Chapter 70:
Chapter 70: Blades, Bonds, and Brewing Shadows
The Sovereign Ascendant
The day’s training had ended hours ago.
But its weight—its echo—remained.
Aren moved down the long corridor toward his chambers, his steps unhurried but not sluggish. His cloak hung open at the shoulders, leaving dark sweat patches to cool against his travel tunic. From the outside, his posture was as iron-straight as ever, but inside his arms throbbed with a measured ache — the kind born of deliberate strain, not injury.
High Aura training worked differently on the body than Mana drills. Mana wanted flow. Grace. Artistic precision. Aura wanted pressure and pain until the muscles learned never to flinch again. Corvin’s first day had made certain of that.
When Aren finally reached the door to his private chambers, he turned the handle in exact silence and stepped through. The heavy oak door swung shut on an unconditional hush—he always made sure the hinges remained enchanted for that.
His sanctuary welcomed him with stillness. Light from the fading evening poured violet through the diamond-cut glass of his tall windows, hot against the bookcases that lined them. Floor-to-ceiling shelves brimmed with leather tomes, rolled maps, and carefully stacked scroll tubes. A faint scent of aged paper, dried ink, and the sharper bitterness of mana-treated parchment hung in the air.
He didn’t bother undressing yet.
Instead, he lowered himself into the high-backed cedar chair near the window, the one reinforced with subtle structural runes in its arms so it would never warp under Aura training inertia. He let his arms rest heavily on either side, not lax but… surrendering the load.
> *Muscle fatigue. Micro-tears. Aura will repair them slowly.*
> *I just need rest… and silence.*
He turned his head slightly toward the glass, watching dusk deepen into a wash of cobalt and molten amber above the sprawling Wolfengarde gardens. Down below, the curated plots bloomed with faint bioluminescent flowers, opening in the lunar cycle’s tug — night-blooms engineered to glimmer in his stepmother’s preferred palette.
His eyes drifted half-closed.
One breath in.
One breath out.
And then—
*knock.*
Just once. No pause for permission.
The latch gave way before he could answer.
Helium entered with her usual disregard for invitation — moving sideways through the opening, hip-checking the door gently shut behind her. The hood of her travel cloak sagged almost comically over her messy curls, slanting shadows over eyes that sparkled in mischief more than menace.
She scanned him without greeting.
> “You look like someone chewed you up and spit you out.”
In the same motion, she lobbed a small violet-glass vial at his desktop. It landed without even the courtesy of a clink, cushioned by the stack of reports he hadn’t touched since morning.
“Herbal blend,” she added casually, like this justified her uninvited entry. “Rub it into your arms and shoulders before sleep unless you want to wake up feeling like a fortress wall after its fifth battering ram.”
Before he could respond, a second object flew through his peripheral vision — heavier this time. He caught it smoothly without looking.
A polished silver flask. Cold to touch.
> “Hydration,” she said with authority. “You forget about it. I’m preventing your premature death.”
Aren set the flask on the desk without uncapping it. His voice, when he finally broke silence, was unhurried.
> “You came in here to diagnose me like livestock.”
“Obviously.” She leaned against the windowsill opposite him, curling one leg up onto it as though balancing on a tavern fence. “You’re too beat-up to form full sentences, so the rest of us have to make up for you.”
For a beat, neither moved. Then she tilted her head with mock critique.
> “Also… your face looks older. Stop thinking so much. You’ll age like milk.”
One corner of his mouth tugged slightly upward. "Thanks."
Silence — fleeting but whole — stretched two heartbeats between them.
And then the peace shattered.
The door slammed back against the wall with a resonant *thunk*.
> “LIEGE LORD!”
> “EMPEROR OF EXHAUSTION!”
Two voices. Too loud. Too energized.
In strode Neon, coat swinging chaotically with every step, and Argon, carrying a large steaming bowl as though it were the philosopher’s stone.
Neon, without prelude:
> “So this is what happens when you don’t dodge training!”
Argon, cheerfully ignoring that:
> “I made soup!”
The pronouncement earned an awkward grin from Neon. “It’s *probably* edible.”
“I had help,” Argon added defensively.
Neon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t lie. The soup threatened to commit crimes.”
They deposited the bowl right next to his stack of codex samples, sloshing suspiciously. The liquid was of no identifiable color found in nature. A long spoon floated in it with a look of weary endurance.
Helium groaned audibly and pinched the bridge of her nose.
> “Why are you both here?”
Neon put on a look of exaggerated innocence.
> “Because we *love* him.”
“And because,” Argon added as she peered closely at Aren’s posture,
> “he looks like he got repeatedly dropped by gravity.”
Aren glanced down at the soup, then up at them with perfect deadpan.
> “Now my room smells like burnt mana residue.”
“Flavor profile: Academy trauma,” Neon beamed.
In the corner, Helium folded her arms and leaned into one of Aren’s weapon racks with the faintest trace of an unwilling smile. She didn’t join the chaos. But she didn’t leave either.
> *He lets them stay,* she thought. *He never says it… but it’s enough.*
The chatter faded when Helium rolled her wrist and tossed a folded, sealed parchment toward the desk. Aren caught it effortless mid-air, his gaze finally sharpening.
> “Status?”
“Three new cases,” she said flatly. “Villages between Dalespine and Crestview. Same symptoms. Sudden collapse, no wounds, no aura disturbances. Still breathing. But they don’t wake.”
His eyes narrowed.
> “Still no root cause?”
She shook her head. “None detected. No toxin traces. Neural scans show baseline. Locals… have started calling it Hollow Sleep.”
Aren leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Hollow Sleep… they’ve named it already.”
Helium tilted her head. “Some call it divine punishment. A few think a deity of dreams is reclaiming worshippers. Others assume mana depletion.” She hesitated. “I don’t think it’s magical.”
Aren reached for a dagger resting in the wooden side-shelf — a narrow, clean-forged thing with subtle runic inlays designed for aura calibration.
He angled the blade under the lamplight, studying the edge. “Let’s check how precise it is.”
The words were casual. Objective.
Helium’s eyes went wide. “H-he’s calling the *disease* precise?!”
Still watching the contours of steel, he murmured, “I’ll decide after a month or two. Depends on how effective it turns out.”
Her pulse ticked upward. “Effective…? He’s predicting a progression cycle…? One to two months would mean—oh hells—he’s mapping the contagion model in his head already—”
The paranoia spiraled so fast she didn’t notice when he sheathed the dagger again with a quiet snap.
“I’ll do a quiet field test tomorrow,” he said offhandedly, mentally planning his spar with Corvin.
Helium heard: *“Containment breach rehearsal.”*
By the time he added, almost to himself, “Dangerous… but if it works, it might be worth it,” she was already mentally sealing off entire travel routes.
Helium saluted sharply. “Understood, my Lord. I’ll alert no one.”
Aren blinked once. “…Okay.”
He stood and exited. She watched him go, muttering under her breath:
> “The world’s not ready for him.”
The estate was quieter now, the echoes of Argon’s teasing fading down another hall. Soft light spilled from enchanted lanterns strung along the garden paths outside the east wing. The moon hung high, filtering through drifting clouds and painting pale silver over dewy hedges.
Aren walked without hurry. His boots made no more sound than if he were an afterthought in the corridor. He needed nothing in particular.
> “Too loud in my own head. I need quiet.”
He stepped through the archway leading toward the inner gardens. That’s when he heard it.
A tune. Low. A human voice. Not a practiced performance—no ornamentation—just… something warm, steady, and old.
> “That voice… I’ve heard it before.”
He followed the sound.
In the moonlit clearing, Sylvie was tending the night-blooms. Her apron carried light smudges of soil, her braid loose at the shoulder. She didn’t notice him at first, lost in the rhythm of humming and careful pruning.
“Sylvie,” he called softly.
She startled lightly, straightening. “Young Master,” she said, inclining her head.
“Was that you singing?”
“Yes,” she replied, brushing invisible dust from her skirt. “I often sing while tending. The flowers seem to… open better when they hear something gentle.”
“Continue,” he said simply after a beat of watching her.
Her eyes widened slightly. He added, quiet but firm: “It’s… pleasant.”
“As you wish,” she murmured. And just like that, when he turned and resumed walking, the melody rose again behind him—soft, steady, filling the spaces between the lantern light.
> *Not every silence needs to be broken. But some are worth hearing through.*
___________
Back in the main east hall, Aren’s steps were lighter than earlier in the evening.
The day’s obligations were finally behind him, and the distance between here and his own chambers felt like a small victory. The stone floor carried the quiet rhythm of his boots, each tap echoing softly beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Halfway to his door, he slowed.
> Maybe I should check on Father…
It wasn’t concern—not exactly. Just… curiosity. A need to confirm something.
He turned down the side corridor that led to the master suite.
The great double doors were mostly shut, but the left stood ajar by a finger’s width, spilling a thin line of golden light into the dim hall.
Aren paused. The light was warm. Too warm for this hour.
He placed a hand against the door, pushing gently until the gap widened enough to see.
Inside, the air shimmered faintly with heat from the hearth.
Alaric’s heavy cloak lay carelessly on the carpet near the fire, as though it had been shrugged off without a thought. A single glove lay beside it, fingers curled in on themselves.
Then he heard it—Selene’s laugh. Low, rich, drawn out in a way he didn’t often hear. It slid into the air like silk sliding over skin. Shadows moved near the fire, their outlines overlapping.
Aren’s head tilted fractionally.
“…Oh,” he murmured.
> “So that’s why I didn’t get a goodnight tonight.”
There was no sting in his tone, no trace of embarrassment—just observation.
Still, he lingered a heartbeat longer than he intended.
Selene’s voice, softer now, murmured something he couldn’t quite catch.
Alaric answered with a low reply. There was a shift of movement, a silhouette brushing close to another.
Aren’s expression didn’t change. His eyes, pale under the dim light, reflected nothing.
He pulled the door shut until only the warm line of light remained, then let it disappear altogether.
“Should’ve knocked,” he muttered to himself, voice almost lazy. “Or better—should’ve been born blind.”
He resumed his walk with the same even pace, not a single step hurried or slowed.
“Morgana…” he murmured as he passed. “She never warmed to Selene.”
A few frames later, Zephyrin’s half-smile emerged from another canvas—eyes painted as if they were looking past the viewer entirely.
“Zeph… buried himself in research.” Aren’s tone was lighter here. “Still… he treated me like a younger brother.”
He walked on. The rest of the portraits were of ancestors long gone, faces he knew only as names in family records.
When he reached his own chamber, he paused in the doorway. The stillness inside was palpable, the air cool and untouched.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him.
Moonlight poured through the tall window, tracing pale silver across the floor, the desk, the back of his chair… and the pair of gloves neatly resting by the window’s edge.
Aren sat, the chair creaking faintly beneath him.
“So, happiness hasn’t left the house—just moved into one room.”
The words faded instantly into the stillness, leaving only the soundless expanse of the room.
He leaned back, letting the moonlight fall over him. The silence wrapped itself around him like a circle drawn with deliberate care—perfect, unbroken, and impenetrable.
To be continued
But its weight—its echo—remained.
Aren moved down the long corridor toward his chambers, his steps unhurried but not sluggish. His cloak hung open at the shoulders, leaving dark sweat patches to cool against his travel tunic. From the outside, his posture was as iron-straight as ever, but inside his arms throbbed with a measured ache — the kind born of deliberate strain, not injury.
High Aura training worked differently on the body than Mana drills. Mana wanted flow. Grace. Artistic precision. Aura wanted pressure and pain until the muscles learned never to flinch again. Corvin’s first day had made certain of that.
When Aren finally reached the door to his private chambers, he turned the handle in exact silence and stepped through. The heavy oak door swung shut on an unconditional hush—he always made sure the hinges remained enchanted for that.
His sanctuary welcomed him with stillness. Light from the fading evening poured violet through the diamond-cut glass of his tall windows, hot against the bookcases that lined them. Floor-to-ceiling shelves brimmed with leather tomes, rolled maps, and carefully stacked scroll tubes. A faint scent of aged paper, dried ink, and the sharper bitterness of mana-treated parchment hung in the air.
He didn’t bother undressing yet.
Instead, he lowered himself into the high-backed cedar chair near the window, the one reinforced with subtle structural runes in its arms so it would never warp under Aura training inertia. He let his arms rest heavily on either side, not lax but… surrendering the load.
> *Muscle fatigue. Micro-tears. Aura will repair them slowly.*
> *I just need rest… and silence.*
He turned his head slightly toward the glass, watching dusk deepen into a wash of cobalt and molten amber above the sprawling Wolfengarde gardens. Down below, the curated plots bloomed with faint bioluminescent flowers, opening in the lunar cycle’s tug — night-blooms engineered to glimmer in his stepmother’s preferred palette.
His eyes drifted half-closed.
One breath in.
One breath out.
And then—
*knock.*
Just once. No pause for permission.
The latch gave way before he could answer.
Helium entered with her usual disregard for invitation — moving sideways through the opening, hip-checking the door gently shut behind her. The hood of her travel cloak sagged almost comically over her messy curls, slanting shadows over eyes that sparkled in mischief more than menace.
She scanned him without greeting.
> “You look like someone chewed you up and spit you out.”
In the same motion, she lobbed a small violet-glass vial at his desktop. It landed without even the courtesy of a clink, cushioned by the stack of reports he hadn’t touched since morning.
“Herbal blend,” she added casually, like this justified her uninvited entry. “Rub it into your arms and shoulders before sleep unless you want to wake up feeling like a fortress wall after its fifth battering ram.”
Before he could respond, a second object flew through his peripheral vision — heavier this time. He caught it smoothly without looking.
A polished silver flask. Cold to touch.
> “Hydration,” she said with authority. “You forget about it. I’m preventing your premature death.”
Aren set the flask on the desk without uncapping it. His voice, when he finally broke silence, was unhurried.
> “You came in here to diagnose me like livestock.”
“Obviously.” She leaned against the windowsill opposite him, curling one leg up onto it as though balancing on a tavern fence. “You’re too beat-up to form full sentences, so the rest of us have to make up for you.”
For a beat, neither moved. Then she tilted her head with mock critique.
> “Also… your face looks older. Stop thinking so much. You’ll age like milk.”
One corner of his mouth tugged slightly upward. "Thanks."
Silence — fleeting but whole — stretched two heartbeats between them.
And then the peace shattered.
The door slammed back against the wall with a resonant *thunk*.
> “LIEGE LORD!”
> “EMPEROR OF EXHAUSTION!”
Two voices. Too loud. Too energized.
In strode Neon, coat swinging chaotically with every step, and Argon, carrying a large steaming bowl as though it were the philosopher’s stone.
Neon, without prelude:
> “So this is what happens when you don’t dodge training!”
Argon, cheerfully ignoring that:
> “I made soup!”
The pronouncement earned an awkward grin from Neon. “It’s *probably* edible.”
“I had help,” Argon added defensively.
Neon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t lie. The soup threatened to commit crimes.”
They deposited the bowl right next to his stack of codex samples, sloshing suspiciously. The liquid was of no identifiable color found in nature. A long spoon floated in it with a look of weary endurance.
Helium groaned audibly and pinched the bridge of her nose.
> “Why are you both here?”
Neon put on a look of exaggerated innocence.
> “Because we *love* him.”
“And because,” Argon added as she peered closely at Aren’s posture,
> “he looks like he got repeatedly dropped by gravity.”
Aren glanced down at the soup, then up at them with perfect deadpan.
> “Now my room smells like burnt mana residue.”
“Flavor profile: Academy trauma,” Neon beamed.
In the corner, Helium folded her arms and leaned into one of Aren’s weapon racks with the faintest trace of an unwilling smile. She didn’t join the chaos. But she didn’t leave either.
> *He lets them stay,* she thought. *He never says it… but it’s enough.*
The chatter faded when Helium rolled her wrist and tossed a folded, sealed parchment toward the desk. Aren caught it effortless mid-air, his gaze finally sharpening.
> “Status?”
“Three new cases,” she said flatly. “Villages between Dalespine and Crestview. Same symptoms. Sudden collapse, no wounds, no aura disturbances. Still breathing. But they don’t wake.”
His eyes narrowed.
> “Still no root cause?”
She shook her head. “None detected. No toxin traces. Neural scans show baseline. Locals… have started calling it Hollow Sleep.”
Aren leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Hollow Sleep… they’ve named it already.”
Helium tilted her head. “Some call it divine punishment. A few think a deity of dreams is reclaiming worshippers. Others assume mana depletion.” She hesitated. “I don’t think it’s magical.”
Aren reached for a dagger resting in the wooden side-shelf — a narrow, clean-forged thing with subtle runic inlays designed for aura calibration.
He angled the blade under the lamplight, studying the edge. “Let’s check how precise it is.”
The words were casual. Objective.
Helium’s eyes went wide. “H-he’s calling the *disease* precise?!”
Still watching the contours of steel, he murmured, “I’ll decide after a month or two. Depends on how effective it turns out.”
Her pulse ticked upward. “Effective…? He’s predicting a progression cycle…? One to two months would mean—oh hells—he’s mapping the contagion model in his head already—”
The paranoia spiraled so fast she didn’t notice when he sheathed the dagger again with a quiet snap.
“I’ll do a quiet field test tomorrow,” he said offhandedly, mentally planning his spar with Corvin.
Helium heard: *“Containment breach rehearsal.”*
By the time he added, almost to himself, “Dangerous… but if it works, it might be worth it,” she was already mentally sealing off entire travel routes.
Helium saluted sharply. “Understood, my Lord. I’ll alert no one.”
Aren blinked once. “…Okay.”
He stood and exited. She watched him go, muttering under her breath:
> “The world’s not ready for him.”
The estate was quieter now, the echoes of Argon’s teasing fading down another hall. Soft light spilled from enchanted lanterns strung along the garden paths outside the east wing. The moon hung high, filtering through drifting clouds and painting pale silver over dewy hedges.
Aren walked without hurry. His boots made no more sound than if he were an afterthought in the corridor. He needed nothing in particular.
> “Too loud in my own head. I need quiet.”
He stepped through the archway leading toward the inner gardens. That’s when he heard it.
A tune. Low. A human voice. Not a practiced performance—no ornamentation—just… something warm, steady, and old.
> “That voice… I’ve heard it before.”
He followed the sound.
In the moonlit clearing, Sylvie was tending the night-blooms. Her apron carried light smudges of soil, her braid loose at the shoulder. She didn’t notice him at first, lost in the rhythm of humming and careful pruning.
“Sylvie,” he called softly.
She startled lightly, straightening. “Young Master,” she said, inclining her head.
“Was that you singing?”
“Yes,” she replied, brushing invisible dust from her skirt. “I often sing while tending. The flowers seem to… open better when they hear something gentle.”
“Continue,” he said simply after a beat of watching her.
Her eyes widened slightly. He added, quiet but firm: “It’s… pleasant.”
“As you wish,” she murmured. And just like that, when he turned and resumed walking, the melody rose again behind him—soft, steady, filling the spaces between the lantern light.
> *Not every silence needs to be broken. But some are worth hearing through.*
___________
Back in the main east hall, Aren’s steps were lighter than earlier in the evening.
The day’s obligations were finally behind him, and the distance between here and his own chambers felt like a small victory. The stone floor carried the quiet rhythm of his boots, each tap echoing softly beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Halfway to his door, he slowed.
> Maybe I should check on Father…
It wasn’t concern—not exactly. Just… curiosity. A need to confirm something.
He turned down the side corridor that led to the master suite.
The great double doors were mostly shut, but the left stood ajar by a finger’s width, spilling a thin line of golden light into the dim hall.
Aren paused. The light was warm. Too warm for this hour.
He placed a hand against the door, pushing gently until the gap widened enough to see.
Inside, the air shimmered faintly with heat from the hearth.
Alaric’s heavy cloak lay carelessly on the carpet near the fire, as though it had been shrugged off without a thought. A single glove lay beside it, fingers curled in on themselves.
Then he heard it—Selene’s laugh. Low, rich, drawn out in a way he didn’t often hear. It slid into the air like silk sliding over skin. Shadows moved near the fire, their outlines overlapping.
Aren’s head tilted fractionally.
“…Oh,” he murmured.
> “So that’s why I didn’t get a goodnight tonight.”
There was no sting in his tone, no trace of embarrassment—just observation.
Still, he lingered a heartbeat longer than he intended.
Selene’s voice, softer now, murmured something he couldn’t quite catch.
Alaric answered with a low reply. There was a shift of movement, a silhouette brushing close to another.
Aren’s expression didn’t change. His eyes, pale under the dim light, reflected nothing.
He pulled the door shut until only the warm line of light remained, then let it disappear altogether.
“Should’ve knocked,” he muttered to himself, voice almost lazy. “Or better—should’ve been born blind.”
He resumed his walk with the same even pace, not a single step hurried or slowed.
“Morgana…” he murmured as he passed. “She never warmed to Selene.”
A few frames later, Zephyrin’s half-smile emerged from another canvas—eyes painted as if they were looking past the viewer entirely.
“Zeph… buried himself in research.” Aren’s tone was lighter here. “Still… he treated me like a younger brother.”
He walked on. The rest of the portraits were of ancestors long gone, faces he knew only as names in family records.
When he reached his own chamber, he paused in the doorway. The stillness inside was palpable, the air cool and untouched.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him.
Moonlight poured through the tall window, tracing pale silver across the floor, the desk, the back of his chair… and the pair of gloves neatly resting by the window’s edge.
Aren sat, the chair creaking faintly beneath him.
“So, happiness hasn’t left the house—just moved into one room.”
The words faded instantly into the stillness, leaving only the soundless expanse of the room.
He leaned back, letting the moonlight fall over him. The silence wrapped itself around him like a circle drawn with deliberate care—perfect, unbroken, and impenetrable.
To be continued
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