The ash-choked air of Verralt's ruins could not extinguish the fainter, cleaner scent of sun-warmed stone and spring blossoms that lingered in Naithan's memory. Six years. Six years had carved lines into his face, calluses onto his soul, and a chilling apathy into his heart. Yet, even in the heart of this final, burning inferno, the past still shimmered, stubbornly defiant. He had lived too long, seen too much, to ever truly forget. Every moment, every laugh, every whisper of concern, was etched into the very fabric of his being, a cruel clarity that was both a burden and a strange, quiet comfort.
He could trace the lineage of every scar, every doubt, back to a life that had been, for all its complexities, gentle. A life lived within the sprawling, elegant confines of House Verralt, a mansion that never felt cold or cavernous despite its grandeur. It hummed with the quiet rhythm of a home. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air of the library where he often sought refuge. The scent of polished wood, old parchment, and his mother's faint, flowery perfume were the true anchors of his childhood, far more so than the heavy stone and thick tapestries.
His days, even from a tender age, were structured, but never stifling. Sword training began almost as soon as he could hold a wooden blade without toppling over. Old Master Borin, a retired knight with a perpetually weary sigh and a hidden fondness for sweet pastries, would guide his small, clumsy hands. These weren't the brutal, unforgiving drills of the Penal Blades, but lessons steeped in form, discipline, and the honorable traditions of the Holy Knights. "A blade is an extension of the soul, Naithan," Borin would often drone, "and a clumsy soul makes for a dull strike." Naithan absorbed it all, the rhythm of parry and thrust, the precise footwork, the coiled tension before an attack. He was a natural, his movements fluid and intuitive even then, much to Borin's quiet satisfaction.
Beyond the training grounds, there were hours spent reading. The Verralt library was a sanctuary, a hushed world of ancient texts and forgotten lore. Histories of the Empire, treatises on arcane arts, tales of legendary knights and mythical beasts – Naithan devoured them all. He sought understanding, not just of the world, but of the principles that supposedly governed it. Justice, honor, duty – these were not just words in a book, but ideals to be pursued, convictions to be held. He'd often lose himself among the towering shelves, the scent of aged paper a soothing balm, the quiet broken only by the rustle of turning pages or the distant clang of a smithy's hammer from the city below.
He remembered almost everything. The way the light fell through the stained-glass windows in the dining hall during breakfast, painting the long table in fractured rainbows. The hushed conversations of servants. The scent of newly cut grass after a summer rain. His memory was a sharp, unyielding blade, cutting through the haze of years, preserving the clarity of moments others might forget.
Even his naming ceremony at the age of five was as vivid as yesterday. He remembered the heavy, brocaded robes of the High Priest, the chill of the marble floor on his bare knees, the low murmur of prayers, and the faint, sweet scent of incense. He remembered his father, Baron Verralt, a towering figure even then, placing a hand on his head, the weight of it both comforting and strangely formal. It was a day of solemnity and celebration, a recognition of his place within the lineage, within the Empire, within the divine order of things. He was Naithan Verralt, son of a respected house, destined for a life of purpose. It was a promise, made and broken, in a single, flickering heartbeat of time.
His father, Baron Verralt, was a man forged in a different kind of fire. He moved with a perpetual weariness, dark circles often smudged beneath his eyes, a testament to the endless, grinding demands of his station. He was always busy, his study light burning late into the night, the distant murmur of advisors a constant soundtrack to Naithan's evenings. He was a man of immense power and quiet burdens, his presence heavy, like a storm cloud on the horizon.
The story of his father was a hushed, almost mythical tale within the family, never spoken of lightly, but always there, a foundational truth. Baron Verralt had been a bastard child once, thrown out from the prestigious Verralt line, deemed unworthy. Yet, through sheer, unyielding will and a formidable intellect, he had risen up due to his surname, reclaiming his rightful place not just by blood, but by sheer force of personality and ambition. It was the Empress herself who had given him a second chance, bestowing upon him the title of Baron as a reward for some forgotten, monumental service. He was a survivor, a man who had clawed his way back from disgrace. He had even been part of a Holy Knight group in his youth, a unit that had faced some nameless horror, and he was one of the few who had survived it, emerging not unscathed, but undeniably stronger, with eyes that had seen too much. This past, unspoken but felt, gave him an aura of grim determination that Naithan had both respected and, at times, found intimidating.
His mother was the balance, the quiet sun around whom their family orbited. She was a woman of fierce grace, with a smile that could melt the winter's ice. Like his father, she too had been a former Holy Knight, her movements still carrying a subtle, martial elegance despite years spent presiding over a household. Naithan remembered her practicing with a long staff in the private training yard, her form flawless, her focus absolute. It was said that she and Verralt, two powerful, scarred individuals, had found each other in the aftermath of their respective trials, and together they had forged a strong, balanced family. She tempered his father's severity with her gentle wisdom, and her quiet strength was the bedrock upon which Naithan's world was built.
Then there was Alric, his older brother. Alric was the golden son, the heir, but without the arrogance or entitlement that often came with such a position. He was relentlessly hardworking and supportive, a stark contrast to Naithan's seemingly effortless talent. Alric lacked the raw, intuitive gift for the blade that Naithan possessed, but he compensated with tireless effort, spending hours perfecting a single stance, drilling endlessly until his muscles screamed. He was the epitome of dedication, a testament to the idea that perseverance could overcome any perceived deficit. And, crucially, he genuinely loved Naithan. There was never a hint of jealousy, only a steady, unwavering encouragement. He pushed Naithan, yes, but always from a place of affection, wanting him to be the best version of himself. Their sparring matches were less about winning and more about mutual improvement, each brother honing the other. Alric was Naithan's first, truest mentor, his unwavering support a constant in a world that would soon become anything but stable.
The quiet hum of Naithan's life, a tapestry woven with practice, study, and familial warmth, remained undisturbed until he was thirteen. That year, he was finally granted a measure of freedom, a tentative step outside the well-guarded walls of House Verralt. His world expanded beyond the library and the training grounds, into the bustling, vibrant heart of the capital. It was then, amidst the clamor and scent of the lower district, that he stumbled upon a small, unassuming bakery.
And there, amidst the scent of warm bread and sweet pastries, he found her. She was a wisp of a girl, with flour dusted on her nose and quick, nimble fingers kneading dough. Elyra. Her eyes, the color of a summer sky just before the sun broke through the clouds, captivated him instantly. It was his first love, an innocent, pure affection that took root in the alley behind the bakery, where they shared stolen moments and fresh, warm bread. He was Naithan, just Naithan, to her. He never told her who he truly was, never revealed the Verralt name, the baronial title, the destiny that awaited him. He was just a boy, intrigued by the way her laughter tinkled like tiny bells, by her quiet passion for the art of baking. He listened intently as she spoke of exotic spices and complex recipes, finding a strange comfort in her simple, honest world, so different from his own. He was drawn to her normalcy, to the way she saw him without the weight of his name.
They met in secret, these fleeting exchanges becoming the bright spots in his week, small islands of peace in a life that was slowly, imperceptibly, gathering momentum towards its inevitable storm. He spoke of swords, she of sugar. He spoke of duty, she of dreams of seeing the distant mountains. He promised he would take her there, a promise made with the boundless optimism of youth, utterly unaware of the future's cruel designs.
The first tremor of the coming earthquake wasn't a sudden cataclysm, but a creeping chill. Naithan's peaceful life was shaken, not by a sudden explosion, but by a slow, insidious rot. Whispers began to circulate, hushed and venomous, through the halls of power and the back alleys of the city. Treason. Forbidden magic. Conspiracy. Rebellion. Grand accusations leveled against noble houses, names once synonymous with loyalty now tainted by suspicion. Naithan, still ensconced in his youthful idealism, didn't pay it much mind. It was the way of politics, he thought, a distant storm that would surely pass.
Then, the storm broke directly over House Verralt.
He remembered the morning with chilling clarity. The harsh, resonant clang of the outer gates. The grim, unyielding faces of the Holy Order, their white-gold armor gleaming like cold fire, their banners snapping in the wind, not in salute, but in judgment. They moved with an unsettling efficiency, their presence a suffocating weight.
And then, the moment that shattered his world: his father, Baron Verralt, dragged out in chains. Not from some dungeon, but from the very heart of their home, from his study, from his place of honor. His father, the unyielding survivor, the man who had reclaimed his name, was now a prisoner, his face a mask of grim resignation, his eyes holding a depth of pain Naithan couldn't yet comprehend. It was a public humiliation, a deliberate breaking of a proud man, a brutal demonstration of power. This was the major turning point for the family, the precise moment when the light began to turn to fire.
His mother, usually so composed, had crumpled, a silent scream caught in her throat. Servants scattered, their faces pale with fear. And then, there was Alric. His brother, the golden heir, the pillar of support, looked Naithan directly in the eye, his gaze intense, desperate, burning with a truth that would forever haunt him.
"Whatever happens—don't trust them. Not even the Empress."
Those words, whispered with a chilling urgency, were a hammer blow. The Empress? The divine sovereign, the embodiment of justice? The very person he had pledged to serve, whose Holy Knights he aspired to become? Doubt, a venomous serpent, uncoiled in Naithan's heart. He was forced to kneel, his head bowed, before the very woman he had once revered, her voice, once a melodic promise of divine order, now a cold, cutting blade as she called him a traitor.
The world he had known, built on foundations of honor, duty, and familial love, crumbled around him. The light that had once warmed him, the promise of a glorious future, twisted and contorted into a consuming fire.
His innocent promises of mountains and a future free from shadows were swallowed by the sudden, crushing weight of reality. The boy who was Naithan Verralt, the aspiring Holy Knight, shattered that day, leaving only the fragments of who he was meant to be, scattered amidst the ashes of his family's honor. The long, agonizing descent had truly begun.