The grand hall of Darkstar Manor blazed with light and opulence. Chandeliers dripping with crystal, long silk banners, and polished silver adorned every corner.
The air was thick with the rich aroma of roasted meats, aged wines, and exotic spices. Yet, for all its splendor, the atmosphere was sharper than any blade, colder than Seraphina's ice.
It was a battlefield of whispered schemes and unspoken threats.
Naomi entered, his steps slow but steady, Seraphina a silent shadow at his side. His gaze swept over the banquet table, already laden with platters of marbled steak, steaming pheasant, fresh fruits, and decanters of dark, swirling wine. Yet, despite the feast, the tension in the air felt thick enough to cut.
At the head of the table sat the Duke — Arcturus Darkstar — his silver eyes as sharp and distant as the moon.
Two seats to his left and right were occupied by the Duke's two legal wives, their expressions as polished and unreadable as the silverware before them. Their eyes flicked toward Naomi with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.
To the Duke's immediate right, his eldest son, Lucien Darkstar, lounged in his chair like a predator, his eyes fixed on Naomi with a flat, chilling interest.
His face was a mask of dispassionate menace, fingers lightly tapping the edge of his glass. On his left, Murin sat, a smirk playing at his lips, his red hair catching the light like the embers of a dying fire.
Two seats remained empty — one for Naomi and the other for Evelyne, the eldest daughter, whose absence was a small mercy tonight.
Naomi bowed deeply to the Duke. "Father."
Arcturus's gaze met his, cold and unyielding. "Congratulations on your recovery, Nel." His voice was deep, each word a measured, calculated strike.
"Thank you, Father, for your kind words." Naomi straightened, moving to take his seat, feeling the weight of a dozen eyes following his every movement.
The clinking of glass echoed faintly as Naomi took his place at the long table, directly across from Murin, whose smirk widened. Lucien's eyes never left him, as if dissecting every twitch, every breath.
The Duke swirled his wine, his sharp gaze never leaving Naomi. "I hear you have taken to training," he said, his tone dangerously calm.
Naomi met his gaze briefly, then lowered his eyes — a calculated move. "Yes, my lord. I have been training ever since I awoke."
Arcturus set his glass down with a faint, precise clink. "And why is that?"
Naomi's mind raced. The man before him was not merely a father, but a hardened warlord, a veteran of blood and steel. He could not afford to falter here.
"Pardon, my lord?"
The Duke's voice sharpened. "Why train? You were a pathetic worm two years ago, a disgrace to this house. Now, suddenly, you wish to be strong? Are you truly my son… or merely an imposter?"
Naomi felt his pulse quicken. He had imagined this confrontation, but the sheer intensity in the Duke's voice, the predatory eyes around him, made his skin prickle.
He slowly rose from his seat, his movements deliberate, each second stretching into an eternity.
"With all due respect, my lord," Naomi began, his voice calm but firm, "I may have been in a coma, but my mind… my thoughts… they were alive. Trapped. Helpless. I promised myself that if I ever awoke, I would become strong. Not just for myself, but for the future I desire."
The hall fell deathly silent, save for the crackle of the great hearth at the far end of the room. For a heartbeat, Naomi thought he saw a flicker of something in the Duke's eyes — a glimmer of acknowledgment, perhaps even approval.
Arcturus leaned back, his fingers tapping the armrest. He took a long sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving Naomi's. Then he set his glass down, the sound ringing out like a gavel striking wood.
"If you are truly my son," he said slowly, "then you should be able to recall this… Tell me, on your tenth birthday, what gift did I give you?"
Naomi felt his blood run cold. His mind scrambled. He hadn't expected a test like this. His eyes darted to the table. The two legal wives exchanged knowing glances, lips curled in amusement.
Murin's smirk twisted further, while Lucien's face remained as unreadable as stone.
Lucien remained stoic, his knife slicing through a piece of steak with casual precision.
Think, Naomi. If Nel was neglected… what would a distant father give to a child he didn't care for?
He lowered his head, his voice unwavering. "You gave me nothing, my Lord."
Arcturus's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his glass. "Are you certain?"
Naomi met his gaze without flinching. "Yes, my lord. Because I was not worth your attention at that time."
The room held its breath. The Duke's eyes flickered, his grip on his glass relaxing slightly.
"Very well," the Duke said at last, his tone as cold as winter steel. He raised his glass in a half-toast. "Then you may eat. Welcome back to the world of the living."
Naomi exhaled slowly, his heart still racing, but his face a mask of calm. He had passed the first trial.
The tension in the grand dining hall grew thicker as Naomi took his seat.
He could feel the weight of a dozen eyes upon him, but one pair in particular felt like twin blades pressed against his throat. Lucien Darkstar, his older brother, was staring at him — unblinking, sharp, and curious, like a predator evaluating prey.
Naomi tried to avoid his gaze, remembering Seraphina's warning: "Do not meet his eyes."
Lucien was the kind of monster that sensed weakness from the faintest twitch of fear. Naomi kept his head slightly bowed, focusing on the polished silverware beside his plate,
the faint reflections of flickering candlelight dancing along the blade edges.
The Duke leaned back in his grand, high-backed chair, swirling his wine as he watched Naomi with the cold detachment of a hawk.
Then, breaking the uncomfortable silence, the Duke's voice rang out.
"Nel," he said, his tone sharp but measured. "Do you wish to join the Sylvia Academy?"
Naomi's hand tensed around his fork. This is it, he thought, his heart thundering. The chance I've been waiting for.
He took a steadying breath, careful not to glance at Lucien's eyes still fixed on him.
The Duke's eyes narrowed, testing him further. "You and Murin are of similar age. I can send one of you."
Before Naomi could even open his mouth, Murin leaned forward, his fiery hair catching the light, eyes burning with pride.
"Father, you know he isn't worthy. I am your true son — strong, capable, and born with the blood of warriors. Send me."
Naomi's jaw tightened. He felt a sudden surge of determination, a refusal to let this brute steal his only path to survival.
His grip on the fork loosened as he met his father's gaze, his voice calm yet sharp.
"I believe I am more worthy than my older brother, Murin Darkstar," he said, his words cutting through the air like a freshly sharpened blade.
The hall fell into a stunned silence. For a moment, even the crackling fireplace seemed to pause.
Murin's mother, Lady Irina Valtros, snapped her gaze to him, her eyes burning with indignation. She slammed her goblet down, dark wine spilling across the pristine tablecloth.
"How dare a worm like you speak so arrogantly in front of my son!" she spat, her voice trembling with fury.
Naomi turned his head slowly, meeting her glare with an icy calm. "With respect, Mistress Irina," he said, his tone as polite as it was cutting,
"we are not allowed to speak so loudly while dining. I would appreciate your understanding."
Her face twisted with rage, veins pulsing at her temples. Before she could unleash another tirade, the air itself seemed to shatter.
A sudden, crushing pressure exploded from the Duke's seat, rippling through the room like the aftershock of a mountain collapsing. Glasses cracked, their contents sloshing wildly.
The surface of the soup in Naomi's bowl quivered as if struck by an unseen force. Several lesser servants stumbled back, clutching at their chests, eyes wide with terror.
Naomi felt his heart seize. His bones felt like they were grinding against each other under the weight of his father's unleashed aura, each breath a struggle against the overwhelming force.
The Duke's eyes blazed, his voice cutting through the silence like a thunderclap. "Very well,"
he said, his gaze fixed on Naomi. "If you truly believe in yourself, Nel, then prove it. We will carry out a duel. The winner will earn the right to enter Sylvia Academy."
Naomi forced himself to stand, his legs trembling beneath the oppressive weight. He bowed deeply, forcing his breath to remain steady.
"As you wish, my Lord," he said, his voice firm despite the fear twisting in his gut. He turned and walked out, each step heavier than the last as he felt the murderous gazes of his siblings and stepmothers drilling into his back.
As he reached the grand doors, he felt the temperature in the room drop suddenly. Lucien's voice, cold and sharp, sliced through the air.
"You have changed, Nel," he said, his tone laced with dark amusement. "I'll enjoy watching you struggle… and suffer."
Naomi didn't turn back. He forced his trembling legs to carry him forward, pushing through the thick doors and into the quieter, cooler hall beyond.
His heart raced, his mind a chaotic swirl of doubt and determination.
He had barely made it five steps before his legs gave out, and he crashed against the cold stone wall, gasping for air.
Seraphina, who had been standing guard just outside, rushed to his side.
Without a word, she slipped her arm around him, lifting him to his feet with ease, cradling him like a child.
Naomi closed his eyes, his head resting against her cold, armored shoulder. He managed a shaky whisper.
"They… they were trying to break me. Their auras… all at once. I almost collapsed."
Seraphina's grip tightened. "Rest, my Lord. Save your strength. You will need it."
Naomi nodded weakly as she carried him back toward his chamber. His mind raced with a single, burning thought:
I must defeat Murin Darkstar. I must survive… and grow stronger.
To be continued...