A faint light shimmered in Soren's hand as he walked around the room, casting [Clean] again and again.
The magic soaked into the air, pulling away dust and grime until faint swirls of filth drifted into nothingness.
Yet no matter how many times he cast it, the smell of neglect still lingered.
The room was livable, but that was all it was.
The walls were dull, the wooden furniture looked sturdy yet worn, and every surface had been hidden under layers of dust thick enough to write his name in.
From the look of things, no one had set foot in this room for years.
He paused after finishing one corner, brushing his finger along the top of a shelf.
His hand came away grey, and another sigh escaped him.
He cast [Clean] once more.
When the air was finally clear, Soren began inspecting each piece of furniture one by one.
The bed was old, but not broken, though the mattress felt stiff as a board.
The wardrobe creaked when he opened it, and what greeted him almost made him laugh.
Inside hung only a handful of children's clothes.
They were small and dull in colour, and clearly meant for someone years younger than himself.
Not a single item fit.
"...Right. Of course."
He shut the wardrobe and turned away.
If not for his inventory, he would have nothing to wear.
It was almost comical; without it, he probably would have died on the way here as well.
The five-day carriage ride had already tested him.
The coachman never offered him food or water, never spoke, and never once stopped unless the horses needed it.
No bathroom breaks, no kindness.
If not for his stored supplies, he would have collapsed before ever reaching the Arden estate.
"Actually, without magic, I'd have been fucked too," he muttered to himself, his lips curling into a grimace.
He imagined himself arriving at the estate filthy, covered in sweat and stench after days without bathing.
That thought brought a sharper edge to the amusement.
Was that Sofia's plan all along?
Did she expect him to wither away before he even arrived?
Or perhaps she hoped that he would stumble into the estate half-dead, an embarrassment for every person living within the walls of the estate to laugh at.
"Heh."
A small laugh slipped out, low and bitter.
It wasn't the first time he had laughed like that lately.
Ever since summer break began, his laughter had changed and grown more frequent.
It was no longer light, no longer warm, only bitter and resigned.
It was either laugh or collapse under the weight of it all.
He leaned back against the desk, looking around the lonely room again.
No family portraits. No signs of life.
Just a space tucked far away from everyone else, given to him because it was convenient to forget he existed.
Two weeks.
He had to survive here for two weeks, surrounded by enemies and mocked by strangers.
There wasn't an ally in sight.
He chuckled again, rubbing at his face.
"What a vacation."
Finally, he dropped onto the bed.
The old frame groaned beneath him, and the mattress might as well have been stuffed with rocks.
He shifted once, twice, but it made no difference.
It was uncomfortable and unwelcoming, just like the rest of this place.
Soren stared at the ceiling for a long while, his mind racing despite the weight in his chest.
He hadn't even been at the estate for half a day, and already it felt suffocating.
At last, his body stilled, and his breathing slowed.
And before he realised it, his eyes closed, dragging him into sleep on the cold, uncomfortable bed.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
Soren leaned back in the desk chair, his gaze fixed on the door as if staring at it long enough would make it open.
He knew Sofia Arden wanted something from him; there was no other reason to drag him here, but over half a week had gone by, and he had heard nothing.
No summons, no reprimand, not even the sound of footsteps outside the door.
He had expected, at the very least, a servant to bring food, but none had come.
He wasn't starving thanks to his inventory, but the complete absence of contact gnawed at him more than hunger ever could.
It felt deliberate, as if every second of silence was meant to intensify his feeling of isolation.
At one point, he had seriously considered just breaking down the door.
The thing was flimsy, nothing that could actually stop him.
He was confident that he could tear it off its hinges with his bare hands if he felt like it.
And yet, Sofia had still locked him inside.
That thought bothered him more than the lock itself.
She knew what kind of student he was, knew that he attended Stellaris Academy.
Even if she believed he was weak, she must have realised he had enough strength to break out whenever he wanted.
So why lock the door at all?
The question twisted in his mind, replaying again and again.
There were only a handful of answers he could think of, and among them, two that he couldn't help but believe.
The first: it was a test.
Maybe Sofia was simply waiting to see how long he would endure.
Maybe she was sitting in some other part of the mansion right now, calmly sipping wine, waiting for the sound of splintering wood.
Perhaps she wanted him to snap, to break down the door, and the moment he did, she would pounce on it.
Using it as proof, proof that he was impatient, weak and unworthy of his name.
A fool who couldn't even follow the simplest of instructions.
The second: it was a message.
If that were the case, it would be crystal clear.
The meaning was carved into the silence, into the emptiness of his room, into the way that not a single servant passed through this wing.
'Stay out of sight. Do not make noise unless I call for you.'
Soren's lips curled into a faint, bitter smile.
From every piece of knowledge he had about the woman, it sounded exactly like something she would say.
His gaze drifted back to the door.
He imagined Sofia sitting there in her office, satisfied that the unwanted child was now tucked away neatly, hidden where no one important could see him.
Out of mind, out of sight, like he was a piece of furniture gathering dust in a forgotten corner.
A hollow laugh escaped him.
"Two weeks…" he muttered.
The longer he thought about everything, the more absurd it became.
If they were going to treat him like this, then why send the letter and bring him here at all?
Was it really just about control?
Or was there something else, something he hadn't seen yet?
A flicker of unease passed through him.
Maybe they weren't just ignoring him; perhaps they were waiting.
Testing his patience was one thing, but it wasn't impossible that this was preparation for something worse.
Poison slipped into some food.
A knife across his neck in his sleep.
An "accident" during his stay would be easy to fake.
He shook the thought away with another bitter laugh.
"If they wanted me dead, they'd have done it on the road," he said to himself, though he wasn't sure if he even believed himself.
The paranoia had already taken root within his mind.
He leaned further back in the chair, arms folded as he stared at the ceiling.
The quiet was so heavy that he almost welcomed the idea of breaking the door down, just to hear something.
His mind circled the same paranoid thoughts over and over, exhaustion creeping in despite how little he had done since arriving.
And then…
Knock knock
A sharp rapping on the door broke through his spiralling thoughts.
The knock pulled Soren upright in an instant.
He hadn't realised how much the silence had burrowed under his skin until it was finally broken.
"Enter," he called, his voice filled with impatience.
The door opened just enough for the steward to slip inside.
The same man who had guided him through the mansion stood there, his posture as rigid and precise as before.
In his gloved hand was an envelope sealed with a wax crest.
"Young master," the steward said, his tone as flat and professional as ever. "A message from the countess."
Soren narrowed his eyes at the envelope, but said nothing as he reached out and took it.
The paper felt heavy, the seal pressed with deliberate care.
Whatever lay inside, Soren suspected, was the reason behind his summons.
Before he could even break the seal, the steward had already stepped back, bowing slightly.
"I was instructed to deliver it to you directly. Nothing more."
And just like that, the man retreated.
The door shut with a dull click behind him, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock sliding back into place.
Soren stared at the letter in his hands for a long moment, then, with one sharp motion, he tore the envelope open.
His eyes scanned the contents once, then again.
By the third line, his hands trembled.
By the last line, his grip had crushed the paper into a wrinkled ball.
The calm, bitter amusement he had worn like armour up until now shattered.
Heat surged through his chest, flooding his veins.
The quiet reasoning he had held onto, all his thoughts about tests and messages, disappeared in an instant.
"...That woman," he muttered, his voice shaking with fury.
He rose from his chair in a single motion, his boots scraping against the floor.
His gaze shot to the locked door.
This time, there was no hesitation.
He drew his foot back and slammed it forward.
CRASH!
The door exploded off its hinges, splintering into shards of cheap wood that scattered across the hall.
The echo of the impact rolled through the empty corridor like thunder.
The steward was only a few steps away, his back stiffening the moment the noise erupted.
Before the man could even turn fully, Soren was already on him.
His hand shot out, gripping the steward's collar tightly.
The steward's professional mask faltered for the first time, surprise flashing across his eyes as he met Soren's burning glare.
"Where is she?" Soren demanded. "Where is Sofia Arden?"
The steward hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but that was enough to make Soren's grip tighten.
"Now," he growled.
The man swallowed hard before straightening again, forcing his voice back into that same professional rhythm, though the edge of composure was thinner now.
"The countess is partaking in a meal with the lord and young lady, young master."
Soren released him with a shove and stormed down the hall without another word, his boots hammering against the polished floor.
The letter crumpled further in his fist as he marched, every step fueled by rage that refused to cool.
He had been patient, he had been quiet, he had endured their disdain and silence.
But this, whatever this was, had crossed the line.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
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▶ ù̷̥͇̹̽́o̶̜̊l̷̡̔͂̅S̸̥͕̬̔̐́̉̀ͅ ̴̤̝͎̅͐̓̓͝i̸̢̳͙̮͚̽̂ṉ̴̡̧̧͋̅̐e̶̩̓̾̆̀̃g̸̗͌̉̓̑̚r̵̠̠͎̱̟͛̾̚M̵̢̙̣̒͑͂͐g̶̛̪͛̍̀ ȍ̶̠̘̬̳̩͍̣̩̒͗̿̉̀͝f̷̟͊́̉͋̑͑̽̈̕̚͘͘ ̵̛̠̗̞̠̌̀̏͛̈́̒͆̄̄̕ͅͅḮ̴̪͎̙̮̲̳͌̄̒̇̉͆̒͂̊́̓̉s̶̺̭̗͓̯̭̮̜̭͎͍͕͓̏̉̈́̅͌͗̔̏͌̀͋͋̉͜͜a̵̧̘͇̤̻͖̠̮͋͂́̓̓͒͠a̶̦͙̜̜̜͉̝̜̺̓̏͌c̸̰͚͍̺̮͚͚̳̮̥̠͗̀̓̔̐͝ ̴̛̝̥͉̟̓̈́̇͜͝a̷̡̳̮̰̯͍͉̩̮͓͍̥̟͆͐͑͜͜n̴̬̫͇̫̜̘̤̼̾̇̎̏̈͊̀͘͜͜d̶̡͖̤͕̮̯̫̑̇͋̂͒̎͝͠ ̵̢̜͈͔̮̗̝̠̠͚͑̏͜S̶͉͔̬͔̯̊̎͐̔̔͝o̶͖̭̩͂̄̌̍̐͗̅͜͝r̷̡͓̥̦͕̹̯̬̽̾̽͗͂̃̉̽̋̊͛̐̒͝ë̵͇̘̺̮͉̥͈̌̇̋̆̑̕n̷͈̘͚͍̞̹̰̱͈͉̼̘̹͆̑̒̌:̴̻̹͉̌̈́ ̵͖̝̽̂̋̍͌15%̸͉̓͑̈̅͗ ◀
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