Chapter 6 : Chains in Velvet

The Margrave's war chamber was a monument to power — tall ceilings draped in blood-red velvet, a chandelier of carved bone and soulglass pulsing faintly above a massive war table of obsidian. Every inch reeked of old victories and brutal decisions.

Nerion Ophirein stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a heavy thunk. A knight in enchanted armor stood in one corner, motionless but watching.

At the far end of the chamber stood Caelum Drakval, Lord of Emberhold, a man carved from war and seasoned by court venom. His wine was dark. His smile, darker.

"You took your time," the Margrave said without looking up. "Arrogance? Or calculation?"

"Neither," Nerion replied evenly. "Respect. You summoned. I came."

The Margrave finally turned, eyeing the boy who had ranked second in the duchy's national exams — without a family name of renown, without patronage. "You surprised many. Most assumed you'd crack under the pressure. They say the countryside breeds strength but dulls ambition."

"They were wrong," Nerion said.

"So it seems." The Margrave motioned to a seat, but Nerion remained standing. The Margrave smirked, then sipped his wine.

"You're eligible for the Royal Academy," he said. "Top ten of the duchy get an automatic recommendation.

Nerion said nothing.

"The royal train comes in one year," the Margrave continued. "A year of preparation. And I offer you support—trainers, relics, soul-bonded guards, mana access. You'll walk into the Academy fully armed."

"A generous offer," Nerion said, voice carefully neutral.

"My eldest son, Kaedric, is already there. He's doing well, but alone. Politics in that place are deadly. I'd prefer he have an ally." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You."

There it was — the price beneath the polish.

Nerion's answer was quiet.

"No."

The Margrave blinked once. "Explain."

"If I accept, I wear your brand," Nerion said. "Your colors. I stop being Nerion and become a shadow of Kaedric. A loyal piece."

"And what's wrong with being my piece?" the Margrave asked, voice turning cold.

"I don't belong to anyone," Nerion said. "Not even my father. And I won't owe anyone for the right to breathe."

Caelum Drakval's eyes narrowed. "You haven't even awakened. You're just a boy with test scores and rural training. The Tower might not even choose you."

Nerion met his gaze, steady as steel. "Then I'll carve my place without the Tower. Or die trying."

"You'd throw away a guaranteed future… for pride?"

"For freedom," Nerion said, voice sharp. "If I belong to anyone, then the future isn't mine."

The Margrave stared for a long moment — then smiled faintly.

"Dangerous words for a boy with no level. Fine. Refuse the offer. But understand this: when the train arrives, you will board it. That much is not up for debate."

"Understood," Nerion said.

"Don't get yourself killed before then."

Nerion turned, walking toward the door. "No promises."

The great marble doors of the Margrave's chamber shut behind him with a heavy thud, sealing away the scent of burning oils and wine. Nerion exhaled slowly, his fists still clenched from the tension of that conversation. His boots clicked down the long corridor, banners of old wars fluttering gently in the hallway's subtle breeze magic.

He made his way to the teleportation terminal near the eastern district. The rune mage from earlier raised an eyebrow. "Another jump so soon?"

"I need rest , now take me Home," Nerion said. "No delays."

With a nod, the mage activated the circle. The ancient stones lit up, and a gust of wind tore at Nerion's cloak as the world folded.

In a blink, he was gone.