The light of dawn seeped through the massive windows, flooding the room with a cold, almost lifeless glow. The day had begun. He knew it not by the movement of the sun, but by how the tension in the air had thickened, like a herald of something immense.
Reinhard stood before the mirror, bare-chested. His body no longer resembled the shattered vessel it had been after the last battle. The Method of Qi Channel Resurrection and the high-grade elixirs provided by his family had done their work. The wounds had faded, the skin regained its snow-white sheen as it was before, and his movements, though slightly slower, bore no critical weakness — something that mere training could correct.
He dressed slowly, as if performing a ritual. A dark shirt woven from threads of nocturnal spider silk and laced with protective charms, a heavy coat of the ducal heir adorned with golden sword embroidery — the symbol of House Deyra — and white gloves. Finally, a massive ring set with a bloodstone, crimson as freshly spilt blood. The symbol of the heir. The symbol of expectations. A symbol he neither needed nor cherished — yet for now, it served a purpose.
He froze for a moment, staring at his reflection. His face was motionless, not a hint of excitement, no trace of joy, no shadow of fear. Only an icy calm had settled in the eclipse-colored eyes. Even his very breathing seemed bound by an inner command.
"The awakening of the third attribute is still impossible," he said, more to himself than aloud. "My body and mana are not yet ready to bear the power of the Fallen Star. And even if I were ready — without an eclipse... the star cannot reveal itself."
He knew this truth. The Star watches. Even if all others are blind, it sees. Only when its gaze averts from this world — in the shadow of the lonely and so very cold moon — will he be able to reach the source of his former strength. Not before.
He fastened the final buckle and stepped from the room with measured steps. Three servants awaited him in the corridor, already bowing deeply, not daring to speak. One of them, without lifting his eyes, handed him a list of belongings, a confirmation of the loaded luggage, and instructions from the coachman.
"Check the trunks' fastenings again. If even one slips, you will personally carry it to the capital on your back," Reinhard said, his voice even, cold, and utterly devoid of humor.
The servants nodded hurriedly and withdrew with deep bows. Reinhard passed through the vestibule, where his carriage awaited. Custom-made from black wood, reinforced with treated obsidian and inlaid with golden patterns depicting the Tree of Deyra — a symbol that had accompanied their bloodline for a thousand years, proclaiming a hollow unity.
Four thoroughbred stallions stood silently, as if understanding who would ride within. Their eyes were dark as a moonless night, and they did not so much as stir while the sweat-drenched coachman awaited at the steps, ready to prostrate himself.
Before the carriage, a gathering of those seeing him off had formed: servants, knights, aristocrats — all who dared to approach the heir on the day of his departure.
His father stood at the center. His face remained stoic, but his fingers clutched the cane spasmodically, betraying the nervousness he tried so hard to hide. He gave a slow nod:
"Reinhard. Do not fail. This event matters not only for you but for our entire house. Make the Empire speak of us once again."
Standing beside him were Lenny and Renny, both in ceremonial uniform. Lenny whispered softly:
"Come back soon, brother... We'll be waiting."
While Renny, clenching his fists, declared with a fire he could not conceal:
"And show those dogs who truly reigns!"
The knights behind him rumbled their approval:
"Young master, show the Empire the might of House Deyra! Crush them all!"
Last to step forward was Uncle Liam, calm and still as a statue. His voice was almost casual:
"I will have everything prepared by the time you return."
The phrase, spoken nearly in a whisper, made the Duke turn sharply, narrowing his eyes:
"What do you mean, Liam?"
Uncle turned his head slightly, his face still serene:
"I promised my nephew a personal battalion. You don't mind, do you, brother?"
The Duke blinked but, unwilling to cause a scene before all, nodded stiffly:
"Of course. It is... for the best."
The knights roared louder, exultant. "A battalion for the heir! How honorable!" echoed their excited murmurs. Some even paled from the shock — not so long ago, they had scorned him, for he was a mage.
Reinhard said nothing. He simply raised his hand and waved languidly, as if brushing away an annoying insect, silencing the crowd instantly. His tired smile was... empty. Just enough to appear polite. And without waiting for anyone to say more, he entered the carriage.
When the door shut behind him and the ancestral castle grew distant through the window, his face returned to its customary mask — cold and impenetrable.
"...I despise these farces," he murmured, closing his eyes.
The wheels turned. The carriage, cloaked in darkness and gold, carried Reinhard through the dawn — toward a new battlefield.
The ball approaches. And soon, I shall not only conquer my house... but the entire Empire.