Lucon left the temple in a rush—and then stopped short.

  The corridor was empty. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, dust particles drifting dreamily in the air.

  Yet—

  He felt it.

  Not the Flow. That was still gone. No currents, no energies, no guidance.

  But eyes.

  The unmistakable sensation of being watched crawled across his skin. Lucon gaze flicked left then right, shoulders tightening.

  I’m being paranoid, he told himself.

  Still, his heart didn’t listen.

  “—Young Lord.”

  Lucon jolted so hard his foot slipped.

  “Ah—!”

  A solid hand caught his arm before he could stumble backward. Captain Movar stood beside him, tall and broad as a tower shield, brow furrowed in concern.

  “Easy there,” Movar said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Lucon exhaled, forcing his heart to slow. “Captain…Movar. I—sorry. I didn’t see you approach.”

  Movar asked, “Have you seen Lieutenant Kaeson?”

  Lucon shook his head instinctively. “No, I haven’t—” He stopped. Kaeson. Another piece on the board. The memories surfaced: late-night conversations, promises of resources and autonomy, the lieutenant’s conflicted loyalty being carefully redirected. Kaeson was already woven into Ambrosia Lucon’s schemes, but the sober Lucon couldn’t recall the exact threads.

  That’s when the cold, analytical thoughts intruded, clear and clinical: Mavor is an obstacle. Too loyal to father’s sentimental governance. A strategic liability. Demote him. Promote Kaeson. Consolidate control of the guard.

  No! Lucon rebelled internally. Mavor is a good man. He’s protected this house for years. I won’t do that!

  Captain Mavor studied his face, mistaking his internal turmoil for something else. A slow, competitive smile spread across the veteran’s face.

  “Since I have you here,” he said, clapping a heavy, gauntleted hand on Lucon’s shoulder. “How about a spar? I’ve been itching to test myself ever since I saw you move last night.”

  Lucon blanched. “What? No! Absolutely not!”

  Even Ambrosia Lucon knew Mavor, at First Blaze Arisen, would trounce him easily.

  “Come now,” Mavor pressed, his eyes alight with the challenge. “Just a friendly match. I want to see what you’re really made of.”

  “You’re far too strong,” Lucon insisted, backpedaling. He’d forgotten Mavor’s pride in being the barony’s strongest warrior. Lucon’s performance against Rhavak had undoubtedly stirred the man’s competitive spirit. “Another time, Captain. Really.”

  Their standoff was interrupted by a servant who hurried up, bowing and presenting a sealed letter. “For you, Young Lord.”

  Grateful for the distraction, Lucon took it. The handwriting was neat and precise. Klara. He broke the seal and unfolded it, his eyes scanning the curt lines.

  Lucon,

  I do not need, nor will I accept, your offered “help.” I will grow stronger on my own merits. Do not concern yourself with the betrothal. I will become so formidable that no contract, no expectation, will be able to bind me. Consider the arrangement between us void of any further personal entanglement.

  K.S.

  Lucon grimaced. The public betrothal announcement, and the attempts to use her as a piece on the board seemed to have plunged their relationship into new, icy depths.

  Captain Mavor, peeking over his shoulder, let out a knowing chuckle. “Ah, young love. I forgot what that felt like.”

  Lucon stared at him with utter chagrin.

  The servant, who had been waiting patiently, cleared his throat. “Also, Young Lord…your father wishes to see you in his study. At once.”

  All the panic Lucon had been holding at bay came rushing back.

  Warren’s words rang in his mind: "Taking on your father is a monumental task."

  No, I don’t want to go to war with father! I don’t want to become baron!

  Swallowing hard, Lucon gave a stiff nod. “I…see. Thank you.”

  Nodding a hasty farewell to Captain Mavor, Lucon turned and hastened down the corridor alone.

  Still that feeling persisted.

  Being watched.

  He reached the study door and paused, drawing a breath to steady himself before stepping inside.

  “Father—”

  The word died in his throat.

  Hilda stood beside Lord Auric’s desk.

  Relief surged through him so hard it almost hurt.

  “Hilda!” Lucon blurted, rushing forward. “I was looking for you—I wanted to—”

  His words died. She didn't look at him. She was dressed in sturdy, plain traveling clothes, a small bag at her feet. The implication struck him.

  "Why are you dressed like you're leaving?" he asked, his voice weak.

  She remained silent, her shoulders hunched, making herself small.

  “Lucon,” Lord Auric snapped, irritation in his voice. "You will mind your manners."

  Lucon flinched. He'd been so focused on Hilda he’d forgotten to greet the room's other occupants. He turned and stilled.

  Niles Visciro leaned casually near the bookcase, hands folded behind his back, dressed in immaculate merchant finery.

  A surge of instinctive, unprocessed knowledge flared in Lucon's mind. The bandits. The theft. The enemy.

  He pointed abruptly. "What is he doing here?"

  Auric’s patience thinned visibly. "That is enough, boy! You will not speak to my guests—my friends—in such a manner!"

  Lucon recoiled. Right. Father doesn't know about Niles yet. He won't be convinced, even if I tell him.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Before he could gather his thoughts, his gaze swept over the others in the room. House Treasurer Warren gave a small, weary nod from a corner chair. And beside him…

  Lucon had to take a moment to think. A woman in tight-fitting white and black leather, her face obscured by a plain white mask with simple black eye holes. He recognized the mask, and the name came to him from old, childhood memories.

  He felt sweat bead at his temples.

  The room felt smaller with them all inside it.

  Lucon forced himself to move. He bowed deeply toward Auric. "Father, forgive my rudeness."

  He turned to Warren. "House Treasurer. Thank you for your continued service."

  Warren returned the greeting with a quiet, "Young Lord."

  Lucon’s gaze settled on the masked woman. He swallowed. "Aunt Genevieve."

  They weren’t related but she had once been inseparable from his father. If she was back, that could only mean his father had become serious.

  The masked woman tilted her head, her voice a smooth, cool murmur from behind the white mask. "Lucon. How different you've become from the little boy you once were."

  He didn't know what she meant. Finally, he turned to Niles, the greeting tasting like ash. "Mister Visciro."

  Niles's smile didn't reach his shrewd, watchful eyes. "Young Lord. A pleasure, as always."

  It wasn’t.

  These people…

  Warren—the man who had turned numbers into weapons.

  Niles—a ruthless merchant who cut losses without looking back.

  Genevieve—an intelligence broker who never showed her face.

  They were pillars of the Merchant Hero’s rise.

  This gathering was a message, a display of the formidable power structure Lucon had so casually challenged.

  He tried to salvage something. "Father, about last night—I didn’t mean any of it—"

  Lord Auric cut him off with a raised hand. "We are far past apologies for drunken antics, Lucon. We are speaking of treasonous ambition. You are a thousand miles from being fit to be baron."

  "I agree," Lucon said, the words bursting out with genuine relief.

  A flicker of surprise crossed Auric's face, but it was quickly overshadowed by a low murmur from Niles. "A clever act. Pretending to be weak, to lower our guard. He's more cunning than he appears."

  Auric's eyes narrowed. Lucon gulped. Niles was poisoning the well, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  His eyes darted back to Hilda, a silent, desperate question: Why are you here? What’s happening?

  Auric seemed to follow his gaze. He let out a long breath. "Warren. Niles. Genevieve. Thank you. We will reconvene shortly."

  The three advisors rose. Warren bowed and turned without comment. Genevieve inclined her masked head and followed. Niles lingered a moment longer, studying Lucon before smiling and stepping out.

  The door clicked shut, leaving Lucon alone in the heavy silence with his father and Hilda.

  Auric did not address the confrontation that had just transpired. Instead, he fixed Lucon with a stern, paternal gaze.

  "You will learn to treat those in service to this house with the respect befitting your station, not as playthings to be interrogated or dismissed," Auric lectured, his voice firm. "A lord's strength is in his people, and his honor is in how he treats them."

  Lucon nodded, the motion genuine. "I understand, Father. I was wrong."

  Auric studied him, seeming momentarily thrown by the easy agreement. He cleared his throat and gestured toward Hilda. "Hilda's loyalty was never to House Edelyn to begin with. The day she entered our service, she pledged it to you. Personally."

  Lucon turned fully toward her. “Hilda…I’m sorry. About earlier. About everything.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Things will be better. I promise.”

  For the first time since he entered, she looked up. Her eyes were still glistening, but a small, fragile smile touched her lips. She gave a slight, grateful nod.

  Auric's expression softened marginally. "Go unpack, girl. Return to your master's side when you're ready."

  "Yes, my lord," Hilda murmured, bowing. As she passed Lucon to leave, her hand gave his sleeve a quick, firm squeeze—a silent signal of forgiveness and solidarity—before she slipped out the door.

  Now alone with his son, Auric exhaled. "Things will be different around the barony from now on, Lucon. You will see, firsthand, how a true leader operates. How I became the man I am today. It is not done through drunken boasts or reckless challenges."

  Lucon bowed his head in acknowledgment. "I will observe and learn, Father."

  "Good. You are dismissed." Auric turned back to his desk, then paused, speaking without looking back. "Remember, Lucon. Everyone has secrets. Some bones are better left buried. Unearthing them helps no one, and can destroy those most precious to us."

  Confused, Lucon could only murmur, "Yes, Father," before stepping out into the corridor.

  The door closed behind him, and Auric's cryptic warning echoed in his mind.

  Secrets…Bones buried…He was talking about Hilda.

  What did his father know about her? He spun, hand reaching for the door handle to demand an explanation.

  But there was a figure standing silently in the hall next to him.

  The plain white mask of Genevieve stared back at him, mere inches away.

  Lucon jerked back, his heart leaping into his throat. "A-Aunt Genevieve."

  A soft, amused chuckle emanated from behind the mask. "You still call me 'Aunt.' It brings back…old memories."

  One important fact Lucon knew of Genevieve: she was a follower of the Hidden God, a deity of shadows and secrets without temples or public worship. His power gave this information broker the power to move unseen.

  The memory of being watched in the corridor flashed in his mind.

  "Did you…have any subordinates following me?" he asked bluntly.

  Genevieve went perfectly still for a heartbeat—a tell so slight he would have missed it. She recovered smoothly. "Lucon, in my line of work, answers have costs. Substantial ones."

  Lucon fumbled for his coin purse, but she raised a hand, stopping him. Another light laugh. "That information is currently not for sale, dear boy."

  At that moment, Hilda reappeared, now dressed in her familiar maid's uniform, her face washed and bright, the earlier sorrow replaced by quiet resolve. She took her place silently at Lucon's side.

  Genevieve's masked head tilted, looking between them.

  "I shall leave you to your day," she said, her tone unreadable and departed down the corridor.

  Lucon turned to Hilda. "We have a busy day ahead of us."

  Hilda nodded, her smile returning fully. "I'm ready, Master."

  As they began to walk, Lucon spoke softly, a vow meant for her ears alone. "I'll never hurt you like that again, Hilda. I promise."

  She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "And I'll always be by your side, Master. No matter what."

  They disappeared down the hall together.

  ***

  [Hidden Curtain]

  The moment they turned the corner, the air in the empty corridor shimmered. Genevieve stepped out of nothingness, as if she had never left.

  "Julie," she called, her voice flat. "I let you play your games, yet you were caught."

  [Dark Wind]

  Wind blew from a deep pool of shadow on the opposite wall as Julie Othborro appeared, her ornate mage's staff in hand. Her pretty face was a mask of disbelief and indignation. "How did that wastrel even sense me?! My [Dark Wind] is perfect!"

  "Evidently, it is not," Genevieve replied, her tone that of a disappointed instructor. "You need to practice your Shadow Magic more. Perception is not always visual. You may have been…emotionally loud."

  Julie's shoulders slumped. "Yes, Master."

  Genevieve studied her young apprentice. "Your father, Lord Heril, allowed you to follow the Hidden God's path, but he was clear. You are still to graduate from Vusric. Your obligations to your family and your future remain."

  "I know," Julie sighed, restlessly shifting her staff from hand to hand. "There's still time before the term begins. I just…wanted to observe Klara's fiancé a bit more. After last night, who wouldn't be curious?"

  Genevieve let out a soft sigh, "Young Lord Lucon is my friend's son. Remember that."

  Julie nodded, but her eyes held a scheming glint that her obedient tone didn't match. "I'm not going to hurt him, Master. I'm just…wondering about my best friend's fiancé. That's all."

  Despite her words, the thoughtful, calculating look on her face suggested she was already weaving plans of her own.

  ***

  The oppressive quiet of the Wilderwood closed in around them, broken only by the crunch of undergrowth underfoot. Georgi, his massive frame moving with surprising grace, frowned deeply as he scanned the shadowed trees.

  “Remind me again why I’m here,” he grumbled, adjusting the simple rope belt of his robes. “I’m a pacifist. I don’t want to willingly walk into danger like this.”

  Lucon walked ahead, his gaze darting nervously through the dense foliage.

  “To tell you the truth,” Lucon said, keeping his voice low out of nervousness. “I’ve started a problem I’m not sure I can get myself out of.”

  Georgi let out a long-suffering sigh. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Master is different now!” Hilda piped up from Lucon’s other side. “He can do incredible things! He can even tricked beings from Nimbora! I’ve seen him do it!”

  Georgi shot her a sharp look. “Hush, girl. It’s blasphemous to speak so casually of the divine, let alone boast of tricking them.”

  Hilda quieted immediately, chastened.

  They walked in silence for a few more minutes, the tension mounting. Finally, Georgi couldn’t contain his curiosity no longer.

  “Alright, enough of this. You promised an explanation if I came. The holy spells, Lucon, the ones you used against Young Lord Rhavak. How did you come up with new ones?”

  He turned to face Lucon as they walked, his expression a mix of scholarly hunger and personal greed. “Holy magic isn’t like magecraft. Normal magic bends. Evolves. Holy spells doesn’t. It’s fixed. Unchanging. Since the day the gods taught humanity the power of creation, holy magic has remained exactly as it was given.”

  Lucon walked in silence. He had no answer. Ambrosia Lucon had moved with an instinctual understanding of the Flow, bending holy energy in a way he couldn’t remember. Sober, normal Lucon couldn’t even begin to understand how.

  “I…I think,” Lucon stammered, grasping for an excuse, “I need to be in danger. Fighting. The power…it only comes out when I’m truly pushed to the limit.” Even as he said it, he knew how flimsy it sounded.

  Georgi stared at him, incredulous. “That makes no theological sense whatsoever. The Merciful Goddess’s power is a constant, a wellspring for the faithful, not some battle-frenzy.”

  Hilda, though confused, quickly nodded in support. “If Master says that’s how it works, then that’s how it works!”

  Before Georgi could press further, a guttural snarl ripped through the forest air. A massive, grey-furred wolf with eyes that glowed faintly blue burst from a thicket, fangs bared, primal mana rolling off it in waves.

  The trio froze.

  Georgi threw Lucon a sidelong stare and gestured toward the beast. “Well? You’re in danger. Now’s your chance. Show me.”