Orion was discharged from medical care, his body still aching from the strain of the last week. The long corridors of the Reyes facility stretched before him in sterile silence, empty at this hour. Every step he took felt heavier than it should have.
His mind, however, was heavier still.
Questions gnawed at him. About his training. About the expectations placed upon him. About the weight of a dynasty, a family name whispered in both reverence and fear.
And then there was Aryan Alavkin.
He hadn't met the infamous prodigy yet. But the name alone was enough to unsettle him.
Aryan—the eldest of the Alavkin Triplets, or commonly known as the Alavkin Lunatics. A name spoken carefully in every aristocratic circle.
The once modest barony clinging to the lower rungs of Confederacy nobility, had risen meteorically after the birth of the Triplets. From obscurity to prominence, they became one of the fiercest backers of House Reyes.
The Alavkin Lunatics weren't just valuable allies; they were weapons, and Aryan the sharpest among them.
Elsewhere, Varun and Valeria sat in her private study.
"So," Valeria murmured, not looking up from her hologram, "this isn't just about Orion, is it? It's Aryan you're really worried about."
Varun exhaled through his nose, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "I'm not worried," he replied, leaning back in his seat. "I'm cautious. There's a difference."
Valeria arched a brow, amusement ghosting the edge of her lips. "You think Aryan will break him."
A hint of uncertainty flickered across Varun's usually sharp eyes as he said, "Ideally, yes. If he doesn't… then my assessment of Orion was incorrect."
She turned toward him fully now, studying him. "You still think that boy of mine's soft."
Varun considered the matter before saying, "The truth, as I see it, is he hasn't faced a genuine trial. He remains untested."
Valeria's gaze sharpened, though her tone stayed languid. "The Alavkins were nobodies before those triplets came along. A fading barony clinging to scraps. Now, they're one of our strongest backers. And Aryan…" she let the words hang, her voice lowering. "He's not like the other two. Less interested in politics, less controlled. But infinitely more dangerous."
Valeria's gaze drifted to the shimmering towers in the distance as she spoke. "One of Orion's inherent qualities is his ability to draw people in. That's why I feel this mentorship with Aryan, despite their differences, could be incredibly valuable for him."
They let the silence stretch between them.
Valeria let out a slow breath, her gaze distant. "You could've warned him what Aryan was capable of. Given him a better sense of the stakes."
Varun shrugged. "And what would that accomplish? Let him think there's always a safety net? That someone's always going to soften the blow? No. He's got to take the hit. Learn what it costs."
She rose, pacing toward the window. "I didn't plan this just to watch him get wrecked, Varun."
"You didn't," Varun agreed. "You plan to give him a backer and I plan to make him learn. You forge a blade by putting it through fire, Valeria. Not by keeping it polished on a shelf."
**The next morning, Orion stood before the training chamber.**
The reinforced alloy doors loomed ahead, massive slabs of metal inscribed with the sigils of House Reyes.
A subtle pressure gnawed at his skin. His heart thudded in his chest. Instinct screamed at him, warning of something primal, something unnatural.
He lifted his hand.
The doors parted.
And there, at the center of the chamber, stood Aryan Alavkin.
He was everything the stories had promised, and somehow more. Tall, lean, with that signature silver hair of the Alavkin line. Eyes like liquid mercury.
But it wasn't his appearance that unbalanced Orion—it was his presence.
The sheer weight of him in the room.
"Step in, kid." Aryan said quietly.
Orion obeyed, though his instincts howled at him to turn back.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, it hit.
A crushing, suffocating force pressed against him from every angle. His knees buckled, his breath caught. His muscles strained, bones ached, as an invisible weight forced him down to his knees.
He hit the floor hard, face inches from cold metal, the pressure threatening to drive him through it.
Aryan didn't move.
"Feel that?" Aryan's voice echoed, calm and almost bored.
Orion gritted his teeth, his entire body trembling.
Aryan stepped closer, the pressure doubling with every stride.
"If I wanted to, I could double the force. Your ribs would snap. Another pulse, and your lungs would collapse. You wouldn't even feel your organs rupture—it would be over too quickly."
Orion's pride screamed at him. His body, however, wouldn't respond.
Aryan crouched beside him, voice low, almost casual.
"You thought discipline made you dangerous? That hours of drills and blood and sweat could close the gap between you and real prodigies?"
Then, without warning, the pressure lifted.
Orion gasped, air flooding his lungs like fire. His arms shook as he forced himself upright, sweat slick against his skin.
Aryan stood a few paces away now, hands clasped behind his back.
"Get up."
Orion staggered to his feet, the ache in his limbs a constant, burning reminder.
"Before you chase strength," Aryan said, his voice carrying more weight than the pressure had, "you need to learn to see the shape of the cage you're trapped in."
Orion's throat was dry. He swallowed and forced himself to speak. "And then?" he rasped.
Aryan's smirk returned. "Then you start breaking it."
And then it circled him.
Fast, fluid.
The ripple wasn't air at all. Lines that carved through light itself, fracturing the chamber into fragments of shifting geometry. Reality bent.
Orion tried to step forward.
He couldn't.
Vertically, horizontally, diagonally—space itself unfolded. He saw versions of the room as though looking through a cracked mirror.
He reached for one instinctively.
His hand passed through it—and pain shot up his arm.
Aryan moved.
The atmosphere shifted at once.
It wasn't pressure in any traditional sense—it was displacement. A wrongness slithered across Orion's skin. His vision stuttered.
For a heartbeat, he couldn't tell if he was upright or hanging from the ceiling.
Then the gravity tilted.
Orion tried to steady himself. His legs responded a half-second too late. Sound rang in the wrong order. The ceiling expanded. His breath fogged sideways.
Aryan hadn't moved.
But the room warped around him. Impossible geometries folded into existence. Symbols emerged in glimmering trails beneath Orion's feet—a lattice of radiant glyphs. They weren't familiar, yet felt fundamental. Like the math behind perception itself was bleeding through the walls.
Orion staggered.
Not literally—his feet still touched ground—but sensation, gravity, orientation—gone. Up and down blurred into a spiral. The light fractured. Walls expanded, then collapsed, folding into shapes that defied geometry.
He dropped to his knees. Not from fear or exhaustion, but because his mind had noway to comprehend what was happening.
Aryan didn't walk.
He stepped—and arrived beside Orion without traversing the space between. The instant his presence neared, Orion's breath caught.
Aryan raised a hand.
And the world stopped.
The moment he crossed the threshold, everything normalized. Gravity returned. The room stilled. Orion could move again.
But he didn't.
He stood alone in that empty room, staring at the place the distortions had been. His fingers twitched, reaching for something invisible, something ungraspable.
No words came.
Only awe.
He was… captivated.
The ache in his limbs didn't matter anymore.
In two lives, he had never encountered anything he couldn't eventually unravel.
Until now.
He looked at his fingers, his breath steadying.
And then—without meaning to, without understanding why—he smiled.
It wasn't arrogance. Not defiance.
It was something wonder.
For the first time in two lifetimes, Orion felt like a child.
Because he had glimpsed something beautiful.
And he wanted to chase it.