The sun crawled over the hills like a wounded thing, bleeding gold into the mist. Duskhollow Reach never truly woke. It stirred. It endured.
The Ophirein estate sat cradled in that fog-heavy quiet, its blackstone walls weathered but unyielding. Windchimes laced with minor enchantments whispered old prayers—more habit than hope. The scent of steel and old magic hung in the air.
Out in the training yard, two brothers fought like they meant it.
"You're telegraphing again, Aelric."
"Funny, coming from someone flat on his back last round."
Riven—tall, scarred, and brutal—moved like a man used to battlefield chaos. A Raider-Knight, shaped by blunt-force instinct. His twin, Aelric, was cleaner in form but crueler in intent. A Rune Duelist, his strikes whispered with arcane sigils and clever traps.
They were both Level 1(EMBER RANK) , close to breaking into something bigger. The System shimmered faintly around them, a breath waiting to become a storm.
Watching from the stone railing, arms crossed, was Seraphine. Twenty-five. Level 2 (Iron-ranked). Bladed as hell and twice as cold when she wanted to be. Her class—Knight-Mage—meant she could split a man's skull with steel or set his soul on fire. Either worked.
"You two swinging swords or flirting?" she said, voice dry.
Inside, the manor's great hall was warm, alive. Floating flame-runes glowed above the long table, casting golden light over dark wood and darker secrets.
Lady Evelyne—red-haired, fire-blooded, Level 3(Obsidian Rank)—moved between spell and skillet like a conductor. Her magic simmered beneath her skin like banked embers, ready to flare.
"Finn, if that plate breaks again, I'll feed you the shards."
Finn, age ten, sulked as his glowing mana orb fizzled. A potential Tactical Summoner, barely budding. Lysa, five, was drawing summoning circles in spilled jam. No one stopped her.
At the table's head sat Count Alaric Ophirein, clad in a plain shirt, eyes already scanning the day like a soldier before war. His hands—callused and cracked—rested on a blacksteel mug. His presence filled the room.
He was Level 3 (Obsidian Rank), yes. A noble. A war hero. A knight. But more than that, he was the goddamn reason this house still stood.
"Where's our scholar?" he asked, low and amused.
"Here."
Nerion stepped in—sixteen, quiet, eyes still adjusting to light after a night of reading by soul-lantern. He wasn't tall like Riven, or fast like Aelric, or shining like Seraphine. He was still… unfinished.
No class. No System awakenings. Just thought. Obsession. Hunger.