Ethan's pulse hammered in his ears as he crossed the room, the tolling of the manor's bells still reverberating like a countdown to chaos. Lira's trembling voice lingered in the air, her words heavy with urgency. Grave news from the Capital. He steadied his breathing, channeling the calm he'd honed during late-night data crunches when deadlines loomed and errors piled up. Whatever this messenger brought, he'd face it like a problem to be solved—break it down, analyze, act.
"Enter," he called, his voice firm, betraying none of the unease coiling in his chest.
The door creaked open, revealing a figure cloaked in a travel-worn mantle, mud caking the hem. The man was lean, his face weathered and sharp, with eyes that darted like a hawk's. A satchel hung at his side, stamped with the Varyn crest—a silver eagle clutching a glowing rune. He bowed deeply, his movements stiff from a long journey.
"Young Master Lysander," the messenger said, his voice rough but respectful. "I am Gavren, sworn courier of Lord Arcturus. I bear a missive from the Capital." He reached into his satchel, producing a sealed scroll bound with a crimson ribbon and a wax seal that shimmered faintly, as if infused with magic.
Ethan took the scroll, his fingers brushing the seal. It pulsed faintly, warm to the touch, like a heartbeat. "Thank you, Gavren. Speak plainly—what's the news?"
Gavren hesitated, glancing at Lira, who stood rigidly by the door, her silver hair catching the firelight. "It's… a matter for your ears alone, Young Master."
Ethan nodded to Lira. "Give us a moment." She curtsied, her expression tight with worry, and slipped out, the door closing with a soft thud. He turned back to Gavren, breaking the seal with a flick of his thumb. The parchment unfurled, revealing his father's sharp, angular script. As he read, his stomach sank, each word a weight piling onto an already precarious situation.
Lysander,
The Arcane Council grows restless. House Kael's influence spreads, and whispers of demonic incursions threaten our standing. You survived the lightning, a feat that has drawn eyes—some curious, others hostile. I cannot shield you from the trials ahead. The Council has granted you a fiefdom: the Barrenreach, a desolate territory on the edge of the Abyss Rift. It is yours to rule, to prove your worth. Fail, and House Varyn's legacy falters. Succeed, and you may yet silence those who call you useless. Depart for the Capital at once; the Council awaits your pledge.
Do not disappoint me.
—Lord Arcturus Varyn
Ethan's grip tightened on the parchment, crumpling its edges. Barrenreach? A test, or a death sentence? His father's words stung, laced with disdain. In his old life as Ethan Carter, he'd faced dismissive bosses, but this was different—a noble father casting his son into a wasteland to prove he wasn't a liability. It was a power move, straight out of the corporate playbook: sink or swim, with the deck stacked against you.
He looked up at Gavren, who shifted uncomfortably. "Barrenreach," Ethan said, keeping his tone neutral. "What's it like?"
Gavren's jaw tightened. "It's… harsh, my lord. Rocky plains, cursed soil where crops wither. Bandits roam the borders, and the Rift's influence spawns twisted beasts. The last lord died within a year—mauled, they say. Your father believes you can tame it."
Tame a deathtrap, Ethan thought, his mind already dissecting the challenge. Barrenreach sounded like a failed startup: underfunded, mismanaged, and riddled with risks. But he'd turned around failing projects before, using data to find leverage points. Here, he'd need to adapt—magic for metrics, swords for solutions.
"Darius needs to hear this," Ethan said, rolling up the scroll. "And prepare a carriage. I'm heading to the Capital."
Gavren's eyes widened. "At once? The roads are dangerous, especially after dusk. Shadowbeasts have been sighted—"
"Then we move fast," Ethan interrupted, his voice carrying the decisiveness of a project manager rallying a team. "I need to meet the Council, understand their game. Get Darius and Lira, now."
Gavren bowed and hurried out, leaving Ethan to pace the room. His modern sensibilities screamed that this was a setup—Lord Arcturus wasn't just testing him; he was isolating him. Useless son. The words burned, fueling a resolve to prove otherwise. He'd treat Barrenreach like a case study: assess resources, neutralize threats, build something from nothing.
By dawn, the manor buzzed with preparations. Ethan stood in the courtyard, bundled in a fur-lined cloak Lira had insisted he wear, the air crisp with the scent of pine and impending frost. A sturdy carriage waited, flanked by six armored guards, their swords gleaming with faint runes. Darius approached, his expression a mix of concern and approval.
"You're moving quickly, Young Master," he said, handing Ethan a leather-bound journal. "Maps, notes on the Capital, and a primer on Council politics. Barrenreach is a cruel gift, but your father's will is iron. Refusing isn't an option."
Ethan flipped through the journal, scanning detailed sketches of Eryndor's capital, Aetherion—a sprawling city of spires and ley-line conduits. "Any advice for dealing with the Council?"
Darius's eyes darkened. "They're vipers. House Kael's emissary, Lady Seris, is cunning—her words cut deeper than blades. Speak little, listen much. And beware the Rift's influence; its proximity to Barrenreach makes you a target."
Ethan nodded, filing the warning under high-priority risks. "And Azrath? The herald mentioned a mark."
Darius's hand twitched toward his sword. "We've strengthened the wards, but the demon's interest in you is… troubling. Stay vigilant."
Lira appeared, carrying a small satchel of provisions—herbs, a dagger, and a vial of glowing liquid she called a mana elixir. "For emergencies, Young Master," she said softly, her emerald eyes betraying worry. "Please… be safe."
Ethan offered a reassuring smile, though his mind was already on the road ahead. "I'll be back, Lira. Keep the manor in one piece."
The journey to Aetherion took three days, the carriage rattling over uneven roads flanked by dense forests and jagged cliffs. Ethan spent the time studying Darius's journal, memorizing Council members' names and House alliances. He practiced mana control in the cramped space, conjuring faint sparks to sharpen his focus. The guards, led by a grizzled captain named Vren, shared tales of shadowbeasts—creatures born from the Rift's corruption, with claws that could rend steel.
On the second night, camped under a starless sky, Ethan overheard Vren muttering to another guard. "Barrenreach is cursed. The boy's being sent to die."
"Not if I can help it," Ethan whispered to himself, gripping the dagger Lira had given him. He visualized the territory as a dataset: barren soil (resource scarcity), bandits (external threats), Rift influence (systemic corruption). He'd need infrastructure, allies, and a way to neutralize the demonic taint. Start small, scale fast.
Aetherion loomed on the third day, its spires piercing the clouds like crystalline spears. The city thrummed with magic—ley lines glowed beneath cobblestone streets, powering floating lanterns and humming wards. Ethan's analytical mind marveled at the efficiency, like a city-sized circuit board. But the grandeur hid tension: guards patrolled in pairs, citizens whispered of demon sightings, and banners of rival houses fluttered uneasily.
The Arcane Council's hall was a fortress of white marble, its dome etched with runes that pulsed like heartbeats. Ethan entered, flanked by Vren and two guards, his cloak swapped for a formal tunic bearing the Varyn crest. The Council chamber was vast, a circular table ringed by twelve thrones, each occupied by a robed figure radiating power. At the head sat a woman with jet-black hair and eyes like polished obsidian—Lady Seris of House Kael.
"Lysander Varyn," she purred, her voice silk over steel. "The boy touched by the Abyss. Welcome."
Ethan met her gaze, his corporate instincts kicking in—smile, deflect, gather intel. "Lady Seris. I'm here to pledge for Barrenreach, as my father commands."
Murmurs rippled through the Council. A bearded mage leaned forward. "The Barrenreach is a graveyard of ambition. Why should we entrust it to a child?"
"Because I'll make it work," Ethan said, his tone steady. "Give me the resources, and I'll turn it into an asset for Eryndor."
Seris's lips curved, but her eyes gleamed with something predatory. "Bold words. But the Rift hungers, and your… condition raises questions. Show us your worth, or House Kael may claim the land instead."
The air thickened, mana crackling faintly. Ethan sensed the trap—prove himself, or lose everything. He opened his mouth to respond, but a low rumble shook the chamber. Dust fell from the ceiling, and the runes dimmed. Gasps echoed as a guard burst in, face pale.
"My lords! The Rift—it's stirring! Crimson lightning strikes the outer wards!"
Ethan's blood ran cold. Azrath. The herald's words echoed: You bear his mark. As the Council erupted into chaos, Seris's gaze locked onto him, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
Outside, a scream tore through the air, followed by a deafening CRACK as the sky bled red.