing new."

"This time it’s different," Lucian countered. "Gurstag told me himself—the rumors are spreading faster than before."

Rumors?

I frowned, straining to hear.

"They believe we’re planning a coup."

My breath caught in my throat.

Grilda let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "A coup? That’s absurd."

"Is it?" Lucian’s tone was ice-cold. "They see us as a threat, Grilda. We possess knowledge no other noble family has, and because we refuse to share it, they assume we’re plotting something."

Silence.

I felt my heart beat against my ribs.

A coup? The Lachius family being suspected of treason?

I had read enough history books to know where accusations like this led. Paranoia. Betrayals. Executions.

I stepped back from the door.

This was bad.

And something told me it was only the beginning.

***

A sharp impact jolted me back to reality.

Pain flared in my right arm as the wooden sword struck, the sting running up to my shoulder. I hissed through my teeth, instinctively tightening my grip on my own sword.

"You’re distracted," Arthur said, stepping back. "Are you okay?"

Before I could respond, a familiar firm voice cut through the air.

"Young master, what are you thinking? Focus on your opponent."

I turned to see Mara, her arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes locked onto me with disapproval. She stood tall, her blonde hair pulled into its usual immaculate bun, the only sign of exertion being the slight adjustment of her glasses.

I exhaled slowly, shaking off the daze in my head.

Right. I was in the middle of a sparring session with Arthur.

The vast plains near the mansion stretched endlessly around us, the grass swaying gently under the weight of an overcast sky. The sun was hidden behind a sea of thick gray clouds, casting the world in a dull, muted light.

It had been several days since my training with Mara began, and I had quickly learned one thing: she wasn’t just good at combat—she was terrifyingly skilled.

At first, I thought Lucian was joking when he said she was an expert. How could the same woman who scolded me for tracking mud into the house also be capable of breaking bones with precise strikes?

But after just one lesson, my entire body was sore.

And it only got worse from there.

My training had been intense—too intense for a five-year-old, honestly. But thanks to a partnership between Lucian and Gurstag, I was given another challenge alongside my training with Mara: sparring matches against Arthur.

Which brought me to this moment.

Mara let out a quiet sigh, finally lowering her arms. "We’ll take a short break," she declared, stepping back. "Don’t waste it."

Without another word, she turned and walked toward the mansion, likely to fetch water—or maybe to give me a moment to gather my thoughts.

I sighed, tossing my wooden sword onto the grass before flopping down next to it. My limbs felt like lead.

Arthur sat beside me, setting his sword down neatly before leaning back on his hands.

For a moment, we just breathed.

The distant sound of wind rustling through the plains filled the silence, a stark contrast to the constant pressure building inside my mind.

This was too much.

I was five years old.

And yet here I was, training like a soldier, learning magic, swordsmanship, etiquette, and politics all at once.

It was insane. Even by Garthram’s standards, a nation that worshiped strength, this was pushing it.

Not to mention…

My thoughts drifted to that conversation I overheard in the middle of the night.

The nobles suspect the Lachius family of plotting a coup.

It was absurd. But absurd rumors had toppled dynasties before.

If they decided we were a threat, it wouldn’t matter whether the rumors were true or not.

I stared up at the dull gray sky, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me.

Was this how my second life was going to be?

Constant training. Constant expectations. Constant paranoia.

Arthur’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

"You know," he said, running a hand through the grass, "you kinda remind me of your father."

I turned my head toward him, raising an eyebrow. "Lucian?"

Arthur nodded. "Yeah. You’ve got his talent."

I frowned. "I don’t even know what he’s talented at."

Arthur chuckled. "You really don’t know?"

I shook my head.

Arthur plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers. "When my mother was pregnant with me, she got really sick. It was bad. The healers couldn’t do anything for her, and my father—he’s a great warrior, but he’s not a doctor. Everyone thought she was going to lose me."

I blinked. I hadn’t expected that.

Arthur’s gaze lifted toward the sky. "But then Lucian showed up."

I sat up slightly, curiosity piqued.

"He made this medicine, some alchemical thing no one else could replicate. My father said it worked almost instantly. My mother got better, and well…" He gestured to himself. "Here I am."

I stared at him.

I never knew that.

Lucian had always been distant, cold—practically indifferent toward me. I never really thought of him as someone who saved lives.

Arthur turned back to me, grinning. "So yeah, if you’re even a little bit like him, you’re gonna be someone really strong someday."

I snorted. "I don’t know if that’s a good thing."

Arthur gave me a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

I sighed, looking away. "Never mind."

There was no point in explaining my complicated relationship with Lucian.

Arthur chuckled, nudging me with his elbow. "Well, I think you’re cool. And you can do magic without chanting. You have no idea how rare that is. Even grown-ups struggle with that, and most kids our age can barely control their Mana."

I blinked. "You too?"

Arthur nodded. "Yeah. I have to chant just to make my blessing work properly. But you? You just think and magic happens. That’s… really cool."

He shifted slightly, plucking another blade of grass. "I bet you’ll be one of the strongest nobles when we grow up."

I stared at him.

There was no jealousy in his voice—only genuine admiration.

Arthur looked at me like I was someone worth looking up to.

The weight pressing down on me eased—just a little.

I reached over and ruffled his hair, making him yelp.

"Thanks," I said, a small smirk tugging at my lips.

Arthur pouted, fixing his now-messy hair. "You’re the worst."

But he was smiling.

***

The afternoon air was thick with the weight of exhaustion as I stepped into the mansion, the faint ache in my limbs a constant reminder of my training session with Arthur. Mara had pushed me hard these past few days, and now, with the added sparring, my body was starting to understand the true meaning of fatigue.

I let out a quiet sigh, rolling my shoulder as I made my way toward the grand staircase. A bath and a good book—that was all I needed to reset my brain.

After a moment of aimless wandering through the library, I found something that piqued my interest. "Noble Families and Their Origins."

A thick, leather-bound tome with gold lettering etched onto the spine.

I traced my fingers over the title, curiosity sparking in my chest.

Maybe if I read this, I’d get a better grasp on the political landscape of Garthram. Understanding how these nobles operated might help me navigate this world’s power struggles more effectively.

Tucking the book under my arm, I turned on my heel and started heading back to my room.

But as I passed by the hallway leading to my parents' chambers, something caught my attention.

The door was ajar.

And inside, I saw Grilda.

She sat on the edge of her bed, her normally flawless white hair disheveled, strands sticking to the sweat on her forehead. She held a cloth pressed to her mouth, her shoulders trembling as she coughed violently into it.

Then, as she pulled the cloth away—

Red.

The once-pristine fabric was now stained with fresh blood.

I froze.

For a moment, the world around me seemed to blur, the distant chatter of maids and the creak of floorboards fading into the background.

This… wasn’t the first time.

I had noticed it before. The way Grilda stayed in bed longer. The way her already pale skin looked almost ghostly some mornings. The dark circles under her eyes.

I had even asked her about it once.

"Mother, are you feeling well?"

She had smiled, as she always did, and waved me off.

"Everything is fine, dear. Don’t worry yourself."

A lie.

And like an idiot, I believed her.

I gritted my teeth, forcing my legs to move before she could notice me lingering in the hallway.

I couldn’t deal with this right now.

I needed a distraction.

Clutching the book tighter, I hurried back to my room.

I flopped onto my bed, flipping open "Noble Families and Their Origins" in an attempt to drown out the image of Grilda’s blood-stained cloth from my mind.

The pages were filled with detailed histories of Garthram’s noble houses, each one wielding influence over different aspects of the empire.

The Lachius family was among the most revered, known for revolutionizing studies in magic and herbology. A lineage of scholars, alchemists, and researchers who spent centuries unraveling the secrets of mana. Their reserved nature had made them a target of suspicion, but their contributions were undeniable.

I skimmed through it quickly—I already knew all that.

The Dundragon family, on the other hand, had no noble blood. They had earned their status through generations of unwavering loyalty to the royal family. Unlike the Lachius, who preferred solitude, the Dundragons were deeply embedded within the military and politics of the empire.

I smirked.

They reminded me of the ass-kissing employees back at my old job.

The kind of people who never really stood out, never really contributed anything groundbreaking—but always knew exactly which strings to pull to stay in the boss’s good graces.

It made sense why Gurstag and his family were trusted by the king. They weren’t a threat. They didn’t hoard knowledge, didn’t isolate themselves from the other nobles.

They were the perfect subordinates.

But then, as I turned the next page, something new caught my attention.

The Sylvaine family.

My eyes lingered on the name, an odd sense of unease creeping up my spine.

The passage detailed their unique characteristics—white hair, pale skin, and an immense mana reserve unmatched by any other noble lineage.

However, their arrogance became their downfall.

The Sylvaines viewed themselves as the purest bloodline, refusing to mix with other families. Their obsession with maintaining their so-called ‘purity’ led to a long history of inbreeding, which utterly destroyed their genetics.

Over the years, their once-mighty bloodline began to deteriorate.

Many were born sickly and weak, and a terrible affliction spread among them—a genetic disease, passed down through generations, one that slowly drained their bodies until they withered away.

I sat up straight.

A hereditary disease… that slowly kills its victims?

My fingers tightened on the book’s edges.

I had seen Grilda coughing up blood.

She had white hair. Pale skin.

My heartbeat quickened.

Was this… the same disease?

I swallowed hard, my mind racing.

If this was genetic, then it meant…

I shut the book.

I didn’t want to think about it.

But deep down, I already knew.

Grilda was dying.

And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I couldn’t ignore this. No matter how much I tried to push it to the back of my mind, the truth was suffocating. I sat there, gripping the book so tightly that my knuckles turned white, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

A memory forced itself to the surface.

It was Frigora, the coldest season of the year. Snow blanketed the plains outside the mansion, and the windows were glazed with ice. I had fallen ill with the flu, my small body racked with fever. Lina and Mara had been more than capable of taking care of me, but instead—

Grilda volunteered.

I remembered her soft hands brushing against my forehead, her voice gentle as she whispered words of comfort. She had wrapped me in warm blankets, cradling me close as if I were something fragile.

“Drink this, dear.” She had pressed a cup of warm milk with honey into my tiny hands. “It’ll help you feel better.”

Her violet eyes—so kind, so full of love—had watched over me the entire night.

Even though I couldn’t see her fully as my mother, she had been there when I needed her. She always was.

And now, I owed her.

I couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

Lucian had to know.

I stood, clutching the book to my chest as I made my way through the dimly lit hallways. Each step felt heavier than the last.

Soon, I was standing before a large wooden door near the end of the hallway. The initials L.L. gleamed in gold on its surface—Lucian Lachius.

I raised my fist and knocked once.

Silence.

Then, Lucian’s voice, calm but cold.

“Who is it?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I knocked again.

A pause. Then, footsteps.

The door swung open, revealing Lucian standing there in his usual black attire, his piercing blue eyes narrowing the moment he saw me.

“What are you doing here?” His tone was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. “You aren’t supposed to be in this part of the mansion.”

I felt a wave of frustration rise in my chest.

Ignoring his warning, I held up the book, flipping it open to the page about the Sylvaines.

"Did you know that?" I demanded, my voice trembling with anger. "While you sit in your office all day, my mother is dying!"

Lucian’s expression darkened. His gaze flickered to the book, then back to me, and for the first time—I saw something other than indifference in his eyes.

It was brief. A flicker.

But I recognized it instantly.

Guilt.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by pure fury.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, dangerous. “You think I’m just sitting here, ignoring it?”

I clenched my fists. "You're supposed to be the head of this family. How can you just—"

The slap came out of nowhere.

A sharp, burning pain exploded across my cheek, and before I knew it, I was on the floor, my book slipping from my grasp and landing with a dull thud beside me.

I barely registered the pain.

All I could do was stare up at him, my heart pounding in my chest.

Lucian towered over me, his usually composed expression cracked, his hands trembling at his sides.

“You are a foolish child,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

He looked away, running a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply as if trying to steady himself.

Then, his next words shattered me.

“I already know about this,” he said, his voice hoarse. “That’s why I stay in this office all day.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Lucian turned to his desk, his shoulders tensed, his back to me now.

“I have spent years searching for a cure,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Reading every alchemical text, experimenting with formulas, consulting every resource available.”

His fists clenched against the desk.

“There is none.”

Silence.

Cold, suffocating silence.

The weight of his words settled over me like lead.

I had never seen Lucian like this before. He always carried himself with absolute control, always kept his emotions in check.

But now, standing in his office surrounded by books filled with empty answers, he looked defeated.

He turned back to me, his gaze sharp once more, his mask of cold authority snapping back into place.

“I don’t need a child lecturing me,” he said, voice hard as steel. “Stay out of things you don’t understand.”

Then, without another word, he reached for the door—

And shoved me out.

The door slammed shut, leaving me standing there, my cheek still stinging, my mind spinning.

Lucian wasn’t heartless.

He was desperate.

But even with all his intelligence, all his resources—he was powerless.

And so was I.