Through the Flow, Lucon watched a cascade of emotions shift across his brother’s face. Shock then took over as a white-hot flare, leaching the color from Claude's skin. His eyes widened and his breath hitched as the words finally took hold, the brief joy of the gift utterly consumed by alarm.

  Finally, Claude found his voice, though it was strained. "Brother...what are you saying? Do you plan on...usurping the baron title?"

  Lucon didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted away, looking out past the manor walls toward the dark, sleeping fields. In his mind's eye, he didn't see the peaceful night; he saw the overgrown weeds, the fallow land, the empty farmsteads. He saw the decay his father's generous blindness refused to acknowledge.

  "Claude," he said quietly. "You already know why I'm speaking like this."

  Claude's expression hardened, the shock solidifying into a more serious, wary resolve. "Brother, what you just said about seizing control...that's treason."

  "Did you know Kaeson's mother was sick?" Lucon asked, shifting the ground beneath his feet.

  Claude quieted, his righteous stance faltering slightly.

  Lucon pressed on. "The elite guard who followed me into the Wilderwood, the ones who didn't make it back...I checked on their families while I was out. Did you know they didn’t receive compensation for the deaths?"

  Claude looked away, the Flow picking up a flicker of discomfort in his energy. "Father...sent their families letters of condolence. He promised—"

  "Promises don't fill bellies or pay for funerals," Lucon cut him off, not harshly, but with finality. "And Mother's family...that small village in the hills, do you remember when she took us there when we were small? They've asked for aid. But they have to wait, because we are prioritizing the 'poor and sickly' of Teleris instead."

  Claude had nothing to say to that. The Flow around him was a mess of conflicted loyalty and dawning, uncomfortable realization.

  Lucon turned to face him fully. "Father is the Merchant Hero because of how capable he is and for his heroic spirit. But time has caught up to him, Claude. The wolves are at the door, and he blindly insists on feeding them, thinking it kindness. It's not kindness. It's suicide."

  [Violet Fire Stance]

  Violet flames, the fusion of Aura and Mana, began to grow around Claude’s body. The Flow around him solidified into a wall of unwavering resolve.

  Claude was willing to fight him.

  Truly fight.

  “I can’t allow you to harm our parents, Lucon,” Claude said, his voice low and resonant with power.

  “No harm will come to them,” Lucon assured him, his own posture remaining languid, unworried. “I give you my word.”

  But Claude’s self-righteousness was a fire stoked by a heroic complex. “I wanted to ask you how you defeated Rhavak. I suppose I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

  He settled into a combat stance, empty-handed but far from unarmed.

  Lucon attempted to continue his subversion campaign. “Rhavak is just too weak to become Named. It’s that simple.”

  Claude shook his head. He wasn’t buying it.

  Lucon smiled past him toward dense shadows clinging to the stable entrance. “It seems rather unfair to fight when you have your biggest supporter here while I have no one cheering me on.”

  Claude’s violent energy waned in an instant, replaced by guilt as if he’d been caught misbehaving.

  He turned. “Mother…?”

  A few moments of tense silence passed before Lyris Serbal stepped out from the shadows, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at being caught.

  “Lucon,” she blurted, flustered but trying for authority, “Claude is a Hero, so whatever he says goes!”

  How nosy, Lucon thought.

  But his attention was on the Flow around Claude. The shift was immediate. Claude’s combative energy softened to protective and deferential. He knew House Serbal far more intimately than Lucon, having trained at the Warfaring Temple with Klara throughout the years. Lyris wasn't just an acquaintance; she was a fixture in his world.

  Lucon decided to pivot, seizing the opportunity to bind Claude to him with gratitude, not conflict.

  “Lyris,” he said, his tone light and conversational. “Do you have any plans for the First Year Parade at Vusric?”

  Lyris stiffened. “Don’t worry about me.” Her eyes were already darting toward the magnificent white panther.

  Claude, seeing her interest, couldn’t help but share his excitement. “Lyris, look! My brother gifted him to me.” He gestured to the majestic beast.

  Her awe overcame her fear, and she approached, comfortable enough to get close because Claude was there.

  Lucon gestured lazily to the mount’s black counterpart, which was watching them with calm, intelligent eyes. “You can take the other one, Lyris.”

  Claude was dumbfounded. “Brother…are you…is that alright?”

  Lucon nodded. “Skhav. The last whistle.”

  The tattooed barbarian looked utterly unwilling, his grip tightening on the final carved whistle. Lucon had to step forward, prying the man’s fingers open before handing the whistle to Claude.

  “Show her how it works.”

  Claude began instructing a thrilled and nervous Lyris, helping her onto the black panther’s back.

  Watching them, Lucon whispered only loud enough for an Arisen to hear.

  “I only mean to save the Barony.”

  Claude looked back at him, his expression a mix of gratitude, suspicion, and reluctant understanding. But he had to reorient his attention as Lyris struggled with the whistling patterns, her face flushed with excitement.

  A few minutes later, they shot off into the night—the white and black panthers streaking across the fields, Claude leading and Lyris following, her laughter rising in terrified exhilaration.

  Skhav trudged over to stand beside Lucon.

  He crossed his ink-covered arms and grumbled in his thick accent, “Those kind of Mana Beasts are very rare. Hard to catch. Harder to train.”

  Lucon offered a small grin. “You’ll be able to buy whatever Mana Beast you desire in the future, Skhav.”

  Skhav released a resigned sigh. He watched Lucon turn toward the distant night horizon, eyes slightly unfocused, expression drifting. The barbarian followed that gaze.

  “It was clever,” Skhav grunted. “Placating your brother with extravagant gifts while you plot to seize control of everything else. A ruler’s tactic.”

  Lucon hummed, almost amused. “I plan to give the baron title to Claude after he completes his Hero’s quest.”

  Disbelief warped Skhav’s face.

  “You’d give this all up?” He snorted. “I have never known a man to willingly give up power.”

  Lucon watched the horizon in silence. There was no counting the amount of alcohol that passed through his body tonight. Yet, the Ambrosia in his soul only grew stronger without limit and with that strength, the Flow became clearer. The world he’d known had disappeared. In its place was shifting energies, currents of intent and emotion, a beautiful, chaotic symphony only he could perceive.

  He felt he had drifted into a swirling sea of streaming paint strokes

  “I have somewhere to go,” Lucon murmured, more to himself than to Skhav.

  He could feel it. The Flow was telling him to go in a certain direction—toward the horizon and beyond.

  Skhav followed his gaze, and a strange, knowing look passed over his face. He then murmured a single, guttural word.

  “Himrvrakkar.”

  Lucon turned his head slowly, Skhav now only a smear of color next to him in the Flow. “What is that?”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Those who go against the way of the world,” Skhav said knowingly.

  The words shook Lucon more than they should have.

  Skhav added, a note of grim finality in his tone, “All Himrvrakkar meet an early demise.”

  Lucon smirked. “That’s reassuring.”

  His attention was pulled back to the horizon.

  Skhav, seeing the direction of his focus, nodded. “That is the way toward the Abandoned Verge. All Himrvrakkar go there in the end…”

  Lucon could see in the Flow the intent behind Skhav’s words—a nudge toward something, some outcome the barbarian wished to transpire.

  “There’s no need to push, Skhav,” Lucon said, his voice distant. “I’ll go where the Flow leads me. If our goals align, I won’t fight it.”

  Despite the unfamiliar words of “the Flow,” Skhav dipped his head, silently conceding that he had his own plans to set in motion.

  Lucon turned fully toward the horizon again, letting the shifting energies wash over him. The currents whispered, pulled, beckoned.

  He whispered, “I want to go there…”

  ***

  More than a decade earlier…

  “I want to be a Hero like you!”

  Auric turned at the sound of the tiny voice. There stood Lucon—missing one front tooth.

  A shadow fell over the child as a well-built young man with an air of easy confidence closed in. He reached out to ruffle Lucon’s hair roughly.

  “You?” the youth snorted. “You’re too much of a pipsqueak to be a Hero.”

  Lucon immediately bristled, small body going rigid as he glared upward.

  “I don’t want to be like you, Gareth.” His voice cracked, but the fire was there. “I want to be like Father!”

  Gareth’s eyebrow twitched. “What a little brat…”

  He reached for Lucon—likely to flick his forehead or twist his ear—but Auric moved before Gareth could begin to roughhouse.

  Auric used both hands to lift Lucon up effortlessly, placing him atop the low stone wall bordering the walkway to get him eye-level.

  Auric tapped his son gently on the nose. Lucon giggled.

  “Of course you can be like me,” Auric said. “You’re my son, aren’t you?”

  Lucon’s entire face lit up—sunrise breaking through clouds. Auric felt his heart melt into a puddle of sweetness.

  Years later.

  The soft patter of rain brushed against the windows of the manor, a thin silver curtain trailing down the glass. The servants were frantic.

  “Where is he? We need him dressed for the celebration—”

  “Check the west hall! Maybe the kitchens—”

  “His hair isn’t even combed yet—!”

  Auric raised a hand, sighing. “Calm yourselves. I know where he is.”

  The servants exchanged looks of relief amongst themselves. Auric moved past them and made his way down the corridor to hunt down his son.

  He stopped at a wooden door. Beyond it, muted rainfall whispered against the courtyard.

  Auric thought, As expected…

  He pushed the door open.

  Lucon stood in the training yard, rain lightly spraying his hair and shoulders. Not enough to soak him—just enough to blur the world around him. A practice sword dangled limply from his fingers, point in the mud.

  He always sought the rain when he was hurting.

  Auric stepped beside him, silent for a moment.

  Today was Lucon’s thirteenth birthday.

  The final day. The last chance for Aura to awaken.

  And it hadn’t.

  Lucon’s gaze lifted toward the cloudy sky.

  “It’s raining a lot,” he murmured.

  It wasn’t. It was barely more than a mist. But Auric knew—Lucon wished it were heavier. Heavy enough to hide everything.

  A small, choked sound escaped the boy.

  “Father…” His voice trembled. “Can I still be like you? Can I still be a Hero?”

  Auric reacted instantly.

  “Of course you can!” he said, hands grabbing Lucon’s shoulders. “Do you think being an Arisen is the only path? You can be a Mage Hero!” He forced a bright grin. “I’ll even make things right with Dragnol—well, just enough to squeeze some lessons out of him for you.”

  Lucon sniffed. Slowly, he released the practice sword. It hit the mud with a muted thud.

  A raw, red mark cut across his palm—the sign of someone who had pushed themselves to the very last moment.

  He had tried to awaken Aura until the last of his hope faded.

  Lucon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Then, hesitantly, a small smile broke through.

  “I…I’m going to start reading about magic now.”

  “That’s my boy,” Auric said, relieved warmth blooming in his chest as he slid an arm around him. “Come on. Let’s get you dry.”

  He guided Lucon back toward the door, grateful—so grateful—that the boy’s smile had returned.

  Years Later

  Lucon was on the roof.

  Auric exhaled, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He had scoured the manor, searching every corridor, every hall, every known hiding place, only to find Lucon here.

  Lucon sat with his knees drawn up, staring out at the clear sky. When Auric carefully climbed up to sit beside him, Lucon hid his face.

  “It isn’t raining,” Lucon muttered, voice muffled. “I wish it was raining.”

  Auric’s eyes scanned the roof tiles as if they could help him find words to say. All he heard was the voices of the magic tutors echoing in his mind, a unanimous, damning verdict: The boy has no talent. He cannot materialize a Mana Pool. We have tried everything.

  Lucon sniffed, his shoulders trembling. “Am I really your son?”

  Auric felt his chest tighten, feeling as if it would collapse inwardly. He rushed to pull his son into a fierce embrace.

  “Of course you are!”

  Lucon was limp in his arms, all the fight and fire drained out of him. “Then why can’t I be a Hero like you?”

  Auric released him and gestured grandly. “Do you think you need to swing a sword or cast spells to be a Hero? Look at me! I saved the kingdom with my merchant work, of all things.” He forced a loud, booming laugh, hoping to uplift Lucon with its sound. “You want to be like me? Then save people with money! That’s the Edelyn way!”

  He saw it—a flicker of light returning to Lucon’s dulled eyes. A fragile, hesitant smile touched his lips. “Can I…Can I be a Merchant Hero too?”

  “Of course!” Auric exclaimed.

  Lucon’s smile widened, and he nodded with sudden, desperate enthusiasm. “I’ll study the merchant trade right away!”

  But the hope was short-lived. A string of failures followed, each more spectacular than the last. Every business venture Lucon touched collapsed. Every trade deal he negotiated backfired. The "Merchant Hero" heir could not even turn a profit on a cart of apples.

  In those days, Lucon did not seek the rain. He turned elsewhere. Alcohol, gambling, fleeting pleasure with women—anything to fill the emptiness of a dream he could never truly hold.

  Their conversations became a recurring nightmare for Auric, always conducted through a haze of wine and pipe smoke, with a son who was never truly present.

  ***

  Present

  “…I just don’t know what to do with him anymore, Deydor,” Auric confessed, his voice a hushed, weary sound in his study. He rubbed his temples, the ghost of his son’s many disappointments haunting the room. “I have given him every chance, every opportunity to make something of himself. And every time, he…”

  He trailed off, his gaze drifting from Deydor to the study door. It was slightly ajar. And there, standing in the doorway, was the living embodiment of his despair.

  Lucon. Leaning against the frame, a bottle dangling from one hand and his long pipe smoldering in the other. His eyes were half-lidded, his posture the very picture of indolent ruin. It was a familiar, aggravating image.

  Auric’s jaw set. It was time. Time to set Lucon straight.

  He rose from his chair, the movement heavy with intent.

  Deydor immediately stood as well. “Perhaps I should—”

  “Stay right there,” Auric said, raising a hand. “This won’t take long.”

  Deydor sighed and sat back down.

  Auric strode to the door, his expression carved from stone. Lucon straightened—barely—bowing his head, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as if tonight’s tension were nothing more than tavern chatter.

  Auric stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind him.

  No games tonight.

  “Did you know I was going to disinherit you?” Auric asked, voice low and cutting. “Is that why you stopped my announcement?”

  Lucon’s response surprised him.

  “I think it’s time you hand over the barony to me, Father.”

  Auric’s eyes widened, thoughts bubbling. “Boy…do you know what you’re saying right now?”

  Lucon didn’t flinch. Didn’t avert his gaze. That, more than anything, threw Auric off—Lucon never met his eyes when they spoke. But now he looked directly at him, calm. Confident.

  Arrogant.

  Lucon continued, “Father, the fallow fields—”

  “How dare you,” Auric snapped, voice rising. “Not only are you unapologetic for your behavior, you dare speak of usurping my position…!”

  Lucon shook his head. “Just pass it on. That is all.”

  Auric’s fury swelled. He opened his mouth—to berate, to order, to crush this insolence—but Lucon spoke first.

  “Father,” he said softly, “I love you.”

  Auric stilled.

  The words hit him with the force of a gust of wind. Lucon…hadn’t said anything like that in years. Not since he was small. Not since he still laughed freely and shared his wishes and dreams to anyone who would listen.

  Lucon’s voice stayed gentle. “I couldn’t have asked for a better father. Not even in my dreams. You did all that you could…and I am grateful beyond words.”

  Auric stood silent, breath unsteady.

  “But,” Lucon pressed, “I think it’s time for you to consider leaving the barony and its affairs to me—”

  Auric roared, “Boy, you really have become arrogant! Off with you! Don’t show yourself before me again if you wish to speak of ridiculous things like becoming baron!”

  Lucon bowed his head lightly and turned away.

  Auric watched him take a few steps, and hesitation seized him.

  Don’t seek the rain. Don’t return to the bottle.

  Don’t fall again…

  “Lucon,” Auric reached out, his eyes pleading, voice desperate. “You…can still be a Hero.”

  Lucon stopped. Turned back.

  But he wasn’t smiling—not the smile Auric wanted, not the boy from years ago.

  It was that wastrel’s smirk. The one that Auric detested.

  “No,” Lucon said quietly. “I can’t.”

  He turned away again.

  “But I can be a baron.”

  Auric reddened, fury boiling anew. “You just try it, boy! See where that gets you!”

  He then stormed back into the study, flushed with intensity. Deydor was halfway to the door.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Auric snapped.

  Deydor stopped mid-step, shoulders slumping. “Auric…we can discuss the marriage and everything else later.”

  But Auric wasn’t listening. He was pacing—short, precise strides—hands balled into fists.

  “How dare he,” Auric growled. “At a time like this—when Claude needs all the help he can get—how dare that boy talk about becoming baron!”

  His voice cracked.

  Then all the anger drained at once, leaving him hollow.

  “I can’t deal with this anymore…” he muttered, sinking. “I need…her to set everything right…”

  He then cried out, voice breaking loud enough to startle Deydor, “Mabel!”

  Auric rushed out of the study, heading toward the stairs—but stumbled, nearly falling as he choked on her name again.

  “Mabel—! Mabel, my love—!”

  Behind him, Deydor pressed a hand to his face. “Please stop showing this side of youself to me, Auric. It is unbecoming…”

  “Stay there!” Auric barked over his shoulder, already dragging himself up the stairs. “Don’t you dare leave, Deydor!”

  He continued calling for his wife like a lost child, voice echoing through the halls.

  “Mabel! Mabel—!”

  He found her in their bedroom, sleeping peacefully beneath silky sheets. He rushed to her side and shook her awake.

  “Mabel! Our son is turning against me!”

  She opened her eyes slowly, lids heavy. “Do you know…what time it is, dear…?”

  “Mabel, please—our son is trying to usurp me!”

  It took her a moment to register his words. She sat up slightly, pressing the blanket flat with her hands.

  “Lucon is doing…what?” she murmured.

  “He’s being unfilial and rude!” Auric whined, wringing his hands. “Please help!”

  Mabel didn’t answer immediately. She smoothed the blanket again, thinking.

  “Mabel…!” Auric whimpered.

  Her voice was soft. “I don’t remember the last time Lucon smiled so much.” A faint, distant ache entered her tone. “I…didn’t know I missed it so much.”

  “Mabel, please!” Auric begged. “You can’t take his side!”

  Mabel gave him a tired, impatient look. “And how is Lucon—our wastrel son—supposed to usurp anything from the Merchant Hero?”

  Auric paused. Then the realization hit him like sunlight through clouds.

  “Of course,” he breathed. “He’ll never get it without a fight!”

  He grabbed her face and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Mabel!”

  He then barreled out of the room.

  “Deydor?” he shouted down to the first floor. “Where are you going? We still have things to discuss!”

  Downstairs, his voice faded.

  Mabel remained sitting in the quiet bedroom, hands resting lightly atop the blanket.

  She murmured to the empty air, “…I didn’t know Lucon’s smile was missing.”