Chapter-12: The Departure Looms

The seal was stamped in wax, its crimson glint catching the lowlight of the flickering candle. Zairen sat quietly on the dust-ridden chair, holding the letter as if it weighed the world. The crest of the Viscount gleamed faintly on the envelope—a twin serpent devouring itself, coiled like fate.

"So… preparations are complete," he murmured to no one. His fingers tightened around the knife as he slid it beneath the seal and sliced it open with a clean, swift motion.

The paper crackled in his hands.

Seven days… until departure.

A sigh escaped his lips, long and hollow. "Then it begins."

Zairen set the letter aside and turned toward the window. The afternoon sun slipped through the window, lighting the wooden floor in dull gold. But the warmth never touched him. He sit on the cracked floor; the stone chilled his bones, but his mind remained sharp. Still. Focused.

He inhaled deeply, held it, and exhaled with control.

With each breath, mana flowed—subtle at first, then stronger. As he drew the air inward, threads of raw energy siphoned through his lungs, weaving into his core. When he exhaled, he expelled the corrupted remnants—dark, twitching particles that faded into the air like ash.

He repeated the process. Inhale. Purify. Exhale.

exhale.

And again.

A quiet hum vibrated through his body. When he opened his eyes, they shimmered with a faint glow. "Mana stabilization… complete."

Lifting his hand, he extended a single finger. A soft line of light danced from his fingertip, a stream of fine energy bending to his will.

"I can infuse it now… merge mana into matter." A tired smile flickered.

He stood up slowly, limbs stiff from the meditation. Outside, darkness had devoured the sky. Not even the stars dared to peek through the heavy clouds.

"How long was I training…?" he whispered. His voice was dry, cracking at the edges. "No matter… time to sleep."

But sleep didn't come easy.

Morning broke like a blade to the throat. The cold bit at his skin as Zairen sprinted through the manor grounds, his breath forming mist in the morning air. He trained with ruthless intent—running, leaping, striking. His sword sliced through wind, his feet danced awkwardly across the muddy field.

The soldiers around him watched briefly, some snickering behind calloused hands.

"Looks like he's dancing with ghosts."

"More like a puppet with broken strings."

But they said nothing aloud. They turned back to their own training. After all, nobles were not to be mocked openly.

Zairen didn't care. Their laughter was a wind that passed through him. He trained until his bones burned, until his heart screamed for rest.

When the bell rang for lunch, he walked toward the dining hall—mud on his boots, sweat on his brow. Inside, the family sat around the long table. His uncle Vireal at the head. Aunt Marylen beside him. And Calyean—the ever-resentfulresentful cousin—sneering with contempt.

Zairen took a seat beside Calyean. and offered a smile.

"Good afternoon, cousin," he said.

Calyean froze for a breath. His eyes flared. He stood up violently, his chair scraping the floor. "You… How dare you—"

"SIT DOWN!" Vireal's voice thundered through the hall, sharp as steel cracking bone.

Calyean clenched his fists. "But father—!"

"I said sit."

Grinding his teeth, Calyean obeyed. He looked to his mother for support, but Marylen said nothing. She simply ate, eyes cold as stone.

What is happening…? Calyean's thoughts roared. Why are they protecting this little shit? What spell has he cast on them?

He seethed in silence.

Then, Vireal turned to Zairen with a faint, almost pleasant smile.

"I heard you've begun training."

Zairen nodded, keeping his tone soft. "Yes, Uncle. I thought I should build some stamina. I wouldn't want to fall behind during the mission."

"Good," Vireal said. "It's wise of you to prepare. When are you to leave?"

"In seven days."

"I'll arrange men to accompany you," Vireal added. "For protection, of course. I've also seen to the departure details."

Zairen bowed his head slightly, masking his wariness behind innocence. "Thank you, Uncle. I truly appreciate your kindness."

"Of course."

The room fell silent again.

One by one, they finished their meal. Vireal left first, followed by Zairen. The moment he was gone, Calyean slammed his hand on the table and glared at his mother.

"Why?" he growled. "Why are you taking his side?!"

Marylen dabbed her lips calmly with a napkin. "Calm yourself. You don't understand the larger picture."

"I know what you two are planning. The ambush. The raid. You want him dead!"

"Yes, my son," she said, voice icy. "But not now. Not so soon. Let him breathe a little. Let him die by a bandit's blade—not ours."

Calyean's breath hitched.

"And when he's gone," Marylen continued, "everything goes to his sister. And you—my beloved son—will marry her."

Calyean's expression twisted with hunger. His mind conjured the image of Zairen's sister—black hair like raven wings, red eyes like twilight flames, skin soft as silk.

"Yes…" he whispered. "Yes, I like that."

"Good," Marylen purred. "Once you have her, do as you wish. Use her. Discard her. She will be nothing."

Calyean laughed darkly, his voice dripping filth.

"But she's still missing," he said. "It's been two years. She's training under that damned royal magus."

Marylen's eyes narrowed. "That man is powerful. A five-circle magi. If she returns and suspects foul play, he will burn us alive."

"She hates Zairen."

"Yes. But hatred can shift. Emotions are a fragile thing."

"I understand, mother," Calyean said. "We wait. Like snakes. Quiet. Patient."

"Good boy. Now go train. You're still only a first-circle apprentice."

"I'll master it. Before the end of the month, I'll reach the next tier."

"See that you do."

As Calyean stormed off, Marylen remained seated, staring into her wine with a smirk.

Only a few years more… and it all belongs to us.

Back in his room, Zairen resumed his meditation.

"I must acquire better scrolls… new techniques. But they're not in this kingdom," he muttered. "Another day's concern."

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Master Zairen," a maid's voice came through the door, "The household awaits you at dinner."

Zairen stood, adjusted his tunic, and made his way to the table.

Dinner passed quietly. Even Calyean said nothing—his glares were poison, but his lips remained sealed.

After the meal, Zairen returned to his room.

For the next seven days, he trained relentlessly. No one interfered.

No one dared.

He meditated through storms. Ran through the dark. Fought through pain.

Then the morning came—the day of departure.