The sky over Vasco territory gleamed with the soft light of an early autumn sun. Golden light across the rolling hills and cobbled roads that ran through the heart of the territory—a flourishing city brimming with merchants shouting deals, knights patrolling with silver-etched armor, and citizens going about their day with the pride of those under a great House.
Aden watched all of it from the window of his carriage, his crimson cloak fluttering lightly as the wind slipped through the open slit. It was strange. These streets were unfamiliar, yet something stirred in his chest as the carriage passed under the Vasco estate's grand archway. If the Empire rejected him, this place had not. It beat with a heart of loyalty forged through generations.
The Vasco estate loomed ahead—an architectural testament to authority and history. High stone walls encircled lush gardens, with banners of the blood-red phoenix fluttering in the breeze. The massive front gate opened with synchronized precision as his carriage pulled in, and servants gathered in lines on either side of the entrance.
When he stepped out, silence fell over the courtyard. Then came the sound of synchronized steps—maids bowing, attendants lowering their heads, and guards placing fists over their hearts.
"Welcome home, Young Master Vasco," the Head Maid greeted, voice firm yet reverent. "The household has awaited your return."
Aden remained silent, his gaze steady. He had walked through the halls of the imperial palace, fought in blood-soaked fields, and stood trial before the Disciplinary Committee. Yet here—here, among people who remembered the boy he used to be—he felt... out of place.
But they didn't look at him with doubt or fear. They looked at him with respect.
From behind the line of attendants stepped a lean, older man with deep lines carved into his face and eyes sharp like polished obsidian. The Head Treasurer, known for his meticulous tongue and unshakable loyalty, bowed briefly before him.
"Your room has been prepared, my lord. Please, allow me to escort you."
Without a word, Aden nodded, falling in step beside the man. They walked through long marbled corridors lit with daylight pouring through glass panels etched with the Vasco sigil. His boots echoed in rhythm with the Treasurer's polished steps.
The room they arrived at was large but simple, not lavish. A reminder that the Vascos were a family of war, not wine.
"I'll have warm water drawn for your bath," the Treasurer said, bowing once more. "If there is anything you need, Young Master, do not hesitate."
When the door clicked shut behind him, Aden stood in the center of the room for a long moment. Sunlight spilled through the window, casting long shadows over the sword rack near the wall. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, glinting like stars in the stillness.
Aden sat at the edge of the bed, leaning forward with both elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor.
This used to be his room.
But it didn't feel like it.
Not yet.
Just then, a soft knock tapped on the door.
"Young Master," a maid's voice called. "The Patriarch requests your presence in his study."
It was time, the long awaited time was here.
Aden rose slowly and pulled on his cloak once more. As he stepped into the hallway, he felt it—a presence. Two of them, watching from behind a column at the far end. Young faces. Eyes filled with confusion... maybe resentment. His siblings.
He didn't slow his pace. He didn't greet them.The reason was simple.
He didn't know their names.
The door to the Patriarch's study was made of reinforced oak, its surface carved with the Vasco emblem—an ancient phoenix rising from a blade. The guard stationed at the door stepped aside and gave a slight nod.
Aden pushed it open.
The room was dimly lit, filled with the scent of aged parchment, tobacco, and steel. The walls were lined with books, tomes, and war memorabilia—swords mounted behind glass, framed maps marked with red ink, and a massive painted banner of the Vasco bloodline. It was a room built by victories.
Behind a large desk sat Ed Vasco, the Patriarch of the Vasco House. He was dressed not in ceremonial robes, but in the dark battle garments of a seasoned commander. His hair was streaked with gray, his jaw carved from stone, and his gaze—razor sharp.
He didn't stand. He simply looked at his son.
"You're late," he said, tone even, almost bored. "Sit."