The wind that had once whispered promise through his open window now dragged in the cold.
Arman stood motionless, staring at the horizon where rooftops met sky, blue bleeding into gray. His reflection on the glass was faint—but it was enough.
"The story has just begun..." he'd said.
And it had.
But before he could carve out a new path for himself, there was one final door he needed to walk through. And it wasn't gilded in prophecy or power. It was one every child in a noble house came to fear at some point.
His father's study.
He rolled his shoulders, let out a slow breath, and reminded himself of something critical: Count Daeron Valacre was not a man easily deceived. Sharp as a wolf's fang and twice as cold. He had led troops during the Crimson Rebellion and held his own against some of the best duelists in the Empire in his youth. Behind every calculated gaze was a memory of war, and behind every word, a test.
Arman couldn't walk in humbled and penitent—not yet.
To get what he wanted, he had to wear the old mask. Arrogant. Controlled. The prodigal son trying to bluff his way into ambition. But with just enough change… to raise suspicion.
He stepped forward.
The handle was cold beneath his fingers as he pushed open the tall oak door.
The study was a large, firelit chamber lined with bookshelves and relics of campaigns past—maps, broken banners, and old weapons sealed behind glass. A scent of aged leather, pipe smoke, and expensive ink filled the space.
Count Daeron Valacre sat behind a wide mahogany desk, half-shrouded in the flicker of candlelight. His salt-and-iron hair was combed neatly back, face carved with hard lines and discipline. His jaw, sharp. Eyes, steel gray—piercing, unreadable.
Even seated, he radiated command.
He looked up as Arman entered.
"You have five minutes," he said. No greeting. No warmth.
Arman clicked the door shut behind him and stepped forward with measured arrogance, head high.
"I want to leave the estate," he said.
A pause.
"To what end?" Daeron asked, voice clipped. "More coin squandered on liquor? Or perhaps another failed duel outside a gambling den?"
Arman smirked faintly, though inside his heart thumped hard.
"To train. I plan to enter the Arcanum Academy."
Silence.
Daeron stared at him long and hard. His fingers tapped the desk.
"You?"
The disbelief in his voice was palpable.
"You couldn't even lift a practice sword without winded breath. What makes you think—"
"I've changed," Arman interrupted, still calm. "And I don't plan to embarrass you again."
Daeron stood, slowly. Every movement calculated.
He walked to a cabinet, poured two glasses of wine, and handed one to Arman, never once breaking eye contact.
"You want to train," he said. "Fine. You have two weeks. If you come back without something to show for it, don't bother coming back at all."
Arman accepted the glass and bowed his head.
"Thank you, Count."
"You lost the right to call me anything else," Daeron said quietly.
The words landed like a blade turned sideways.
Arman turned to leave—
And the door slammed open.
"Let me guess," a new voice snapped. "You're begging Father for more coin, or maybe forgiveness?"
Lilith Valacre.
Arman's younger sister.
She stormed in, dark braid swinging behind her, fencing gear half-unfastened from a recent session. Her cheeks were flushed with heat—maybe from training, maybe from rage.
She looked older than he remembered. Harsher. The softness of her youth had been carved away by grief and resentment.
Arman blinked. A flicker of a memory surfaced: the two of them sword-fighting in the courtyard, laughing over burnt pies in the kitchen, hiding under the banquet table during storms.
But that girl was gone.
"What do you want now?" she demanded.
"I'm leaving," Arman replied. "To prepare for the entrance exam."
She scoffed. "That's rich."
"Believe what you will."
"I *used* to," she said, voice breaking ever so slightly. "When I thought you cared about Mother. When I thought the Arman I knew still existed."
Arman's breath caught. But he forced his expression to remain unreadable.
"She believed in you," Lilith said. "And you let her die alone."
A deep silence settled.
He had no memory of that moment.
But she did.
And that was enough.
Lilith turned to Daeron. "You're letting him go?"
Daeron didn't look at her. "He's not a prisoner. If he fails, he won't return."
She glanced back at Arman.
"If there's anything left of the brother I once admired," she whispered, "prove it."
She left as quickly as she had come.
Arman stared at the empty doorway for a moment.
Then turned back to the Count.
Without another word, he bowed low.
And left.
In the corridor outside, he paused.
"Miren."
The maid stepped out from the shadow of a column. As always, unseen until needed.
"Yes, young master?"
Her tone was different now.
Less venom. More uncertainty.
He didn't meet her eyes.
"Pack my things."
She blinked. "You're… leaving?"
"I am."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
He turned toward the outer hall, boots clicking across the stone.
Behind him, the wind stirred through the half-cracked window.
A storm was coming.
And he'd be walking into it willingly.