The next day, a servant girl, her cheeks flushed with a nervous pink, approached Aren with a message. Duke Darius requested his presence in his study. A familiar summons, yet a subtle unease prickled Aren’s skin.

  He walked the well-trodden path to the Duke’s study. The heavy door, adorned with the Stormborn crest, yielded to his touch, swinging inward with a soft groan. Sunlight, fractured by the leaded glass of the tall windows, painted stripes across the familiar scene: Duke Darius seated behind his expansive desk, head bent over a scattering of parchment, a quill scratching rhythmically across the page. The scent of beeswax and a faint, lingering aroma of spiced wine hung in the air – the very essence of Darius’s domain.

  “Ah, Aren, come in,” Darius said, looking up, a warm smile softening the usual regal lines of his face. He gestured towards a velvet chair positioned opposite his desk. “Please, be seated.”

  Aren settled into the chair, the question of the conversation's purpose already forming in his thoughts.

  “Aren,” Darius began, his voice adopting a more formal tone, yet retaining its underlying warmth, “Now that your family has been granted a new household to manage, I wished to inquire if your own plans have shifted. I must confess, your arrival has brought a… palpable change to the castle. Leo’s progress in training has been nothing short of remarkable, and even Isla seems to radiate a newfound joy and dedication. However,” Darius paused, his gaze direct and sincere, “your own desires are paramount. If you wish to depart the castle and reside with your family, you are, of course, free to do so.”

  For Aren, the choice was simple: his parents were selfish strangers, while the castle with its imposing stone and echoing halls, had inexplicably become a place of purpose, a strange anchor in this unfamiliar world. Here, he had training, a nascent, intriguing connection to the Ether, and the unexpected, almost familial camaraderie with Leo, Isla, and even Kira, in her quiet, observant way. And then there was Darius himself. In his previous life, parental affection had been a scarce commodity, a fleeting warmth in a long winter. Yet here, Darius, despite his ducal authority, treated Aren with a respect and kindness that resonated deeply, like a good uncle guiding a nephew. The irony of being under the care of someone younger wasn't lost on Aren, but the genuine warmth was undeniable, a balm to a soul long accustomed to indifference.

  “I would prefer to remain here, Your Grace,” Aren stated, his voice clear and resolute, leaving no room for doubt. “My focus remains on my training, on honing my abilities, and on contributing to the Dominion. And, of course,” a flicker of a smile touched his lips, “participating in the tournament.”

  A genuine smile bloomed on the Duke’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “That is… most welcome news, Aren. Your dedication is truly commendable.” He leaned back in his chair, the formal air dissipating, replaced by a more relaxed demeanor, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Very well then. Consider Stormborn Castle your home, for as long as you desire it to be.” He rose from his chair, the movement fluid and graceful despite his imposing frame. “Your parents are preparing to depart shortly, to begin settling into their new mansion. Shall we escort them to their carriage and bid them farewell?”

  Together, they descended to the outer courtyard. The scene was a flurry of controlled activity. A grand carriage, emblazoned with a minor noble’s crest – a new crest, Aren presumed, for his newly elevated parents – stood ready. Servants bustled around, loading chests overflowing with the Duke’s generous gifts, alongside provisions for their journey. His parents, radiating an almost comical level of delight, were overseeing the packing, their faces flushed with excitement. As they spotted Darius and Aren approaching, the practiced masks of exaggerated gratitude snapped back into place.

  “Duke Darius, we are utterly overwhelmed!” his mother gushed, her yellow eyes glistening with what might have been genuine tears of joy. “We could never have imagined such… munificence!”

  “Your Grace, words fail to express our gratitude,” his father echoed, bowing deeply, a little too deeply, Aren noted, catching a whiff of morning wine on his breath.

  Darius, with a gracious smile, reiterated to them directly that Aren had chosen to remain at the castle, dedicated to his training and the upcoming tournament. A flicker of something unreadable – relief? – crossed his parents’ faces, quickly masked by another wave of theatrical farewells to their son. The goodbyes were protracted, filled with empty platitudes and forced embraces. As the carriage finally rumbled away, Aren felt a profound sense of relief wash over him. He hadn't been exposed, the charade remained intact. Perhaps, in a twisted way, their self-absorbed nature was a blessing. Had they been genuinely loving parents, perceptive and attuned to their son, the deception would have been agonizing, perhaps impossible. Aren knew the crushing weight of losing a child, and he wouldn't wish that pain on anyone, even them. Now, unburdened, he could finally channel his energy into his own path: mastering the Ether, navigating this young body, and pursuing the shadowy allure of the Black Market.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  The next two days settled into a rhythm of focused preparation, a blend of rigorous physical training and mental recalibration. Aren felt a growing anticipation for the journey to the Black Market. The time had come. He sought out Darius once more, finding him again in his study.

  “Your Grace,” Aren began, his voice carefully measured, “I was hoping to request leave from the castle for a few days.”

  Darius raised a finely sculpted eyebrow, his gaze sharp yet not unkind. “Leave, Aren? May I inquire as to the purpose of this… excursion?”

  Aren hesitated, searching for a plausible, yet vague, explanation. “I… I wish to explore the surrounding settlements. To… clear my head, perhaps.”

  Darius considered his request, his piercing gaze unwavering, assessing. “Very well.” He finally said, his voice thoughtful. “However, I shall assign a small escort to accompany you. While I acknowledge your… capabilities, Aren, the roads can be unpredictable, and it is unwise to travel alone.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Aren replied quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, “but I would… prefer to travel alone. I require… solitude.” He emphasized the word, hoping Darius would understand the unspoken need for introspection.

  A flicker of understanding softened the Duke’s sharp features. “Solitude,” he murmured, the word resonating in the quiet study. “A rare and often necessary commodity.” He steepled his fingers, his decision seemingly made. “Very well, Aren. I shall grant your request for solitude. But I implore you, exercise utmost caution.”

  “I will, Your Grace. Thank you,” Aren said, a genuine smile finally breaking through his carefully constructed composure. Relief and anticipation surged through him.

  “Would you require a mount?” Darius inquired, a practical note entering his voice.

  “No, thank you. I… confess, I am not proficient in riding.”

  Darius chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “That, my boy, should be rectified. A skilled horse is an invaluable companion for any adventurer, or indeed, any nobleman.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Regardless, have a servant assist you with preparations. They will ensure you are adequately equipped.”

  With a final nod of gratitude, Aren left the study, a lightness in his step. I'm getting quite good with noble jargon.

  He sought out a servant, a young girl with bright, curious eyes, who assured him a travel pack would be prepared immediately and delivered to his chambers. Thanking her, Aren’s thoughts turned to Isla. He wanted to inform her of his departure, to offer a semblance of reassurance. After a long search, he found her in the castle gardens.

  The gardens, bathed in the honeyed light of late afternoon, offered a sanctuary of tranquility. The air hummed with the drowsy buzz of bees and the gentle rustle of leaves. Aren found Isla near the fountain, her brow furrowed in a familiar expression of intense concentration, though today, a subtle undercurrent of worry seemed to darken her usual bright focus.

  “It was quite a challenge to find you, Lady Isla,” Aren said, approaching her, a teasing lilt in his voice.

  “Aren,” she responded, her voice softer than usual, her gaze searching his face. “Is everything alright? You seem… preoccupied.”

  “Yeah, I just wanted to let you know I’ll be leaving the castle for a few days. I’m heading to the Black Market, to settle my debt with Lycas and… perhaps gather some information about those mercenaries who attacked you.”

  Isla’s eyes, usually sparkling with fierce determination, clouded with concern. “Oh, Aren, I am so sorry I dragged you into this. It sounds terribly dangerous. Please, wait here.” She turned abruptly, intending to leave. “I shall fetch you a knife, an heirloom from my grandmother.”

  “Hold up,” Aren chuckled, a wry smile playing on his lips. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t need a weapon. My fists will suffice.”

  “Aren, this is hardly a joking matter!” Isla retorted, turning back, the wind catching strands of her fiery hair. “Those men were prepared to kill us for sport. Who knows what dangers lurk in the Black Market?”

  “No weapons,” Aren repeated, his smile fading, replaced by a stubborn set to his jaw. “They’re… boring.”

  Isla lowered her gaze, a subtle gesture of yielding.

  “Please, just… be careful,” she whispered, her eyes lifting to meet his. Then, stepping closer, she surprised him with a sudden hug, her small arms squeezing him tightly. Aren, caught off guard, instinctively returned the embrace.

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” Aren promised as they broke apart, a pleasant warmth spreading through his chest at her unexpected display of worry.

  He returned to his chambers. As promised, a sturdy backpack lay on his bed, bulging with supplies. Beside it, a set of practical, travel-worn clothes awaited. He changed quickly, securing his coin pouch, ensuring the ring remained firmly on his finger. He hefted the backpack. Heavier than it looked, but manageable. Definitely need to learn to ride a horse. Lugging this around will get old fast.

  Stepping out of the castle gates and onto the bustling city street, a familiar thrill coursed through him. Freedom. Adventure. The weight of the backpack seemed to lighten with each step, replaced by a burgeoning excitement.

  Alright, first thing's first: gotta get the map to the Black Market.