The silence was the first thing that began to grate on Janus’s nerves.

  It wasn't a sudden silence, but a gradual, creeping void that started in the corner of the training grounds and eventually bled into every aspect of his day. On the first day Lucean didn't show, Janus had simply assumed his cousin was caught in a particularly long chapter of one of those mundane novels. On the third day, he figured Lucean was dodging a particularly boring lecture on the history of Eropa's trade routes.

  But by the fifth day, the silence had a weight. It felt like a physical pressure sitting on Janus's chest every time he walked past the empty stone bench by the teak trees.

  Where are you, nerd? Janus thought, his eyes scanning the cafeteria for a glimpse of messy black hair or a box of grape juice. I’ve mastered the three-point parry you teased me about. I was supposed to show you today.

  The other students didn't seem to notice. To them, Lucean was a ghost that had simply stopped haunting the halls. They whispered about the "Golden Heir," marveling at Janus’s increasing intensity, never realizing that his power was surging because he was trying to drown out his own growing anxiety.

  "Concentrate, Young Master! The Dragon does not wander!"

  The voice of Master Sil, the chief instructor of the main branch, snapped through the air like a whip. Janus stood in the center of the private training terrace, his body draped in a mantle of golden aura so thick it distorted the air around him.

  "I am focused, Master," Janus replied, though his jaw was tight.

  "Your aura says otherwise," the old man narrowed his eyes. "It flickers. You are reaching for the Divine Dragon Dive, a technique that demands total synchronization of mind and vein. If you falter, the backlash will shatter your ribs."

  Janus took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, forcing thoughts of Lucean into a small box in the back of his mind. He reached into his core, touching the brilliant, sun-like heat of his manifestation. He was a genius—a once-in-a-generation talent. He could feel the flow of the world, the ley lines of energy beneath the stone, the very heartbeat of the estate.

  He moved.

  In a blur of gold and white, Janus leaped. He didn't just jump; he seemed to vanish into the light. He performed the Divine Dragon Dive, a descent so fast and forceful that the air itself screamed in protest. He struck the training dummy with a palm strike, the golden energy erupting in a controlled shockwave that cracked the reinforced stone beneath the target.

  The instructors stood in stunned silence.

  "Perfect," one whispered. "He is only fifteen... the Patriarch achieved that fluidity only in his forties."

  Janus stood amidst the settling dust, his chest heaving. He didn't feel like a genius. He felt like a weapon being sharpened for a war he didn't understand. He looked at his hands, glowing with a power that felt cold and lonely.

  Even with this... I can’t find you, can I?

  That night, Janus sat on his terrace, attempting to meditate. The moon was a sharp silver sliver over the Eropa skyline. The silence of the night was usually a comfort, but now it felt like an accusation.

  Clack.

  A pebble bounced off his shoulder. Then another.

  Janus didn't flinch. A small, genuine smile broke through his gloom. He didn't need to look to know the trajectory. Only one person in this entire compound had the audacity to throw rocks at the future Patriarch.

  "You're late for our sparring session by about a week," Janus said, looking down into the darkness of the gardens.

  "Psssht. Quiet, Young Genius," a familiar, lazy voice whispered. "Come down. Or are you too 'divine' to jump from a balcony?"

  Janus didn't hesitate. He grabbed his jacket, vaulted over the marble railing, and dropped thirty feet with the grace of a cat, his golden vein cushioning the impact. Lucean was standing there, shrouded in a dark cloak, his red eyes looking strangely vibrant in the moonlight.

  "Lucean! Where have you—"

  "Questions later. Follow me," Lucean interrupted, already turning toward the perimeter fence.

  They ran. Lucean didn't use the flashy, golden-streaked sprints of the Condre arts. He moved like a shadow—quiet, efficient, and hauntingly fast. Janus followed him through the woods, up a steep, rocky path that led to a jagged cliff overlooking the entire Condre valley.

  Lucean stopped at the edge, the wind whipping his hair. Below them, the sprawling mansion and its various branch estates looked like a sea of amber lights.

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  "What a view," Lucean murmured. "Look at it, Janus. There’s the Patriarch’s hall... there’s the outer branch where I live. It looks so peaceful from up here, doesn't it?"

  Janus walked up beside him, still catching his breath. "It’s our home, Lucean. Why are you acting like a tourist?"

  "Is it a home, or a cage?" Lucean asked, his voice devoid of its usual humor. "Look at the way the walls are built. Everything is designed to keep us looking inward, at each other. Uncle Silver, Aunt Teres... they’re all huddled together like sheep. The Patriarch calls it 'clanship.' I call it a chokehold."

  Janus frowned. "Do you feel choked, Lucean? Because you’re a part of a lower branch? If that’s it, I told you—when I take over, that changes."

  "No, Janus. It’s the opposite," Lucean said, looking at him with a look that felt like a goodbye. "You’re the one who’s choked. You just haven't realized you can't breathe yet."

  "What are you talking about? What happened this week?" Janus stepped forward, reaching for his cousin's shoulder.

  Lucean stepped back, just out of reach. "Don't pry, Janus. Not tonight." He looked back at the lights of the estate. "I want you to make a vow. Between just us."

  Janus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. "A vow?"

  "If something happens to me," Lucean said, his voice becoming a formal, heavy thing. "Promise me you’ll protect my family. My mother, Lily... and the baby she’s carrying. My father is... well, he’s a Condre. He’s busy. I need someone I can trust to look after them."

  "What could happen to you?" Janus demanded, his golden eyes flaring. "You're the best fighter in the academy! If anyone messes with you, they have to go through me!"

  "Just promise me," Lucean insisted.

  "I promise," Janus snapped, frustration boiling over. "But what about you? What’s your vow? This is one-sided!"

  Lucean gave a small, sad chuckle. "I’m just a guy who wants to finish his book, Janus. You’re the future Patriarch. Your job is the clan. Mine is... well, mine is just to get by."

  Janus felt a surge of defiant energy. He turned toward the estate and let out a roar that echoed off the cliffside. "Listen up, Condre! I, Janus Condre, vow that when I become Patriarch, I will bring this clan back to its glory! We will be Hunters again! Protectors of humanity! Not just bankers in fancy robes! I swear it!"

  He turned back to Lucean, his face flushed with the declaration. "There. That’s my vow to you. I’ll make a world where you don’t have to worry about your family, because the whole clan will be worth a damn again."

  Lucean watched him for a long time. "There it is," he whispered. "That's the spirit. I knew I could count on you." He turned away, his silhouette blending into the trees. "Go back to your meditation, Young Master. Goodnight."

  "Wait! Lucean!"

  But he was gone. Janus stood on the cliff, the echo of his own vow ringing in the air, feeling a strange, hollow victory.

  Another week passed.

  The halls were colder. The instructors were more tight-lipped. Janus couldn't stand it anymore. He skipped his morning tutelage and sprinted toward the outer branch territory, toward the modest house of Peter and Lily Condre.

  "Aunt Lily?" Janus knocked on the door, his heart hammering. "Lucean? Are you in there?"

  The door was unlatched. It creaked open.

  Janus stepped inside, and his breath hitched. The small living room was a wreck. A table had been smashed to splinters. There were dark, wet stains on the floor—blood. But more terrifying were the marks on the walls—deep, jagged furrows that looked like clawmarks.

  "What happened here?" Janus whispered, his golden aura erupting instinctively, flooding the room with a harsh, artificial light. "Lucean! Aunt Lily!"

  There was no one. The house felt dead.

  "Young Master?"

  Janus spun around, his hand raised to strike. A man from the estate staff stood at the door, his face pale and eyes wide with fear.

  "Where are they?" Janus roared. "What happened to this house?"

  "I... I think you should come to the Elder Hall, sir," the man stammered. "It’s Lucean. Something is happening."

  Janus didn't wait for another word.

  He bolted. He didn't use the paths. He jumped from rooftop to rooftop, his golden vein pushing his body to inhuman speeds. To the servants and onlookers below, the Young Master looked like a golden streak, a predator flying through the air with a desperate, singular focus.

  He reached the Great Elder Hall, the ancient heart of the Condre power. He burst through the massive iron-bound doors, and the scene inside froze the blood in his veins.

  The Hall was filled with the Council—the cold, greedy Elders Janus so despised. In the center of the floor, Lucean was on his knees. He was unrecognizable. His clothes were shredded, his skin was pale, and he was bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts. His eyes were bloodshot, a terrifying, liquid scarlet that seemed to be leaking tears of red.

  Beside him, Lily was on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Peter Condre stood over her, his face a mask of shame and conflicted loyalty, his eyes fixed on the floor.

  "Lucean!" Janus screamed, rushing forward.

  "Stay back, Janus!" the Patriarch’s voice boomed.

  Janus ignored him, kneeling beside his cousin. He reached out to grab Lucean’s shoulders, but as he touched him, Janus recoiled as if he had been burned.

  It was a sensation only a Golden Vein user could describe. It was the feeling of a glass cathedral shattering. He felt the spiritual resonance of Lucean’s martial vein—the thing that gave them their power, their status, their very identity—snapping into a million pieces.

  "No..." Janus gasped, his hands trembling. "What did they do to you? Who did this?"

  "He wanted this, Janus," the Patriarch said, standing atop his dais. He looked older than he had that morning, his golden eyes cold and distant. "My grandson... step away. This is a matter of the Code."

  Lucean let out a choked, ragged breath. He looked up at Janus, and for a second, the scarlet in his eyes flared. He looked like he was being hollowed out from the inside. His body, once lean and fit, seemed to be thinning, his very presence becoming smaller, more ghostly.

  The Patriarch addressed the room, his voice a gavel of fate.

  "From this day forth, Lucean Condre is no longer of our blood. He is stripped of the name Condre. He is forbidden from setting foot on these lands again. He will be as a stranger to us. This was a voluntary act of severance, and the Famiglia respects his... choice."

  Janus felt his world tilting. A voluntary act? Lucean... you did this to yourself? To be free of them?

  He looked at Lucean, who was struggling to stand. The blood had stopped flowing, but he looked like a skeleton of the boy who had been throwing pebbles at Janus just nights ago. The vibrant, golden hum that usually surrounded any Condre was gone. Lucean felt... empty. Like a void in the shape of a person.

  "I... accept," Lucean whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

  Janus watched, heart-broken and utterly clueless, as his only friend stood up and walked toward the door without looking back. He realized then what the "Vow" had been. It wasn't a promise for a future together.

  It was a funeral arrangement.

  Pulse! As I mentioned, this is a side project I'll be updating once a week while I continue my work on Emmet’s Dawn.