The streets lay still, washed in moonlight like a city caught mid-breath.
Kael moved through them unnoticed—a shadow with purpose.
The warmth of Nyra's healing already felt like a fading dream, distant and irrelevant compared to what awaited him now.
The closer he drew to House Drenlor, the louder the world became.
Shouts. Barking hounds. The clash of steel and boots slamming stone.
The scent of scorched magic still lingered in the air.
The aftermath.
He slipped into a narrow alley and pressed his back to the cool wall, exhaling slowly.
Then—with practiced efficiency—he reached into his space ring and withdrew a folded bundle.
Noblewear.
Silk, slightly creased, perfectly rumpled to suggest he'd run all night.
He stripped off the Devil's black garments, tossing them into shadow, and slipped into the role the world expected:
Kaelion Drenlor.
Rattled. Breathless.
Ever-loyal.
A splash of water to his face.
A stagger in his step.
Then he stepped into the open—disoriented, urgent.
Right on cue, a voice rang out like a blade unsheathed.
"Where have you been?"
Veyran.
Kael turned toward him, dragging a breath into his lungs.
"I saw the Divine General," he said, letting just enough tremor into his voice.
"I ran—I warned the outer wards, notified the city patrol.
Every post within five miles is on alert."
For a moment, silence.
Just the hum of torches and wind.
Veyran's eyes narrowed, scanning his face like he might peel it apart.
Then—he nodded.
Curt.
Begrudging.
"Good. At least you're useful for something."
Kael offered a faint, exhausted smile.
"Always loyal to House Drenlor."
But before Veyran could respond, another voice slid into the courtyard like poison into wine.
"Oh? And who's that trembling so sweetly under our moonlight?"
Kael's spine stiffened.
From the shadows emerged a tall figure, flanked by two elite guards in crimson half-plate.
His hair was brushed back.
His boots clicked like punctuation.
His presence was… deliberate.
Aerik Drenlor.
The second son of the house.
And he was home.
Kael's stomach coiled.
His smile vanished like breath on glass.
He lowered his gaze just as Aerik stepped close.
Too close.
A fist clamped around his collar—
Dragging him forward, tightening.
"You little bastard!" Aerik hissed, his breath hot with fury.
"I leave for a few days, and what do I hear? Rumors—whispers in the court that I poisoned you?"
Kael stayed silent.
Measured.
Aerik's grip tightened.
His eyes burned.
"Why in the Abyss would I waste poison on you?"
But before Kael could answer—not that he would—Veyran stepped in.
Quick.
Efficient.
The way only he could be.
He placed a calm, heavy hand on Aerik's shoulder.
"Enough."
One word.
Cold steel in velvet.
"Father's summoned us. Save it for later."
Aerik hesitated, jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
Then—grudgingly—he released Kael with a shove and turned away.
Kael straightened his collar slowly, saying nothing.
They walked in silence through the towering halls of the inner estate, boots echoing off polished stone and stained-glass windows.
Tension followed like a loyal hound.
The storm had only just begun.
The great doors to the Duke's chamber creaked open.
Inside, Duke Drenlor sat upright—but just barely.
His skin had lost its color, his once-imposing frame sagging beneath invisible burdens.
Whether the weight came from his brother's escape or something older, darker, it was hard to say.
By his side stood Renold, ever the loyal steward, and the Duchess—her face pale with sleepless worry.
All three sons stepped in.
They bowed.
Veyran was the first to speak, his tone clipped and dutiful.
"Father. We failed to stop the traitor. But we will not rest until he is brought back."
Aerik followed, his voice louder, sharper.
"No matter where he runs, I swear—I'll drag him back in chains."
Kael said nothing.
Not out of defiance.
But because silence, used properly, held more power than words.
Across the room, General Morien stood like a statue—arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes watching everything.
The Duke exhaled slowly.
The sound was like wind through brittle leaves.
"…It's good," he rasped, "that I still have you three by my side."
Veyran stepped forward, voice calm, practiced.
"Don't speak like that, Father. You'll recover."
Aerik added quickly,
"House Drenlor stands strong. We will not falter."
Kael remained still.
Internally, a cold, bitter smirk curled in his thoughts.
How touching.
They sounded convincing—even to themselves.
But Kael knew what simmered beneath their polished words: envy, ambition, hunger.
Sons playing loyal before the throne, while sharpening knives behind each other's backs.
Yue's voice stirred in his mind, dry and amused.
"They're so dramatic, I might cry."
Then, Aerik straightened.
His voice cut through the chamber, sharp as a blade.
"Father, I can't remain silent any longer.
Third Brother has accused me—me—of poisoning him.
I demand a formal duel."
The chamber stilled.
All eyes turned.
The Duke looked, slowly, toward Kael—uncertain, weary.
Kael didn't flinch.
"I accept," he said simply.
Aerik let out a short, humorless laugh, stepping closer.
"I thought you'd find a way to slither out.
After all… you're magicless."
Kael didn't rise to the bait.
His face remained stone.
The Duke's voice cracked.
"Enough! Kael, the House will be in shame if the brothers fight like dogs."
Still, Kael didn't waver.
At last, the Duke sighed again, the weight of politics and bloodline pressing on his chest.
"So be it.
But there will be no killing."
He gestured toward the steward.
Renold stepped forward, bowing.
"By decree of the Duke,
A formal duel between Third and Second Sons shall be held at dawn tomorrow.
The entire province shall bear witness."
Silence fell again—heavier this time.
Kael gave no reaction.
No bow.
No glance.
He simply turned—and left without a word.