CHAPTER-10:The Dinner of Shadows

The hallway stretched before Zairen like a forgotten crypt, its suffocating silence broken only by the echo of his footsteps. Cold torches flickered along the arched stone walls, their dim flames casting jagged shadows that seemed to whisper ancient curses. Each step rang out like a war drum, a steady rhythm of defiance against the oppressive quiet. Zairen's black cloak trailed behind him, a shadow too vast for his lean frame, as if the darkness itself clung to his will.

At the hallway's end loomed the great dining chamber. Its towering black doors, engraved with the intricate Raelbridge crest, stood like sentinels guarding secrets older than time. A lone guard stood posted, his expression carved from stone… until his eyes met Zairen's.

He froze.

Not from recognition, but from something primal. Instinct. Zairen's gaze carried a weight that made the air heavier, his walk a silent promise of power. The darkness behind his eyes stirred unease, the kind that made soldiers grip their swords without knowing why.

"Open the door," Zairen commanded, his voice flat as winter steel, sharp enough to cut through the silence. "I'm expected."

The guard fumbled, his hands trembling as he hauled the massive doors apart with both arms. "Master Zairen has arrived!" he called, though his voice cracked mid-sentence, betraying his nerves.

Silence descended like a guillotine. Eyes turned—tense, curious, predatory—watching the figure who dared disturb the sanctity of the chamber.

The room was a battlefield of opulence and tension. At the head of the long mahogany table sat Lord Vireal Raelbridge, draped in dark green silk, a goblet of bloodwine cradled in his hand like a scepter. Beside him, Lady Meralyn's silver-gray gown shimmered faintly, her gaze sharp as shattered glass. Next to them, their son—Calyen, Zairen's cousin—sat with a goblet of his own, his knuckles white from gripping it too tightly.

Across the table, Viscount Elvaron Dreven radiated authority, his stern composure forged in the fires of war. At his side sat his daughter, Lady Seressia Dreven, draped in midnight blue, her hair cascading like ink spilled across the night. Her eyes, veiled in amusement, held a spark of something deeper—malice, perhaps, or curiosity. It was impossible to tell.

Zairen stepped into the chamber, his cloak trailing like a storm cloud. He offered a slight bow, his movements precise yet effortless. "Greetings, my lord. I am Zairen Kaelridge—the youngest son of the late Lord Kaelridge."

Elvaron's stern gaze softened, a flicker of recognition passing through his weathered eyes. He tilted his head, studying the young man before him. "Oh… so you're the one. I remember you—a boy of four, clutching your mother's hand at the Winter Gala. You've changed. Taller. Sharper. A man forged by grief, perhaps. How are you?"

Zairen's voice was steady, unyielding. "I live, my lord. That's enough for now. I thank you for your concern."

"Good." The Viscount gestured to an empty seat. "Come. Sit."

Zairen moved with deliberate grace, his steps measured as he took his place beside Calyen. The boy flinched, his shoulders stiffening, fingers clenching his goblet as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

What the fuck happened to him…? Calyen's mind screamed, a torrent of panic and rage. This bastard was nothing. Weak. Pathetic. That beating last year should've kept him broken. How did he survive it? No—how did he come back like this? No no no… he's faking. Just acting smart. I'll remind him who he really is.

Calyen's gaze darted to Seressia, seeking her attention, her approval. But her eyes were elsewhere—fixed on Zairen, watching him with an intensity that made Calyen's blood boil.

No. No no. She's not watching me. She's watching him. Him! The little bastard's stealing her attention too!

Zairen didn't acknowledge Calyen's turmoil. Not at first. But then, his head turned—just enough, just long enough. His lips curled into a soft, cruel smile, and he leaned closer, his voice a whisper meant for Calyen alone.

"Potato."

A pause, deliberate and cutting. Then, slower: "Below average."

Calyen's breath hitched, his jaw locking as the words pierced him like daggers. He heard them. Worse—he knew what they meant. Memories of humiliation, of Zairen's quiet defiance even in the face of pain, flooded back. His hands trembled, rage and fear warring within him.

Not yet. Not now. But later, Calyen swore to himself, blood will answer blood.

At the far end of the table, Elvaron and Vireal spoke in hushed tones, their conversation a quiet storm. "My lord," Vireal said, his voice low and sharp, "the mines are lost. Overrun by bandits. And not ordinary scum—these wield magic. Their leader is a Third-Circle Magi Apprentice. Over a hundred loyal men. We sent soldiers. None returned. Now they've begun raiding villages."

Elvaron's frown deepened, his eyes narrowing. "Yes… I've heard of this group. They've struck other baronies as well. I've placed a bounty on their leader. But they're strong. Too strong for common mercs. That's why I've assigned an elite Mercenaries to deal with them. The leader's an old ally. Third-Circle as well."

Vireal's tension eased slightly, though his eyes remained wary. "You honor us, my lord. I thank you."

The room settled into an uneasy calm. Plates clinked. Wine poured. Yet beneath the table's polished civility, something darker pulsed, a current of secrets and unspoken threats.

Zairen let the moment stretch, savoring the weight of it. Then, he rose halfway from his seat, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "My lord… may I make a request?"

Before Elvaron could respond, Vireal's voice lashed out like a whip, sharp and commanding. "Zairen! Mind your manners. You think the Viscount is your playmate? Sit down!"

Zairen didn't flinch. Didn't waver. His gaze locked onto Elvaron's, steady and unyielding, a silent challenge that made the air in the chamber grow thick with tension. The Viscount, intrigued, raised a hand, silencing Vireal. "Let him speak."

Zairen inclined his head, his voice calm but resolute, carrying the weight of a man who had nothing left to lose. "Since my parents' deaths, I have lived in shadow. I never awakened. I never trained. But I want that to change."

Elvaron's eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. "And?"

"I wish to train with your elite soldiers."

The words fell like a thunderbolt, shattering the fragile calm of the room. Calyen's goblet nearly toppled, wine sloshing dangerously close to the edge. Meralyn's eyes widened, disbelief etched into her sharp features. Even Seressia, ever-composed, leaned forward, her gaze sharpening like a predator sensing prey.

Vireal shot to his feet, his face a mask of outrage. "What nonsense is this?! You haven't awakened! You can't feel mana—you can't even form a circle! Every noble house guards its techniques. You think they'll share them with someone like you?"

Zairen's voice remained steady, a blade tempered in fire. "I've awakened, my lord."

The room froze, the silence so heavy it seemed to choke the air itself.

"What?" Vireal's voice dropped to a whisper, his disbelief palpable. "Impossible."

"I can feel mana. I feel it in my bones. In my blood."

Elvaron rose, his presence commanding the room as he stepped toward Zairen. Without a word, he placed a calloused hand against the young man's chest, his eyes narrowing in focus. Seconds ticked by, each one stretching into eternity.

Then—a faint pulse flickered beneath his palm.

"There it is… a Mana circuit," Elvaron declared, his voice a mix of surprise and intrigue. "It's unstable, unshaped. But real. You've awakened, boy."

Vireal stumbled back, his face drained of color, as if the ground beneath him had shifted. Seressia's unreadable gaze lingered on Zairen, her amusement now tinged with something sharper—curiosity, or perhaps respect.

Elvaron withdrew his hand, his expression thoughtful. "You must visit a temple. The Mana circuit needs refining. Stabilizing. Only then can you truly awaken."

Zairen bowed, the motion graceful yet deliberate. "Of course. I welcome the guidance."

But inside, a secret burned like a hidden ember. Reverse Flow Technique. A forbidden spell taught by the masked figure in the catacombs beneath the castle—a technique to distort the signature of mana, making it appear wild and unformed. A perfect lie, cloaked in the guise of honest weakness. Zairen's awakening was no accident, no fledgling spark. It was a carefully crafted deception, and he wielded it like a blade.

Elvaron sighed, his war-hardened face softening. "You've potential. But elite training requires more than bloodlines. It requires proof. Kill monsters. Slay bandits. Earn it."

Zairen didn't hesitate, his voice steady as stone. "My father once told me you were the bravest man he knew. That he trusted you with his life. And I… trust you now."

For the first time, a flicker of emotion crossed Elvaron's stoic features—a shadow of grief, of loyalty to a fallen friend. "He did. And I regret what happened to your family. I promise you—we'll uncover the truth. The ones behind the masks won't stay hidden forever."

"Thank you," Zairen said softly, his words carrying a quiet intensity. "That means more than you know."

Elvaron fell silent, his gaze distant for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, a smile broke across his face, rare and fleeting. "Wait. Perhaps there is a way. Join the mercenary guild I've assigned. The one heading to destroy these bandits. Their leader served beside your father. I will request he watch over you—teach you."

Zairen's eyes glinted, a spark of ambition igniting within them. "I accept."

"It won't be easy," Elvaron warned, his tone grave. "You may die."

"I'd rather die on the battlefield than rot in shadows."

Elvaron nodded, a spark of approval in his eyes. "Then so be it."

He turned to Vireal, his voice firm. "Do you object?"

Vireal's lips curved into a forced smile, but his eyes betrayed him—cold, calculating, and tinged with something darker. "Not at all, my lord. If Zairen desires it…"

But behind that smile, something ancient stirred. Something afraid.