The iron gates of House Vikram opened just as dusk settled across the land. Tall stone walls cast long shadows across the courtyard as Eric rode through, his horse’s hooves echoing sharply against the familiar ground. The banners of Vikram fluttered above, dark blue and silver catching the dying light of the sun.

  Home.

  Yet it did not feel the same.

  Eric dismounted slowly, handing the reins to a stable hand who bowed deeply before hurrying away. His body was weary from the long journey, but his mind refused rest. Too many thoughts pressed against him at once—House Ardyn, Don’s words, the schemes whispered behind closed doors, and Kael’s name lingering like an unhealed wound.

  A soft cough broke through his thoughts.

  “My lord.”

  Eric turned.

  His butler stood a few steps behind him, hands folded neatly in front of him. The man was older, his hair streaked with gray, posture straight despite the years. He had served House Vikram since Eric was a missing and before the title of lord had ever rested on Eric’s shoulders.

  “You’ve returned safely,” the butler said, relief faintly touching his voice. “How was the journey?”

  Eric exhaled slowly. “Long. Four days on horseback will do that to anyone.”

  The butler inclined his head. “You must be exhausted. Shall I have food prepared?”

  “In a moment,” Eric replied. He paused, then added, “Walk with me.”

  They crossed the courtyard together, stone crunching beneath their boots. Torches flickered to life along the walls as the sky deepened into twilight. For a while, neither of them spoke.

  Then Eric said quietly, “I went to House Ardyn.”

  The butler did not look surprised. “I suspected as much.”

  Eric glanced at him. “You did?”

  “You left with the look of someone searching for answers,” the butler said calmly. “House Ardyn is where such answers often hide.”

  Eric nodded. “I met the head of the house. Don.”

  The butler’s step slowed just slightly. “That is… concerning.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Eric gave a humorless smile. “It should be.”

  They reached the edge of the inner courtyard, where a stone fountain trickled softly. Eric stopped and turned to face him fully.

  “I’ll tell you everything,” Eric said.

  And he did.

  He spoke of the journey, of Alex, of the chamber where he overheard plans spoken in quiet confidence. He told him about lady talking with Don, about Kael’s name spoken with intent to kill, about House Veyren. He spoke of Don’s offer—allegiance in exchange for forgiveness—and of the threat hidden behind polite words.

  When Eric finished, silence settled between them.

  The butler’s expression was grave, thoughtful.

  “So,” he said at last, “what will you do?”

  Eric did not hesitate.

  “I will not join House Vikram with House Ardyn,” he said firmly. “Not under Don. Not ever.”

  The butler nodded slowly.

  “And,” Eric continued, his voice hardening, “I know who they are trying to bring back. I don’t need Don to say his name.”

  The butler’s eyes narrowed. “Then you understand the danger.”

  “I do,” Eric replied. “And I won’t let it happen. If they succeed, House Veyren will fall… and every house beneath it will burn.”

  He clenched his fist unconsciously.

  “But here’s the truth,” Eric said. “I’m weak.”

  The word tasted bitter.

  “If a lord is weak,” he went on, “his house will be trampled on. Not just by enemies—but by allies waiting for the right moment to strike.”

  The butler bowed his head slightly. “You speak wisely, my lord.”

  Eric straightened.

  “Call the four Houses of Vikram,” he commanded. “Summon their lords.”

  The butler looked up sharply. “All four?”

  “Yes,” Eric said coldly. “Tell them this: whoever arrives last… will die.”

  The words fell with finality.

  The butler studied Eric’s face, searching for hesitation. Finding none, he bowed deeply.

  “As you command.”

  He turned and left at once, his steps brisk despite his age.

  Eric remained by the fountain for a moment longer, staring into the rippling water. His reflection stared back at him—older, sharper, eyes carrying more weight than they once had. Especially the right one.

  “Power…” Eric murmured. “I need it.”

  He turned and headed toward the training grounds.

  The Vikram training field lay beyond the inner keep, a wide open space of packed earth and stone pillars scarred by years of battle practice. Weapons lined the racks along the edge, untouched since Eric’s departure.

  The air here was familiar. Honest. No schemes. No whispers.

  Eric moved to the center of the field and sat heavily on a stone bench. He reached into his cloak and pulled out the parchment Alex had given him.

  Carefully, he unrolled it.

  This time, he did not skim.

  He read.

  The parchment detailed the basics of fire learning and control—not brute force, but balance. Breath regulation. Visualization. Letting heat flow rather than explode. Fire as an extension of will, not emotion.

  Eric closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the words.

  So this is where I failed before, he thought. I forced fire to obey… instead of understanding it.

  He continued reading.

  Near the bottom, written in a different hand—smaller, deliberate—were additional words.

  Eric frowned.

  Alex’s handwriting.

  > Before you came, I heard about the battle that transpired between you and your enemy.

  And how you unlocked the other missing eye.

  Do not be confused as to how I know this. I have my own network.

  Eric’s grip tightened.

  So Alex knew. All of it.

  He read on.

  > I did some research afterward.

  Your special eyes do not only possess anti-power.

  They also possess the power of multiplication.

  Eric’s breath caught.

  “…Multiplication?”

  He stared at the word, reading it again as if it might change.

  “What the hell does that mean…?” he muttered.

  His mind raced.

  Anti-power, he understood—nullifying abilities within range, forcing combat into the physical realm. But multiplication?

  Did it mean copying? Amplifying? Splitting power? Doubling effects?

  Or something far worse?

  Eric slowly rolled the parchment back up, his expression darkening.

  “So even I don’t understand myself yet,” he said quietly.

  He stood, tucking the parchment away, and walked to the center of the field. The torches around the training ground flickered as night fully claimed the sky.

  Eric raised his hand.

  A faint warmth gathered in his palm—not explosive, not wild. Controlled. Steady.

  Fire.

  He exhaled, focusing on his breath, recalling Alex’s words.

  Fire is intention.

  The flame grew slightly brighter.

  Eric smiled faintly—not in triumph, but in resolve.

  “Good,” he said. “Then I’ll learn. I’ll grow stronger. Strong enough that no one decides my fate for me.”