An Ancestor's Shadow

The Virellius family crypt lay beneath the manor's oldest wing, accessed through a narrow stone staircase that seemed to swallow light. Cassius descended carefully, oil lamp in hand, the flame casting dancing shadows against walls that had stood for three centuries. The air tasted of age and forgotten ambitions.

"Second shelf from the bottom," his father had instructed. "The records from your great-great-grandfather's time need sorting. Water damage from last winter's storms."

But Cassius found himself drawn to the higher shelves first, where leather-bound volumes chronicled the earliest days of House Virellius. His fingers traced spines marked with dates that preceded the current calendar, back when the Aethelian Kingdom was still a collection of warring territories.

One journal, smaller than the rest, practically fell into his hands. The leather had worn smooth from handling, and the pages crackled as he opened it. Personal Accounts of Tribune Marcus Virellius, Fourth Legion, Second Cohort.

Cassius settled onto a dusty crate, bringing the lamp closer. His ancestor's handwriting was precise despite the age-yellowed pages.

The generals call me reckless. They say my tactics violate every principle taught in the war colleges. Yet we have taken three fortified positions in as many weeks with minimal losses. Orthodox thinking would have us bleeding against their walls for months.

The entry continued, detailing a night assault that used controlled fires to create smoke screens—not to hide the main force, but to conceal the absence of troops at key points. The enemy had reinforced against phantoms while the real attack came from an "impossible" angle through marshland.

Victory through misdirection. Strength applied where none expect it. The Academy-trained officers sneer, but my men live while theirs feed the crows.

"Cassius?" His father's voice echoed down the stairs. "Have you become lost in the histories again?"

"Coming, Father." But Cassius quickly flipped through more pages, drinking in accounts of supply line raids disguised as retreats, of using enemy fortifications against them, of winning through innovation when tradition demanded honourable defeat.

His ancestor hadn't been Awakened—the journal predated the Nexus Event by decades. Yet he'd changed the nature of warfare in his small corner of the world through pure ingenuity.

Cassius carefully returned the journal to its place, mind spinning with possibilities. He grabbed the water-damaged records his father had actually sent him for and climbed back toward the light.

The dining hall glowed warm with candlelight and conversation. Baron Tiberius sat at the head of the ancient oak table, its surface scarred by generations of family meals. Livia occupied the foot, her posture perfect despite the long day. Marcus sat to their father's right—the heir's traditional place—while Cassius took his seat across from his older brother. Lucia bounced in her chair beside him, barely containing her energy.

"The eastern fields yielded fifteen percent above projection," Marcus was saying, his voice carefully modulated to sound mature. At fifteen, he'd begun shadowing their father in estate management, and he wore the responsibility like an ill-fitting cloak. "I've negotiated with the merchant guild for favourable rates on the surplus grain."

"Well done," Tiberius said, though his attention seemed elsewhere. "And the tax assessments?"

"Prepared and ready for your review." Marcus's chest puffed slightly. "I also resolved that dispute between the Miller and Donner families without requiring your intervention."

Cassius caught the slight emphasis on 'your' and recognised his brother's need for validation. It couldn't be easy, being the non-Awakened heir in a world that increasingly valued magical power over traditional authority.

"Did you find what you were looking for in the crypt?" Livia asked Cassius, smoothly redirecting the conversation. Her brown eyes held that particular maternal perception that missed nothing.

"More than I expected." Cassius set down his soup spoon. "I found Tribune Marcus Virellius's personal journal. Did you know we had a military innovator in our lineage?"

Lucia perked up immediately. "Was he a great warrior? Did he fight monsters?"

"Better. He thought differently." Cassius grinned at his sister's wide eyes. "He won battles everyone said were impossible by refusing to fight them the way tradition demanded."

"Dangerous thinking," Marcus interjected, echoing Gallio's earlier words. "The military academies teach established doctrine for good reason. Innovation without foundation is just chaos."

"Yet he won." Cassius kept his tone light, but the challenge hung between them. "His unorthodox tactics saved lives and earned victory where traditional approaches meant certain defeat."

Tiberius set down his wine cup with deliberate precision. "Tribune Marcus Virellius was indeed remarkable. He rose from common stock to earn a noble title through service. His innovations revolutionised legion tactics in the eastern campaigns." His grey eyes found each of his children in turn. "But he also understood that innovation must serve a greater purpose. Cleverness without duty is mere vanity."

"His journal spoke often of duty," Cassius agreed. "Duty to keep his men alive. Duty to win efficiently rather than gloriously."

"Pretty words," Marcus said, sawing at his roasted venison with perhaps more force than necessary. "But our duty is to maintain what our ancestors built. To preserve House Virellius's standing through proven methods. Not everyone can afford to gamble with unconventional approaches."

The words 'like you would if you could' hung unspoken in the air. Cassius saw his mother's subtle hand gesture—peace, not tonight.

"Speaking of family legacy," Livia smoothly intervened, "Lucia has been practicing her letters. Show your father your progress, dear one."

Lucia beamed, launching into an enthusiastic recitation of her lessons. The tension eased as she chattered about forming perfect letters and the stories she wanted to write. Cassius caught his mother's eye and nodded slightly—message received.

Yet Marcus wasn't finished. As the servants cleared the main course, he turned to their father. "The Barons' Assembly next month—I've prepared a summary of the key issues. The proposed increase in the military tithe, the dispute over the northern trade routes, the question of commoner Awakened entering the officer corps..."

"All important matters," Tiberius acknowledged. "Your preparation serves you well, Marcus. A good lord must master such details."

"Unlike those who spend their time in dusty books and unconventional sparring," Marcus added, not quite under his breath.

Cassius's jaw tightened, but Lucia unknowingly saved him from responding. "Cassius, tell me more about our ancestor! Did he have purple eyes like you?"

"Purple eyes aren't hereditary in our line, little star. Just a quirk of birth." Cassius ruffled her dark hair. "But I'd like to think he saw the world differently too, in his own way."

"When you're older," Lucia declared with nine-year-old certainty, "you'll be an even greater warrior than him. You'll have purple eyes AND special powers!"

"Lucia," Marcus began, his tone sharp with the peculiar cruelty of older siblings, "not everyone Awakens. Most don't. Filling your head with fantasies—"

"Marcus." Their father's voice cut like a blade. "Enough."

The heir fell silent, but his knuckles were white where he gripped his cup. Cassius understood, truly. Marcus carried the weight of being heir without the power that increasingly defined worth in their world. Every mention of Awakening must feel like salt in an un-healing wound.

The dessert course—honey cakes with preserved fruits—passed in strained politeness. Tiberius spoke of estate matters. Livia shared news from her correspondence with other minor noble houses. Marcus added observations with forced calm. Lucia, sensing the adult tensions without understanding them, grew progressively quieter.

As the meal concluded, Tiberius stood. "Cassius. My study. The rest of you, a pleasant evening."

Cassius followed his father through the manor's halls, past portraits of ancestors who watched with painted eyes. The study smelled of leather, ink, and the faint smoke from the dying fire. Tiberius moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

"You read more than just Tribune Marcus's journal today."

It wasn't a question. Cassius had learned long ago that little escaped his father's notice. "His tactical papers. Battle plans. Letters to his cohort."

"And what did you conclude?"

"That innovation and tradition need not be enemies. He built upon existing tactics, just... differently."

Tiberius turned, his weathered face unreadable. "Your brother struggles. He sees your potential—your quick mind, your unconventional gifts, your very eyes—as judgment on what he lacks."

"I've never—"

"I know." His father's expression softened fractionally. "But perception shapes reality in noble houses. Marcus will inherit because he is firstborn and because he has prepared his entire life for the responsibility. He will be a good lord, careful and dutiful."

"Yes, Father."

"But you..." Tiberius paused, choosing words carefully. "You remind me of Tribune Marcus. That same restless intelligence. That same impatience. It's a gift, but also a burden."

Cassius waited, recognising one of his father's teaching moments.

"Our house stands at a crossroads. The world changes. Awakened individuals grow more numerous, more vital to a kingdom's strength. Traditional nobility without power increasingly becomes... decorative. Marcus knows this. Fears it. And you represent that change, whether you've Awakened or not."

"What would you have me do?"

"Be patient with your brother. Support him. But also..." Tiberius moved to his desk, withdrawing a small leather pouch. "Continue to prepare. Train with Gallio. Study with Cato. And read these."

Inside the pouch were three thin volumes. Cassius recognised the script on their spines—more of Tribune Marcus's writings.

"These weren't in the crypt."

"No. These detail his final campaigns. His greatest innovations. And ultimately, why innovation alone wasn't enough." Tiberius's eyes were distant. "He died protecting a supply caravan. Refused to abandon the wounded for tactical advantage. His enemies had studied his methods, you see. Predicted his unpredictability."

The lesson was clear. Innovation needed wisdom. Power required purpose.

"Thank you, Father."

"Go. Your sister is likely waiting to ambush you with more questions about our legendary ancestor."

Indeed, Lucia lurked outside the study, practically vibrating with curiosity. "What did Father want? Are you in trouble? Was it about the ancestor?"

"All good things, little star." Cassius scooped her up, carrying her toward her chambers as she giggled. "And yes, I'll tell you one more story about Tribune Marcus. But then straight to bed."

As he spun tales of clever tactics and honourable victories, editing out the darker realities of war, Cassius felt the weight of the journals in his pouch. Tomorrow, he would read them. He would train with new purpose, study with fresh perspective.

Marcus passed them in the hallway, his expression carefully neutral. "Brother," he acknowledged stiffly.

"Marcus." Cassius shifted Lucia's weight. "Your work with the eastern fields—truly well done. Father may be reserved with praise, but I heard the pride in his voice."

Something flickered across his older brother's face—surprise, perhaps. "I... thank you."

"We each serve House Virellius in our own way."

Marcus nodded slowly, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Yes. We do." He continued past, then paused. "Cassius? That ancestor of ours. His innovations. Did they... did they truly make a difference?"

"They saved lives. Earned victory. Changed how wars were fought."

"Without power. Without Awakening."

"With mind and will alone."

Marcus stood silent for a long moment. Then: "Perhaps I should read those journals sometime. When you're finished."

"I'd like that."

As his brother disappeared into the shadows of the manor, Cassius carried Lucia the rest of the way to her room. She was already half-asleep, mumbling about purple-eyed warriors and clever strategies.

Change was coming to House Virellius. Cassius could feel it in the very stones of their ancient home. But perhaps it didn't have to tear them apart. Perhaps, like Tribune Marcus's tactics, they could find a new way forward—one that honoured both tradition and innovation.

He tucked Lucia into bed, kissed her forehead, and headed for his own chambers. There were journals to read, lessons to parse, and tomorrow's training to prepare for.