Change Is Coming (8)

The creak of the heavy wooden door groaned through the air as Vryne stepped into the dimly lit study. The scent of old parchment, ink, and faint traces of candle wax lingered, saturating the room in a distinct stillness.

Despite the room's darkness, Vryne could still make out the intricate details surrounding him. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes and scrolls detailing everything from economics and political theory to mana engineering and combat strategies. The sheer variety of knowledge displayed the calculated intellect of the room's owner—Ivor El Drexsic.

In the heart of the room sat a grand desk—crafted from polished oak wood, though its surface was painted in muted silver-gray, giving it an almost metallic sheen. Intricate carvings adorned its edges—patterns resembling twisting vines entangling swords and shields—a silent homage to the Drexsic family's long-standing military legacy. Its surface was pristine yet intimidating, with papers, scrolls, and ledgers meticulously arranged in deliberate order.

Behind the desk stood a tall, ornate chair — black, with silver embroidery running across the edges like veins of cold metal. The chair's frame was adorned with symmetrical carvings of coiling serpents devouring their own tails, symbols of power and unending cycles.

Yet, what held Vryne's focus most wasn't the room's design—it was the man sitting behind the desk.

Ivor Drexsic — his father — sat motionless. His fingers were interlocked, resting atop the organized mountain of paperwork. The faint glow of a brass lamp illuminated only his hands and the immediate contents of the desk. His face remained shrouded in shadow, save for the faint glint of his obsidian-black eyes—dark and endless, like a vast ocean swallowing the light whole. Even with the faintest illumination, those eyes seemed to gleam with piercing intensity.

And, disturbingly, they were the same eyes Vryne had inherited.

Inwardly, Vryne drew a slow, steady breath before stepping forward. He halted just in front of the desk, bowing his head politely.

"Father," Vryne greeted evenly. "You called for me?"

Ivor didn't respond immediately. Instead, his fingers tapped once against the desk—a deliberate and rhythmic motion. His gaze flicked downward to a sheet of parchment set aside from the rest of his papers.

"Read it," Ivor said coldly, gesturing to the paper.

Vryne's gaze shifted to the parchment. His neutral expression remained intact, but inwardly, his thoughts sharpened.

It was the engagement contract—a formalized document binding him to Solara Greysteel. The parchment was embellished with silver filigree, and several seals bore the marks of both noble families. The contract contained various conditions—some traditional, others bound by law—swearing loyalty, combining political influence, and ensuring an heir within five years of their marriage. Each clause was penned in elegant script, outlining a bond that extended far beyond mere social obligation.

Vryne's gaze returned to his father's shadowed form. Even in the dim light, he could feel Ivor's cold stare burrowing into him.

"Do you want me to… do something about this?" Vryne asked neutrally.

Ivor's fingers tapped the desk again—once, twice. His voice remained low but carried a chilling sharpness.

"Read the details. Thoroughly," Ivor instructed, his tone hinting at something unspoken. "Understand what's expected of you."

There was no warmth in his words—only firm, calculated authority.

Vryne held his expression steady and gave a curt nod. "Yes, Father."

He reached for the paper, intending to study it in his room. But just as he turned, Ivor's voice cut through the air once more.

"Vryne."

Suddenly—the air changed.

The temperature seemed to plummet, and a crushing weight pressed down on Vryne's shoulders. His breathing slowed, his muscles locked, and a faint rumble vibrated beneath his feet.

His father's aura — a force separate from mana, yet equally potent — flooded the room. The oppressive energy was suffocating, clinging to Vryne's skin like unseen chains. His legs trembled involuntarily, and his hand gripped the contract tighter to suppress his body's shaking.

"Is there something your choosing to withhold from me?" Ivor's voice, though calm, seemed to reverberate like distant thunder.

Vryne swallowed. Inwardly, panic stirred—Ivor was testing him.

He knows… something

Forcing his voice steady, Vryne responded, "Did I… do something that's made you question me?"

Silence.

The oppressive weight lingered for a moment longer, suffocating and absolute. Vryne's lungs strained to pull in air.

Then—the pressure eased.

Ivor lowered his gaze, lifting one of the papers from his desk.

"It's nothing, then," Ivor said flatly. "You may leave."

Vryne didn't turn back. He forced his body to move steadily, each step deliberate as he walked toward the door. Only when his hand gripped the cold brass handle did he permit himself a quiet exhale.

Without a word, he exited the study and shut the door behind him.

—

For several moments, silence ruled the room. Ivor calmly sorted through the organized mess of papers on his desk. His cold gaze scanned the lines of text, seemingly absorbed in his work.

Yet, without looking up, he spoke.

"You've been watching him," Ivor said flatly. "Have you seen anything… unusual?"

From the shadows of the far corner, a figure silently emerged — a woman clad in a sleek, form-fitting black uniform. Her hair was neatly tied back, and her sharp gaze glinted faintly under the dim light.

The woman bowed her head, clasping her hands behind her back in disciplined form.

"No, my lord," she answered calmly. "I've seen no reason to suspect the young master."

Ivor remained silent, flipping a page. His expression, still partially hidden in the dim light, didn't shift.

"Continue observing him," Ivor muttered.

"Yes, my lord."

Without another word, the woman stepped back into the shadows—her presence vanishing without so much as a whisper.

Ivor remained at his desk, his fingers lingering atop a sealed letter marked with a crimson wax emblem — a symbol of the Imperial Council.

His cold, pitch-black eyes narrowed.