Prologue: The Forgotten Piece

Chapter 1: A Death Without Meaning

The Forgotten Piece

The grand halls of House Umbrael were silent, save for the flickering torches casting wavering shadows upon the cold marble floors. The scent of ink, aged parchment, and the faint metallic tang of blood lingered in the air—an omen of what was to come.

Margrave Noctis Umbrael stood near the towering arched windows of his family's ancestral estate, his silver eyes sweeping over the sprawling city below. The noble district glowed with the soft, golden light of lanterns, but it was the darkness between those lights that interested him most.

For as long as he could remember, he had felt more at home in the unseen spaces—the quiet corners where whispered secrets festered, where power was wielded in silence rather than spectacle. The world existed in layers, and Noctis had learned to navigate them with the precision of a chess master. Yet tonight, something was different.

There was no comfort in the shadows.

A deep unease coiled within him, a sensation of impending finality that refused to be ignored. The weight of inevitability pressed against his ribs like an unseen hand. He ran a gloved hand over the silver embroidery of his coat, his fingers brushing the intricate sigils woven into the fabric. It was a habitual motion, a reassurance of identity, of control. But the faint tremor in his touch betrayed him.

It wasn't fear. Noctis had long since mastered the art of suppressing such weaknesses. Fear was for those who lacked power, for those who failed to anticipate the moves of their enemies. He had spent years ensuring he would never be one of them.

And yet—this was different.

This was knowing.

He was going to die tonight.

The realization did not come as a violent revelation, nor as a desperate scramble for escape. It was a quiet certainty, a whisper in the marrow of his bones that told him the pieces had already been placed. The board was set. And he, despite all his cunning, was the forgotten piece.

A pawn.

The doors at the far end of the hall creaked open, and the measured sound of boots against marble echoed in the silence. Noctis did not turn immediately. He knew who it was before the figure even stepped into view.

Duke Regulus Umbrael.

His father's presence was suffocating, an iron weight pressing against the air itself. Clad in his ceremonial black robes, embroidered with silver patterns that seemed to shift under the dim torchlight, he looked every bit the man who commanded both respect and fear.

"Noctis," his father said, his voice smooth as glass and just as sharp. "It is time."

Noctis exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back, straightening his posture. The weight of his father's words settled over him, final and absolute.

"So it was always meant to end like this," Noctis murmured, his voice devoid of emotion.

Regulus's gaze was unreadable. "You were never meant to last, Noctis. You know this."

The words struck deep, but Noctis refused to flinch. Of course, he knew. He had always known that his father did not see him as an heir, but as a tool. A piece to be moved and sacrificed when the time came.

And tonight, that time had arrived.

A deal had been struck in the shadows, a bargain to salvage what remained of House Umbrael's standing.

His elder brother—Caelum Umbrael, heir to their house and their father's favored son—had committed an act so reckless, so unforgivable, that only blood could pay for it.

Caelum had defiled and murdered the only daughter of Lord Alistair Calladris, the newly ascended head of House Calladris. The girl had been engaged to a powerful noble, and her death had sent shockwaves through the court. Calladris demanded justice. They demanded blood.

But House Umbrael would not offer its heir.

Caelum was their future, their investment. His marriage to a royal cousin had already been arranged, securing Umbrael's continued influence within the court. His life was worth too much.

And so, Noctis was chosen instead.

Not the guilty, but the disposable.

A noble execution was never just about justice—it was about symbolism. House Umbrael needed to appear compliant, remorseful, willing to kneel to Calladris. The death of one son, one forgotten piece, was a small price to pay for keeping the rest of the family intact.

And so, Noctis would die for a crime he did not commit.

The heavy silence between them stretched long before Noctis finally spoke.

"So, I am to die for his sins," he said, voice measured, almost indifferent. The words should have burned with anger, but there was only exhaustion beneath them.

Regulus Umbrael remained still, his expression unreadable. "You misunderstand," he said, folding his hands behind his back. "You are to die because you serve no greater purpose."

Noctis let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You never were one for sentiment, were you?"

Regulus stepped closer, the candlelight casting deep shadows along the sharp planes of his face. "Sentiment is a luxury of the weak." His voice was steady, as if he were reciting a fact rather than delivering his youngest son to death. "And you, Noctis, are not weak. But neither are you necessary."

Noctis's fingers curled into fists. "You raised me as a contingency."

Regulus tilted his head slightly, a glint of approval flashing in his cold silver eyes. "Yes. A failsafe, should Caelum fall short. But he has not. He remains the heir. The future of this house. And for a future to exist, sacrifices must be made."

The truth was simple, brutal, and Noctis had known it all along. He had not been born to inherit power, nor to shape the destiny of House Umbrael. He had been born to ensure that Caelum's mistakes would never cost the family its standing.

He exhaled sharply. "I suppose I should be honored," he said dryly. "Even as I walk to the execution block, I am still serving Umbrael."

His father's lips barely curled in what might have been amusement. "You were always clever."

"And yet, not clever enough to escape my fate."

Regulus finally turned, pacing toward the towering bookshelves that lined the study. He ran a gloved hand over the spines of ancient tomes, tracing history—his history, their legacy. "A lesser house would crumble under such a scandal. But we are not a lesser house. We do what must be done."

"You mean you do what is convenient."

Regulus did not deny it. He plucked a book from the shelf, idly flipping through its pages. "You were never the son I needed," he said, his tone as unfeeling as if he were discussing a failed investment. "Your intelligence, your instincts… they make you dangerous, Noctis. But not indispensable."

A quiet rage simmered beneath Noctis's skin, cold and sharp. His entire life, he had been trained in the art of manipulation, deception, and control. He had thought that one day, those skills would carve out his place in this world.

But in the end, they had only ensured his role as the disposable son.

"I see," Noctis said, masking the raw ache in his chest with a smirk. "Then I suppose I should thank you, Father. You've spared me a lifetime of delusions."

Regulus finally shut the book with a quiet thud. "You were never meant to have illusions, Noctis." He turned, facing his son once more. "Only purpose. And tonight, you will serve it."

Noctis studied him in that moment, committing every line, every shadow to memory. This was the last conversation he would ever have with his father. The last time they would stand in the same room, breathing the same air.

And Regulus felt nothing.

Noctis had been born into a world of power and privilege, but he had never belonged to it. He had been a pawn since the moment of his birth, raised not as a son but as a contingency.

And now, he was being discarded as one.

He let out a slow breath and smiled. A trickster's smile.

"If nothing else," Noctis murmured, his voice a whisper against the cold air, "I hope you'll at least enjoy the show."

His father didn't reply.

The guards stepped forward. Cold iron closed around his wrists.

And Noctis Umbrael was led to his execution.

House Calladris accepted the offering, but it was never just about vengeance—it was a message.

By executing Noctis in front of the noble court, they were not simply punishing a murderer's kin. They were declaring their dominance.

House Calladris had once been a minor noble house, clawing their way to power with ruthless efficiency, economic brilliance, and military strength. Now, they had forced House Umbrael—one of the Five Grand Houses—to kneel.

For House Umbrael, this was not just a humiliation—it was a dangerous precedent.

And Noctis was it's price.

The carriage rattled over uneven stone, its wheels cutting through the silence of the noble district. Noctis sat inside, wrists bound in enchanted iron. The sigils etched into the manacles glowed faintly in the dim light, burning against his skin. They weren't just shackles—they were a statement. A message from his father.

You were never meant to be anything more than this.

Noctis let his head rest against the cushioned seat, his silver eyes tracing the swirls of gold embroidery along the velvet-lined interior. The carriage was expensive, luxurious, even—but it may as well have been a coffin.

The House Umbrael crest was stitched into the fabric across from him. He should have felt something looking at it. Pride. Fury. A desperate urge to claw his way out and prove them wrong.

But he felt nothing.

Perhaps that was the final cruelty of it all.

A quiet chuckle escaped his lips, bitter and humorless. So this is how it ends.

Outside, the streets of the noble district blurred past. The glow of lanterns cast shifting patterns along the polished cobblestones, the world moving on without him.

Then, in the dim silence, a voice cut through his thoughts.

"You look far too calm for a man being sent to die."

Noctis turned his head. Across from him, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, was Lord Edgar Calladris.

The man was a picture of aristocratic refinement, draped in midnight blue with silver accents, the crest of House Calladris embroidered on his sleeve. His golden hair was neatly combed, and his sharp blue eyes gleamed with something unreadable. Unlike his father, Lord Alistair, Edgar did not wear the cold detachment of an executioner. He was something worse.

A noble who enjoyed the game.

Noctis met his gaze with an easy smirk, despite the tightness in his throat. "I was hoping the Calladris would at least offer wine before the grand event. A last toast, maybe?"

Edgar smiled, resting his chin against his knuckles. "A condemned man with a sense of humor. How refreshing."

"A shame it'll go to waste."

The carriage jolted slightly as it passed over a bridge, the brief shift in momentum pressing Noctis against the seat. Edgar watched him with idle amusement, tapping his fingers against his knee.

"You know," Edgar mused, "most men in your position would be begging. Or at least pleading for an alternative."

Noctis chuckled. "And here I thought you knew me better than that."

"Oh, I do," Edgar said, tilting his head slightly. "You're interesting, Noctis. A shame you were born to House Umbrael. If you were anyone else, I might have tried to keep you alive."

Noctis let the words settle, but his expression remained unreadable. The Calladris heir had always been unpredictable—too intelligent to be dismissed, too ruthless to be ignored. He played the game with a cruel sort of artistry, a man who preferred intrigue over brute force.

Which meant Edgar wasn't just here to escort him to his death. He was studying him.

"Why are you here?" Noctis asked finally.

Edgar smirked. "To watch."

Noctis raised an eyebrow. "Morbid curiosity?"

Edgar leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "I want to see how you die."

The words should have been chilling. Instead, Noctis found himself laughing softly.

"Gods," he breathed, shaking his head. "You nobles really are all the same."

Edgar's smirk widened, but he said nothing.

Outside, the towering gates of House Calladris loomed ahead, their spires bathed in torchlight. The estate stood like a fortress, black stone walls lined with banners of their sigil—a silver wolf against a black sun.

A house that never knelt. A house that ruled through dominion.

The carriage slowed, and Noctis exhaled, letting his smirk fade.

It was time.

---

The Grand Courtyard

The carriage doors swung open with a dull creak, and before Noctis could even adjust to the dim torchlight, rough hands seized his arms, yanking him forward. The cold night air bit at his skin as he was dragged onto the damp stone of the grand courtyard.

He landed with practiced ease, boots steady against the slick ground. Around him, the gathered nobility stood in pristine rows—silent, watchful, their gazes sharp as glass. Some whispered behind gloved hands, while others simply observed.

Not mourning. Just watching.

A lesson was about to be taught.

A slow, deliberate set of footsteps echoed from above. At the top of the grand staircase, beneath the crest of House Calladris, stood Lord Alistair Calladris.

A man carved from steel—tall, broad-shouldered, his silver hair pulled back with the precision of a blade. His presence filled the space, an authority that made the air itself feel heavier.

His voice rang through the courtyard.

"Noctis Umbrael." He let the name settle before continuing, his tone even, impassive. "Do you know why you are here?"

Noctis exhaled, silver eyes flicking across the crowd. The weight of expectation pressed against him.

He did not ask. He did not need to.

He already knew.

The laughter, the veiled smirks, the quiet mockery—this was not an execution. It was a spectacle.

A public insult, carved in blood.

Caelum had done it.

Caelum had killed Alistair Calladris's daughter. And his father had decided that Noctis would pay for it.

Not as a peace offering. Not as a bargaining chip.

But as a message.

We do not break.

We do not kneel.

Even our own blood is disposable.

House Umbrael had sent him here to die, not in atonement, but as mockery.

The realization no longer burned. He had felt the sting earlier, when the guards had pulled him from his chambers in the dead of night, when the carriage wheels rattled over uneven stone, when he realized there would be no final words, no attempt to justify it.

He had been discarded before.

But never so thoroughly.

Never so openly.

Alistair took a slow step forward, his cold gaze never leaving Noctis.

"House Umbrael did not send you as a pledge of apology," he announced, voice cutting through the night air. "They sent you because they would rather discard a useless son than surrender the guilty one."

The nobles did not gasp. They already knew.

They had come to witness it.

Noctis smirked, but the weight in his chest had settled into something quiet.

He was not here to change his fate.

He was here to meet it.

The guards pressed him to his knees, but he did not fight them. The damp stone seeped into his clothes, chilling him to the bone.

How fitting.

A ceremonial blade was brought forth—a relic of House Calladris, its silver edge gleaming beneath the torchlight.

Not just any blade. The blade.

The one that ended betrayals.

The one that severed legacies.

Alistair descended the staircase slowly, each step deliberate. When he reached the bottom, he came to stand before Noctis, looming like judgment itself.

He did not lower his voice.

He did not need to.

"Your life means nothing," he said, cold and absolute. "He has not pleaded for your return. He has given you as an insult, a reminder that House Umbrael does not bow. They do not send criminals to pay their debts—they send those who are worthless."

Laughter rippled through the nobles. Not raucous, not crude—polished cruelty.

Noctis did not laugh with them.

Instead, he breathed in, let the weight of their scorn settle over him.

Yes.

This was how it was always meant to end.

For years, he had played the role of the overlooked son, the expendable heir, the shadow lingering in Caelum's light.

He had fought against it once.

But now?

Now, he let it happen.

He lifted his chin, silver eyes calm, unwavering.

For the first time in his life, there was no more struggle. No more fighting for approval that would never come.

There was only the blade.

Noctis exhaled softly.

The ceremonial blade was placed on an embroidered silk cushion before Lord Alistair Calladris. A weapon of tradition, sharpened not just to kill, but to humiliate.

A silver blade, polished to an almost unnatural gleam. Its hilt was wrapped in onyx leather, and its edge was honed to perfection—meant to cut through flesh and bone in a single stroke.

The execution would be swift. Painless, even.

But Noctis knew better.

This was never about his death. It was about what it meant.

His father had made it clear—House Umbrael would never bow, never submit. But it was not above sacrificing its own. And House Calladris, in all their brutal grandeur, would ensure that sacrifice was seen by all.

Noctis had always played the game of nobility, weaving through lies and politics with effortless grace. But now? Now, he was nothing more than a discarded piece on the board.

A pawn meant to be forgotten.

A hush fell over the courtyard as Lord Alistair Calladris lifted the blade. His silver gaze met Noctis's—steady, unreadable. Then, with practiced ease, he turned to the figure standing beside him.

His son.

Lord Edgar Calladris.

The murmurs of the gathered nobility intensified.

A public execution, carried out by the heir of House Calladris himself.

A statement.

Edgar stepped forward, taking the blade without hesitation. The weight of it settled in his grip like it had always belonged there. He descended the marble steps with a slow, deliberate pace, each footstep ringing through the courtyard.

When he reached Noctis, he crouched slightly, leveling their gazes.

"I thought you'd at least look angry," Edgar murmured.

Noctis chuckled, low and dry. "And give you the satisfaction?"

A smirk tugged at Edgar's lips. "I do enjoy a good performance."

Noctis tilted his head. "Then let's not disappoint."

Edgar's smirk widened, but there was something else in his eyes—interest. Amusement. Curiosity.

He wanted to see how Noctis would break.

And that was the difference between them.

Because Noctis would not break.

The moment stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. Then, Edgar straightened, lifting the blade.

The gathered nobles shifted in anticipation.

Noctis exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering upward—to the moonlit sky, to the distant towers of House Calladris. His fingers twitched against the cold stone beneath him.

A part of him had always known it would end like this.

Not on a battlefield. Not in a duel.

But on his knees, before those who thought themselves gods.

The blade hovered above him, gleaming under the flickering torchlight.

And then—

Edgar swung.

A sharp whistle cut through the silence.

Noctis did not flinch.

The blade stopped—mere inches from his throat.

The gathered nobles stilled. The breathless moment stretched, heavy with uncertainty.

Edgar was staring at him, expression unreadable. His grip on the blade did not waver, but he had not finished the strike.

Noctis met his gaze, smirking.

"Having second thoughts?"

Edgar exhaled sharply, then leaned down slightly, lowering his voice.

"You're an interesting man, Noctis." A pause. Then, softer—"I wonder what you'd be like… if you weren't meant to die tonight."

Noctis's smirk did not fade.

A sharp breath. A heartbeat stretched too long.

And then, the blade moved.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Cold metal kissed flesh, and for the first time in his life, Noctis Umbrael felt what it meant to be powerless.

A sharp sting—then nothing.

The world did not slow as he thought it might. There was no flash of his life before his eyes, no divine revelation or whispered secrets from the gods.

Just emptiness.

The murmurs of the crowd swelled, nobles shifting forward to witness the fall of a Margrave's son. Some watched in satisfaction, others with quiet curiosity. But none with sympathy.

His blood pooled onto the stone, a dark stain spreading beneath his collapsing form.

His father was not here to watch.

Of course he wasn't.

House Umbrael did not mourn its sacrifices.

A necessary piece had been removed from the board. And the game continued, untouched by the life it had just claimed.

His vision blurred. The cold bit into his skin.

Above him, Edgar Calladris watched.

Not with triumph. Not with remorse.

Just quiet intrigue.

Noctis wanted to laugh.

Not even in death was he worth more than a moment's curiosity.

His fingers twitched. His breath shuddered.

The world dimmed.

And then—

Nothing.

As darkness crept into his vision, a final, bitter thought surfaced.

I was nothing more than a forgotten piece on their board. A pawn to be discarded.

And then, silence.

But the silence did not last.

A voice—soft, amused—echoed in the void.

Oh, little shadow… you fell too soon, didn't you?

Noctis drifted in the abyss, the weight of death pressing down upon him. And yet, there was something else. Something pulling him back.

Would you like to play again?

A pulse of warmth, a flicker of something ancient stirring within him. His veins burned with liquid fire, and the shadows in the abyss shifted, bending toward him.

Then—

A gasp.

Air flooded his lungs. His heart pounded.

His eyes snapped open.

He was alive.

But he was not the same.

Something had awakened.

Something old.

Something trickster-born.

And the game had only just begun.