Chapter 1: Awakening in Trash (Part 2 — Breakfast with the Family)
The breakfast table gleamed under the pale morning light, each plate positioned with military precision. Sunlight fractured through the crystal chandelier above, scattering prismatic colors across porcelain and polished silver. Every motion, from the quiet steps of servants to the rhythmic clinking of utensils, carried the weight of noble etiquette — an art form where a misplaced sigh could start a rumor and an ill-timed word could doom a house.
Eliot leaned lazily against his chair, elbow resting on the armrest, posture so casual it bordered on insolent. But that was deliberate. The old Eliot had been infamous for his arrogance, his lack of manners, his tendency to treat decorum like a joke. If Eliot suddenly became polite overnight, someone would notice. Someone dangerous.
So he played the part of the fool — while listening to everything.
"Brother, I've been reading about spirit affinity types!" Amelia chirped, her fork hovering midair as her blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. "Did you know that the strongest bonds are formed when the human's emotional core aligns with the spirit's essence? Like love, or courage, or—"
"Naivety?" Benedict interrupted, sipping his tea with the smooth detachment of a seasoned politician. "Amelia, you shouldn't fill your head with fairytales. Spirits don't care about sentiment. They respect strength."
Amelia pouted, crossing her arms. "That's not true! Kora listens to me because she feels kindness, not power!"
The golden wisp fluttered above her shoulder, letting out a faint chime, almost as if agreeing. Eliot smiled faintly. That was the same wisp that would one day evolve into Kora, the Leaf of Renewal, a Spirit King of life and growth. He knew the path Amelia would walk — the hope she would bring to the dying lands decades later.
And in this moment, she was just an innocent girl arguing about emotions over breakfast.
"Emotions are for poems," Benedict said dryly. "The Astervale family's strength has always come from discipline and contracts, not childish feelings."
"Then maybe the Astervale family should read more poems," Eliot muttered, chewing his toast.
The entire table went still.
A servant dropped a glass.
Benedict's teacup froze halfway to his lips.
Then, after a beat, Amelia burst into laughter.
"See! Even Eliot agrees!" she said, grinning brightly.
Benedict's expression didn't change — but his knuckles tightened slightly. "You should choose your words more carefully, brother. There are things in this house that listen to them."
The heavy doors opened once more, and Kieran, the head butler, entered silently. His gloved hands carried a fresh pot of spirit-infused coffee, its aroma rich and faintly glowing. Every movement he made was flawless, as though measured by a metronome of precision.
"Your schedule for the day, young master," Kieran said, bowing slightly as he handed Eliot a parchment. "The Duke requests your presence in the study after noon."
Eliot blinked. In the novel, this day marked the first conflict trigger — a small confrontation with his father, Duke Armand Astervale, over a failed academy exam and a misplaced spirit crystal. The argument that started Eliot's slow spiral toward ruin.
But this time, things would not go that way.
"Understood," Eliot said casually, tucking the parchment away. "I'll see Father after lunch."
Kieran paused. For a fraction of a second, his eyes flickered — faint confusion breaking the mask.
"Young master…" he began softly, voice almost human beneath the formality. "You seem… different today."
Eliot smiled, tilting his head. "Maybe I finally slept well."
The butler's lips twitched. It might have been amusement. Or it might have been a veiled warning.
"As you say, young master," Kieran murmured, retreating with ghostlike grace.
Benedict resumed his meal, but Eliot could feel the tension in the room. Every member of this family was sharp — trained to sense power shifts and emotional undercurrents. His smallest deviations could spark whispers. Which meant he needed to walk the line between cleverness and chaos. Between brilliance and "trash."
Under the table, something flicked his ankle. Soft, silky, deliberate.
A tail.
Eliot didn't look down. Instead, he reached for his coffee.
You're awake earlier than expected, he thought.
"Oh, I was never asleep," came the smooth, mocking voice in his mind.
Whisper. The Fox Spirit. The Trickster of Tails.
She wasn't visible to anyone else — her form cloaked in illusion, her essence bound to his shadow. Her voice coiled through his mind like warm smoke, simultaneously smug and curious.
"You're not the same as the last one," she mused. "He was loud, stupid, and smelled like rotten ambition. You…"
"I'm smarter?" Eliot offered silently.
"You smell like fear disguised as logic. I like that."
He almost choked on his coffee. "Wonderful," he muttered aloud.
Amelia blinked. "Hmm?"
"Hot coffee," Eliot said quickly, setting his cup down.
Whisper's laughter echoed like chiming bells.
"You can hear me clearly. That means your connection to the Spirit Veil is already active. Interesting… for a human without a contract."
Spirit Veil? Eliot repeated mentally. That wasn't in the book.
"Of course it wasn't. Humans write stories about what they can see, not what they can't. You, however…"
Her voice dropped, low and purring.
"You're something else."
He suppressed a shiver. Beneath her teasing tone, he could sense an ancient weight — something predatory and proud. This was no minor fox spirit. Whisper was an ancient being, bound and sealed across lifetimes. Her power could twist minds and bend perceptions — if she were fully awake.
But for now, she was content to play games.
"So, what's your plan, Master Trash?" she asked, stretching lazily beneath his chair. "You've inherited a doomed house, a murderous butler, and a brother who looks at you like you're a stain on his boots. Going to sleep through the apocalypse?"
Eliot's lips quirked. Exactly that. If I nap long enough, maybe the apocalypse will take a detour.
Whisper snorted. > "Ah. A strategist pretending to be lazy. My favorite breed of idiot."
While the table's chatter resumed, Eliot's mind ran calculations.
Benedict was strong — bonded to a lesser wind spirit, soon to rise to Wind Spirit King status within the year. A loyalist to the crown, but also a perfectionist who detested Eliot's failures. Amelia, bright and naive, would never suspect betrayal but would easily be used by others. The servants, the knights, the retainers — all parts of a web of politics centered around their father, Duke Armand Astervale, one of the kingdom's foremost spirit summoners.
If Eliot wanted peace, he had to be invisible.
But invisibility required control.
And control began with information.
He glanced at Kieran's retreating back, then at the faint shimmer of spirit energy coiling around Amelia's golden wisp.
So many spirits here… and they're all restless.
"That's because this place is built on an old leyline," Whisper replied lazily. "Spirits drift through the walls like dust through sunlight. Most can't perceive them. But you can."
Eliot's brow furrowed. Why me?
"That," she said, her tails flicking unseen, "is the fun part."
As the meal ended, Benedict stood, his chair scraping softly against the marble floor. "Father expects you in the study," he said, voice clipped. "Don't make him wait again. I won't be covering for you this time."
Eliot smiled faintly. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Benedict left without another word.
When the hall finally emptied, only Amelia remained. She turned to Eliot, expression curious and almost worried. "You're smiling differently today, brother."
He blinked. "Differently?"
She nodded. "Before, it always looked like you were pretending not to care. Today, it looks like… you know something."
He froze for a moment, then gently ruffled her hair. "Maybe I finally do."
Her eyes brightened at that, and she stood, bowing playfully. "Then I'll study harder too! Maybe one day, I'll help you with your spirits!"
"Mm. You probably will," Eliot murmured.
As she skipped away, the fox's voice drifted into his thoughts once more, softer this time.
"You're fond of her."
Eliot's expression darkened faintly. She's one of the few pure things in this story.
"And you want to protect her?"
I want to live peacefully. Protecting her is… part of that peace.
"Liar," Whisper said, her tone amused but gentle. "You just don't like watching good things break."
Eliot didn't reply.
He stood alone in the sunlit hall, shadows curling faintly around his boots — shadows that shimmered with the outline of a fox tail.