### Chapter Seven – The Hidden Heir ###
The moon hung low over the steel and glass of Chicago, its pale glow caught in the rippling surface of the river. Lord Pheles stood on the edge of the pier, cloak shifting with the cold wind, eyes locked on the dark water.
The city was loud in the distance—sirens, engines, shouts—but here it felt muted, as though the night itself held its breath.
He was waiting.
A ripple stirred the shadows at the end of the pier. Silent footsteps approached, each one measured, steady, unhurried. Pheles did not turn until the figure stopped at his side.
The young man's presence filled the air with quiet authority. His hair, dark as midnight, fell neatly to his shoulders, his eyes, stormy grey, studied Pheles without bowing. He carried no weapon, but his aura was weapon enough.
"You called," the young man said simply. His voice was smooth, calm, but beneath it ran a steel edge.
Pheles inclined his head. "I did."
The young man looked out at the water, his hands folding behind his back. "I was in the middle of training. Your summons was… unexpected."
A small smile pulled at Pheles' lips. "And yet you came. That is what separates you from the others. Obedience. Discipline."
The young man's jaw tightened. "I follow because I owe you. Nothing more."
Pheles studied him quietly. Broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, eyes that carried more weight than nineteen years should allow. He had grown into his power with surprising speed. Stronger than expected. Sharper than most.
But still untested.
The young man turned, meeting Pheles' gaze head-on. "You're troubled."
"Sharp as ever," Pheles murmured. He folded his hands behind his back, voice low. "Something has stirred. A presence long thought dead."
A flicker of interest crossed the young man's features, quickly masked. "An enemy?"
"Perhaps," Pheles said carefully. "Perhaps something more. The world is shifting, and when it does, lines will be drawn. Choices made. Blood spilled."
The young man's lips curved in something close to a smirk. "Then let it spill. Wolves are not meant for peace."
Pheles' gaze hardened. "And yet peace is the only thing that will keep you alive."
The smirk faded. The young man tilted his head, studying Pheles with an intensity that reminded him far too much of someone else, someone long buried in memory.
"You speak as if you've already chosen my path," the young man said softly.
"No." Pheles' voice gentled, carrying a weight it rarely revealed. "I only hope you will choose better than those who came before you."
For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the water lapping against the pier.
Finally, the young man asked, "What would you have me do?"
Pheles placed a hand on his shoulder, grip firm, steady. "Wait. Watch. When the time comes, you will understand. Until then, remain in the shadows. Your time is not yet."
The young man's eyes narrowed, but he nodded once, decisive. "Very well."
He stepped back into the darkness, his figure melting into shadow, leaving nothing but the echo of his footsteps.
Pheles exhaled slowly, his chest heavy with secrets he could not yet reveal.
Two sons of the same blood. Two paths set to collide.
And when they did, the world would burn.