1 Year 5 Months and 4 Days Until the Fall of House Romulus

  The morning came cold and quiet, sunlight barely pushing through the high windows of the manor's dining hall.

  Mikhael stepped forward, the restored glass in his hands.

  "My lord, I have done it. Here is the glass," he said, voice even.

  Valentina sat at the far end of the table, already holding her cup delicately. Her eyes flicked toward Mikhael like she had heard a rat speak. She did not bother hiding the look of disdain, as if his voice had physically pained her.

  Mikhael gave her a glance, measured, patient, and smiled faintly.

  Their eyes met.

  She turned her head with a sharp puff of air from her nose, as if the sight of him was an inconvenience too vulgar to name.

  Romulus did not react. He took the glass from Mikhael's hands, inspected the surface, turned it between his fingers, and held it up.

  "Something is missing," he said.

  Mikhael blinked, then reached for the wine pitcher. He poured slowly, the deep red catching the sunlight. The glass held perfectly.

  "Good," Romulus said.

  He looked over to Valentin, who sat quietly at the side of the table, trying not to meet anyone's gaze. His shoulders were stiff, his fork untouched. There was something in his expression, like he was shrinking from the edges of the room.

  "You have been neglecting your fencing studies," Romulus said to him, tone neutral. "But what about your grimoire? I hope dust has not settled there too."

  "No, Father," Valentin said, voice tight. "I have been practising."

  "Good," Romulus replied. "You and I will show Mikhael after breakfast how a real duel between noble blood is done."

  The courtyard was wide and open to the cold morning light. The stone floor was scarred with old strikes, dust powdered along the edges, and a single rack of training blades stood off to the side, each one etched with faint sealwork along the spine.

  Mikhael stood near the edge, arms crossed, as Romulus stepped onto the training floor. He wore light armour, not ceremonial but functional. Black, polished, etched with lines of red sealwork across the plates. An amulet sat in the centre of his chestplate, glowing faintly.

  Valentin followed behind, dressed in similar armour, lighter, newer, untouched by real use. His face was calm, but the tension showed in his jaw.

  "You may begin," Romulus said.

  Valentin moved first.

  The amulet at his chest flared, and the seals etched into his boots and armour lit up with red light. In an instant, he vanished from Mikhael's view, a blur of movement. He leapt into the air, spinning sideways, blade cutting toward Romulus's head.

  Romulus ducked under it, then turned and swept his leg out. His boot caught Valentin mid-air, flipping him, and Romulus launched him across the courtyard.

  Valentin hit the edge of the arena, breathless.

  But he got to his feet quickly, sword still in hand. Romulus had yet to draw his own.

  Valentin steadied himself, blade raised in a horizontal stance near his head, built for piercing.

  He lunged.

  Romulus moved this time. He stepped aside in a blink, drawing his blade as he turned, letting steel meet steel with a sharp crack that sent Valentin reeling sideways.

  Valentin dropped into a roll, then pulled the grimoire from the pouch strapped to his back. He began flipping through the pages, fingers searching with more panic than precision.

  Romulus sighed. Loudly. Disappointed.

  Without hesitation, he withdrew his own grimoire. His hand moved with practised instinct, flipping to the correct page in seconds.

  He placed his palm against the parchment and pulled back. Fire burst to life in his hand, gathering in a tight, molten sphere.

  With a swift motion, like throwing a punch, Romulus released the spell.

  A roaring wave of flame surged forward.

  Valentin, eyes wide, could not find the right page in time. He ducked, crossing his arms over his head. The seals on his armour flared bright, absorbing the impact, but the drain on him was visible. His knees buckled slightly from the strain.

  As the fire cleared, Valentin stood, barely.

  Romulus did not wait. He was already on the move. He closed the distance in seconds.

  Valentin saw him too late. He dropped his arms, letting his defensive seals fade, and Romulus's punch landed square in his gut.

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  The force of it lifted him from the ground, air driven from his lungs, spit flying from his mouth.

  Romulus's second strike came from the left, an open-fist blow to the side of Valentin's head that sent him spinning through the air, crashing down outside the arena's edge.

  He groaned, clutching at the grass, the pain keeping him grounded.

  Romulus stood still, blade loose at his side. He was grinning, caught in the thrill of dominance.

  Then the smile faded.

  He looked at the boy lying near the wall.

  "That was pathetic," he said.

  Valentina was already moving. She strode across the stone, her coat trailing behind her like a shadow. Her face was unreadable, but her pace was quick.

  She knelt beside her son and withdrew a grimoire, black leather, trimmed in red. Gothic and cold. She opened a page with one hand and held the book aloft. Her other hand hovered over Valentin's chest.

  A faint red glow spread from her palm.

  Healing.

  Mikhael stood back, watching all of it. Not just the magic, but the way Romulus fought, efficient, brutal, detached. And the way Valentin moved, fast, trained, but soft. Too soft.

  He did not know if he pitied him. He only knew this:

  If Valentin was what noble blood looked like sharpened, then Romulus was the whetstone that made sure it bled.

  "Valentin, give Mikhael your armour."

  Valentina opened her mouth to object, but the image of Romulus doing the same thing to Mikhael, with no one there to heal him, froze the words on her tongue. She turned to Valentin and gave him a sharp nod.

  Valentin stood up, still clutching his side, and began unfastening the armour. It took him a moment. He moved stiffly. The metal still held warmth from his skin as he handed the pieces over to Mikhael.

  Mikhael looked at the armour, then at Romulus, then back again. For a second, he was unsure, hesitant, but he did not want to stand there too long. He stepped forward and began to strap it on.

  Romulus took a sip of wine while Mikhael tightened the straps. He waited, quiet, unhurried. Once Mikhael stepped into the arena, the nerves came quickly. He was scared, but something more than that burned in him. Eager. This was not just a duel. This was his chance. He could not strike Romulus at random. But this was sanctioned. Allowed. If he could land even a single hit, he would make it count.

  Romulus walked forward until he stood directly in front of Mikhael. Mikhael tensed, unsure what was happening. Then Romulus placed a hand flat on Mikhael's chest, over the amulet embedded in the armour, and pulled. The amulet sparked. Little arcs of red light snapped outward as it detached, like it did not want to be let go.

  "Greedy."

  Romulus stepped back, holding the glowing stone in his hand.

  "I want to see your strength," he said. "Raw. And I will not use voice-command seals."

  He turned and walked to his place across the arena.

  "Attack me," he said. "When you wish, and how you wish."

  Mikhael nodded. He glanced down at the armour. The seals etched across it were clean, elegant, dangerous. Not like the one he had trained with last night, but he understood enough now. He knew what to focus on. He remembered the feeling of power flowing, controlled and directed.

  He closed his eyes for a breath.

  Then the seals erupted. Red light flashed across the arena. The etched patterns ignited one after another on his boots, arms, spine. Lightning crackled along his limbs.

  Valentin looked up, eyes wide in disbelief. Valentina scowled. Her hand went instinctively to her grimoire. Rage boiled under her skin. She wanted nothing more than to be in Romulus's place, to tear the boy apart.

  Mikhael disappeared.

  Romulus's eyes widened. A streak of red cut through the air behind him. He turned instantly, flaring the seals across his body, prepared for a strike.

  But there was no one behind him.

  "He circled me." Romulus thought.

  Then he felt it.

  A fist slammed into his gut, clean, full force.

  Mikhael stood in front of him, his arm extended, still trembling from the strike. Romulus slid back several metres across the stone, his boots dragging a trail behind him.

  Valentina surged to her feet, fury breaking loose. "How dare you lay a hand on him, you mongrel!"

  Romulus shot her a single look.

  She sat back down.

  Mikhael did not hear either of them. He was not thinking about politics, or consequences, or punishment. He was looking at his fist. Still shaking. Still glowing faintly red. He had moved like lightning. Faster than he had ever imagined possible. It was not just the armour. It was him.

  And for the first time, he felt it.

  Power. Real power.

  Romulus straightened, brushing his coat where Mikhael's fist had struck. He said nothing at first. Just looked at him.

  Mikhael's chest rose and fell. His knuckles still tingled. The armour thrummed faintly with leftover seal energy. He had landed a hit. A real one. And for a heartbeat, he let himself believe that meant something.

  Romulus stepped forward.

  Mikhael squared his stance. He could do this. He had speed. He had force. He was not helpless anymore. He tightened his grip on the gauntlet. Shifted his weight.

  Then Romulus moved.

  The amulet on his chest flared, a dim pulse, and the seals across his armour lit like coals in a furnace. Boots. Shoulders. Palm.

  Mikhael braced for a strike, but Romulus did not punch. He vanished.

  In the next blink, something slammed into Mikhael's side, a palm, flat and fast, striking just under the ribs. Pain shot through his torso. He stumbled, off balance. Before he could recover, Romulus twisted behind him and swept low, his leg scything through Mikhael's stance.

  The world spun.

  Mikhael hit the ground hard, armour clanging against the stone. He gasped. His vision blurred. His breath caught in his throat. He tried to move, but his limbs felt distant and heavy. The armour now felt twice as heavy. His balance was gone, his breath scattered.

  That hit had not just floored him. It had stripped away something colder: the illusion that he was ready.

  Valentina leaned forward in her seat, a slow grin tugging at her mouth. She was not reaching for her grimoire, just watching. Waiting. Hoping he would not get up. She did not want him dead. She wanted him broken. Small.

  And on his back, that was close enough.

  Romulus was not finished with him.

  He approached slowly, raising one fist, not fully clenched, not shaking. Just steady. A final strike. A lesson. The fist did not tremble. It hovered like a question Mikhael could not answer.

  Mikhael flinched, barely, out of instinct.

  Romulus looked down at him for a moment longer, then let the hand fall.

  "That will do," he said, stopping the hand near Mikhael's face.

  He turned and walked away.

  Valentina's smile vanished with him.

  Mikhael lay there, heart pounding in his ears. He had not been beaten. He had been handled. The power he thought he had felt a minute ago now sat like a lie in his hands. He thought he was strong.

  He was not. Not yet.

  But he would be. Next time, he would not just move faster. He would make it count.

  Romulus adjusted the cuff of his coat, took one quiet breath, and said, "You will train with Valentin every morning from now on."

  The words were addressed to both boys, but only Mikhael looked up.

  "Blade, reflex, seals," Romulus continued. "You will sharpen each other, or bleed trying."

  He reached into his coat, pulled out a worn black grimoire, and held it out. Mikhael rose and stepped forward. His arms ached, but he took it without hesitation.

  "Study it in your own time. Do not ask for help. Do not fail." Romulus's voice did not change, but something colder crept in at the edge.

  "If you do, the Reaper will pick up where I left off."

  He turned without waiting for a response. His boots echoed once against the courtyard stone, then faded.

  Valentin said nothing. He kept his gaze low.

  Valentina's eyes followed Romulus. Not her son. Not the boy holding the book.

  And Mikhael? He did not look at either of them. He just stood in the courtyard, grimoire in hand, already planning, eager to learn every bit of it.