The Trickster’s Awakening

Chapter 2: The Trickster's Awakening

A Soul Reclaimed

Darkness.

Not the quiet, peaceful kind, but an all-consuming void, stretching endlessly in every direction. Cold and suffocating.

Margrave Noctis Umbrael floated within it, weightless, his thoughts spiraling into the abyss. He could remember pain—the sharp burn of a sword driven through his ribs, the suffocating wetness of his own blood pooling beneath him. The sneering face of Duke Calladris as he watched Noctis die, another insignificant pawn removed from the board.

A meaningless death.

Just as the world had always seen him—forgettable, replaceable, unimportant.

Yet something was wrong. He should have ceased to exist. Instead, his consciousness lingered, drifting through the endless void, caught between life and nothingness.

Then, a voice.

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

It was deep, smooth, and tinged with amusement. Not cruel, not kind—just curious.

Noctis tried to respond, but the abyss swallowed his voice.

You tried so hard to survive. But the world does not favor the clever, does it?

A chuckle, distant yet everywhere at once.

No, it favors the strong. The ruthless. But you? Oh, you could have been so much more…

Something shifted. The void tightened around him, coiling like unseen hands pressing against his skin.

Would you like to try again?

The void trembled.

Not with fear — but anticipation.

Oh… now this is interesting.

The voice slithered through the darkness, richer than before, as though something ancient and powerful had finally found its prey. Noctis felt it now — the weight of attention upon him, like a thousand unseen eyes boring into his soul.

"Who are you?" Noctis managed, his voice thin in the crushing abyss.

The answer came, low and amused.

I am the one who watches the forgotten. The nameless. The discarded pieces of the great game. And you, little shadow, are my favorite piece yet.

A pulse of power coiled around Noctis, not physical but primal — a heat that seared his very essence. He gasped, his veins burning like molten fire.

"W-What is happening?"

Ah… awakening. The voice practically purred with satisfaction. Your blood… it remembers.

Pain bloomed in Noctis's skull, and suddenly his mind fractured. Images — disjointed, foreign — flooded his vision.

A great house, once revered, cloaked in shadow. House Erevar. Masters of deception, illusion, and guile. Their sigil: a mask split in half, one side serene, the other twisted in a wicked grin. Bloodlines steeped in ancient trickery. Power that could bend perception itself.

But where was it now? Forgotten. Cast into ruin. Its legacy erased by fear of what it could do.

And yet… it lives in you.

Noctis clutched his head, his scream swallowed by the void. Images of ancestors donning masks, weaving illusions that shattered armies, manipulating kings like pieces on a board. Whispers of their title echoed in his mind — The House of Forgotten Faces.

"You… you mean I'm…"

Blood of Erevar. Descendant of the tricksters. Hidden by fate, but not extinguished.

Noctis's breath trembled. "Why… why now?"

A chuckle, dark and delighted.

Because you died. And death has a funny way of awakening what lies dormant. Now the blood calls to you — and I am merely here to fan the flame.

"No…" Noctis gritted his teeth. "You're using me."

And you will use me. Do not mistake this for charity, little shadow. We are both deceivers, you and I. I offer you the means to reclaim your fate — but it is yours to wield or squander.

The burning in his veins coalesced in his chest, a twisted knot of power begging to be unshackled.

"Show me," Noctis growled.

Ahhh… there it is. The hunger. Very well.

Darkness consumed him again, but now it was different — not suffocating, but brimming with ancient malice. And within it, Noctis felt something tear itself free from his soul — an awakening of his dormant bloodline.

It is yours now. Use it wisely… or don't. I do enjoy watching chaos unfold.

"Wait—" Noctis rasped. "My family — House Erevar — what happened to them?"

A long, mirthless laugh.

Ah… now that is a story. Betrayal. Fear. Extermination. But that is not your concern, is it? No… you have your own vengeance to claim.

"Tell me!"

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly —

Hunted. Erased from history. Your line was feared because it could unmake reality itself. The world does not suffer those who can rewrite truth. So it destroyed them. But you… you can remind them.

The weight of centuries-old hatred filled Noctis's chest. His once-meaningless existence now thrummed with a purpose he never imagined — to reclaim not only his vengeance but his house's forgotten glory.

"And what do you get out of this?"

A laugh like wildfire.

Entertainment. Nothing more. Now go, little Erevar. Wake. And show the world why they should still fear your name.

The void shattered.

~~~~~

A sharp gasp tore from his throat.

His lungs filled with air too quickly, too forcefully. He coughed, his body convulsing as sensation crashed over him all at once—his limbs heavy, his skin burning hot, his mind overwhelmed by memories both his and… not.

He was lying in a grand four-poster bed, the silk sheets damp with sweat. A cool breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors, rustling the deep indigo curtains stitched with the Umbrael crest. The scent of aged parchment, candle wax, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air.

His chambers.

His body.

His life.

Noctis sat up, his breath uneven. He pressed a hand to his chest, expecting to find the fatal wound that had ended his life, but there was nothing. Smooth, unscarred skin. No evidence that he had ever been stabbed through the heart.

His gaze darted toward the full-length mirror across the room.

He barely recognized himself.

His skin, once fair, now held an unnatural sheen beneath the surface, as if kissed by moonlight. His dark hair had deepened in color, shifting like ink in water. But his eyes—they had changed the most.

Gone was the dull gray of his past life. Now his irises flickered green. And within them, something watched.

Something old.

Something trickster-born.

A sharp knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts.

"My lord?" The voice belonged to Valen, his steward. "Are you awake?"

Noctis hesitated. If he had truly died, if reality itself had been rewritten, then he had no way of knowing how much had changed.

"I… am." His voice was steady, but foreign to his own ears. It carried an underlying resonance, as if layered with whispers.

The door creaked open, and Valen stepped inside. The older man—graying hair, sharp eyes, dressed in the dark livery of House Umbrael—halted abruptly, his breath catching.

"My lord, your eyes—"

Noctis met his gaze, watching as unease flickered across Valen's face. A test, then.

"Lighting trick," he said smoothly, brushing his fingers across his temples. "I was ill last night. A fever dream, nothing more."

Valen hesitated, then bowed. "Of course, my lord."

Good. Noctis needed time to understand what had happened—why he was alive, what this power within him was.

And most importantly, what had changed.

The moment Valen left, silence devoured the room. Noctis exhaled slowly, his breath curling like smoke in the cold air. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper.

Power coiled beneath his skin, slick and insidious, like liquid shadow waiting to be unleashed. His heart hammered. His mind burned. And then…

A whisper.

Blood remembers.

Pain lanced through his skull. Noctis stumbled, clutching his head as the world tilted. Shadows crawled along the edges of his vision, and his reflection in the mirror smirked without his consent.

The floor fell away.

---

He was small again.

A boy of eight, standing at the edge of a grand ballroom. The ceilings soared high, adorned with crystal chandeliers that refracted light like a thousand tiny stars. Laughter and music filled the space, but it was hollow—artifice laced with poison.

"Stay quiet, Noctis," his mother whispered, her grip firm on his shoulder. Lady Selene Umbrael was a cold, beautiful woman, her sharp features framed by raven hair and piercing silver eyes. "We do not draw attention tonight."

"But why?" Noctis asked softly, his gaze locked on the opulent figures gathered at the center of the ballroom. They swarmed around a man — Duke Calladris — like moths to a flame. His smile was magnetic, his voice measured and persuasive. Already, House Calladris was beginning to cement its influence.

The ballroom hummed with forced gaiety. Laughter rang hollow, glasses clinked, and the noblewomen's painted smiles stretched thin with barely concealed disdain. The air smelled of wine, wax, and rot — a festering undercurrent of something unspoken, yet ever-present.

Noctis stood at his mother's side, small and uncertain. Lady Selene Umbrael— loomed like a statue carved of ice. Her gown, dark as midnight, clashed sharply against the splendor of the ballroom. Even in the house she was married into, she did not belong.

Neither did he.

"Stand straight," she murmured, her voice sharp but not unkind. "Do not let them see you falter."

Noctis swallowed, his gaze flicking toward the clusters of nobles — his family, or so they claimed. Yet the only thing he saw in their eyes when they looked at him or his mother was disdain. Disgust.

"Why do they hate us?" he whispered.

Selene's jaw tightened. "Because they were told to."

He blinked, confused. "By who?"

She didn't answer at first. Instead, her gaze shifted to his father —Duke Regulus Umbrael, standing among his brothers, laughing easily. Yet there was a distance in his eyes when they flicked toward his wife and son. A cold, deliberate absence.

"Come with me," Selene murmured.

Without question, Noctis followed her. They slipped from the grand hall into an empty balcony, where the cold evening air bit against their skin. Selene stood there in silence, staring out into the darkness beyond the castle walls.

"Noctis," she began quietly, "do you know why they despise you?"

He hesitated. "Because of you?"

Her smile was bitter. "In part. But it is not just because of me. It is because of him." She gestured behind them — toward the ballroom, toward his father.

Noctis's stomach twisted. "Father?"

"Yes." Her voice tightened. "You see, your father did not marry me for love. Nor did he marry me for alliance. He married me because of what I was — the last daughter of House Erevar."

The name struck a faint chord of recognition within Noctis. He'd heard whispers of it — a house long extinguished, shrouded in myth and scandal. "But… why would he marry you if he knew that?"

Selene laughed — a brittle, humorless sound. "Because he thought it would elevate him. You see, House Umbrael was nothing. A lesser house, clinging to the edges of nobility with nothing but a name. But when my house fell — when the king decreed that no trace of Erevar should remain — your father saw an opportunity."

"To marry you?"

"To own me." Her voice trembled with quiet fury. "He believed that by claiming me as his wife, he could seize the remnants of my family's status. He thought the blood of Erevar, though disgraced, still held value — that by marrying me, his house would rise."

Noctis's heart sank. "Then why do they still hate us?"

Selene exhaled slowly, as if the weight of years pressed heavily on her shoulders. "Because it did not work. His family — the Umbraels — never approved of our union. To them, I was tainted. They feared that my cursed blood would corrupt their house. They called me a witch, a blight, a stain upon their legacy. And in time, they extended that hatred to you."

His hands curled into fists. "But Father never… he never defends you. He never defends me."

"No," she said bitterly. "Because he regrets it. When he realized that my name could not elevate his house — that the nobles still scorned him for marrying me — he abandoned us. Oh, he remains my husband in name, but he does not claim me as his wife. Nor does he claim you as his true heir."

The weight of her words crushed him. "But I'm his son…"

Her voice cracked. "And my son. And that is why they will never accept you, Noctis. You carry my blood — the blood of Erevar. Even if they do not know it by name, they feel it. And that terrifies them."

His breath quickened. "But Father knows?"

"Yes," Selene confirmed, her smile bitter. "Your father knew exactly who I was when he married me. He gambled that my bloodline's prestige would outweigh its curse. When it did not, he turned his back on us."

Rage burned in Noctis's chest. "Then why doesn't he just send us away?"

"Because that would admit his failure," she said coldly. "If he casts me aside, it would confirm what everyone already suspects — that his marriage to me was a disgrace. So instead, he keeps me here. Silent. Obedient. A breathing monument to his shame."

Tears burned in Noctis's eyes. "And me?"

Selene's gaze softened, but there was no comfort in it. Only truth. "You are the proof of his greatest mistake — and his greatest fear." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Because you, Noctis, are the last true heir of House Erevar. And whether you realize it or not, the bloodline's power stirs within you."

A chill crawled down his spine. "What power?"

Selene knelt, gripping his shoulders tightly. "The power of perception. The power to turn lies into truth, and truth into lies. Our house once controlled kingdoms without ever drawing a blade. We ruled through whispers, illusion, and influence. We did not need armies — only belief."

Noctis's throat tightened. "But… the bloodline is gone."

"No," Selene said firmly. "It is merely dormant. Locked away by fear, and forgotten by those who sought to erase us. But you, my son…" Her fingers tightened. "You will awaken it. And when you do — when they see what you truly are — they will understand why they should have killed us all."

Terror and longing warred within him. "But they'll hate me."

Her gaze burned with unrelenting fury. "Yes. And you will make them choke on that hatred."

Noctis gasped as he snapped back to the present — his body slick with cold sweat, his heart hammering. The memory of his mother's words burned in his veins.

The nobles' disdain. His father's cold indifference. The quiet scorn from his own bloodline. It all made sense now.

They didn't despise him because he was weak.

They despised him because he was strong.

He staggered to his feet, his reflection flickering in the mirror. His irises now burned with shifting gold and crimson — a cruel echo of his mother's bloodline. His power, long dormant, had finally begun to stir.

And the world that rejected him would soon come to regret it.

A slow, wicked smile spread across his face.

They buried House Erevar in ash and stone. They thought it was gone.

His fingers flexed, and for the briefest moment, the air around him seemed to shimmer — as if the world itself bent to his will.

They were wrong.

Noctis paced the length of his chambers, the weight of his recent resurrection pressing heavily upon him. Fragments of memories—his own and those seemingly inherited—flashed before his eyes, each more disorienting than the last. Determined to understand the exact moment his regression occurred, he delved into the annals of House Umbrael, seeking any clue that might illuminate his predicament.

Minutes turned into hours as he pored over records and scrolls, his fingers tracing the elegant script of his ancestors. One name surfaced repeatedly: Selene Erevar, his mother. The records spoke of her unparalleled mastery of the Erevarian arts, abilities that could weave illusions so intricate they bordered on reality. But after her union with Lord Umbrael, mentions of her prowess ceased abruptly.

A gnawing unease settled in Noctis's gut. He had not seen his mother in years, her presence in the household reduced to whispers and closed doors. Summoning his resolve, he decided it was time to confront her, to seek answers directly from the source.

The corridor leading to Lady Selene's quarters was dimly lit, the air thick with neglect. Noctis hesitated before the heavy wooden door, its surface etched with the faded sigil of House Erevar—a serpent entwined around a crescent moon. Taking a deep breath, he knocked.

A frail voice beckoned from within. "Enter."

Pushing the door open, Noctis was struck by the sight before him. The once-vibrant Lady Selene sat by the window, her once-lustrous hair now a cascade of silver, her eyes distant and unfocused. The room was sparsely furnished, devoid of the opulence that characterized the rest of the estate.

"Mother," Noctis began, his voice wavering.

She turned slowly, her gaze settling on him with a flicker of recognition. "Noctis? Is that truly you?"

He approached cautiously, noting the tremor in her hands and the pallor of her skin. "Yes, Mother. I've come to see you, to understand... everything."

Selene's laughter was brittle, like dry leaves crumbling underfoot. "Understand? Oh, my dear boy, there is so much that should remain buried."

"But I need to know," he insisted, kneeling beside her chair. "About our lineage, about your powers."

Her eyes clouded with memories, and she sighed deeply. "The blood of Erevar is both a gift and a curse. Our abilities are tied intrinsically to our emotions, our very essence. To suppress them..." She paused, her gaze drifting to the window.

"What happens when they're suppressed?" Noctis prompted gently.

"Madness," she whispered, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. "To deny one's true nature is to invite insanity. The mind fractures, unable to reconcile the dissonance between being and pretending." Her voice grew distant, as if reciting from a forgotten tome. "Many of our kin, when forced to hide their gifts, succumbed to delusions, their minds unraveling thread by thread."

Noctis felt a chill settle over him. "Is that what happened to you?"

Selene's gaze sharpened momentarily, a spark of her former self. "I chose to protect you, to shield you from the fate of our ancestors. But in doing so, I chained my own soul." She clasped his hand with surprising strength. "You mustn't follow the same path, Noctis. Embrace who you are, lest you too become a shadow of yourself."

He nodded, determination hardening within him. "I will, Mother. I promise."

Noctis's heart raced as he absorbed his mother's revelations. The gravity of his newfound abilities weighed heavily upon him, and he sought further guidance. Gently, he asked, "Mother, what should I do now that my powers have awakened?"

Selene's eyes, once distant, now bore into his with fierce intensity. She grasped his hands tightly, her voice urgent. "Noctis, you must tell no one of this. Our lineage, our gifts—they are both a blessing and a curse. The world beyond these walls would not understand; they would seek to exploit or destroy you."

Noctis nodded, the weight of secrecy settling upon him. "I understand, Mother. I will keep this hidden."

Her grip softened, a sad smile tugging at her lips. "Good. Remember, my son, knowledge is power, but in our case, secrecy is survival. Trust only those who have proven their loyalty beyond doubt."

As he rose to leave, Selene's voice, now a mere whisper, reached his ears. "And Noctis, always be vigilant. The shadows have eyes, and not all who walk in light are allies."

With a heavy heart, Noctis exited his mother's chambers, the burden of his heritage pressing upon him more than ever.

As he left her chambers, Noctis couldn't shake the image of his once-formidable mother reduced to a fragile shell. The cost of denying one's true nature was steep, and he vowed to uncover the full extent of his heritage, to wield it without fear. For in the blood of Erevar flowed not just power, but the essence of identity itself.