Darkness.
And then—
Voices. Echoes.
"Disgrace."
"You'll never amount to anything."
"Why did I even take you in?"
Jet's breath caught as the familiar sting of memory pressed against his mind. He stood again in the marble hall of the Ashborne manor, that place he had sworn never to remember.
The chandeliers blazed above, casting cold light on his father's form — tall, rigid, his expression carved from contempt. Every detail returned too vividly: the echo of boots on stone, the frost in his father's tone, the bitter scent of wine and disappointment.
"You're no son of mine," Lord Ashborne's voice spat like poison. "A boy without ambition, without power. You'll perish the moment you stand before a Dragon. I should have known you'd bring shame to our name."
Jet wanted to shout back, to explain, but his throat constricted. The words never came. He stood there, small again, weak again, feeling the weight of that house crushing his lungs.
"I…"
He tried, voice breaking.
