The tea soaked through his shirt before the porcelain cup even hit the ground.
"Oh no," cooed Lady Sylvaine, hand pressed delicately to her lips. "My hand slipped."
Eliot didn't move. The tea was still warm. Not scalding, just hot enough to sting slightly against the skin of his chest.
Three other noble children laughed. Not loudly. Just the kind of quiet, contained laughter that was meant to sound harmless, while cutting like glass.
One of the boys—the younger son of Duke Esteron—pretended to stumble forward, knocking over the table with mock surprise. The tiny cakes and tea set clattered onto the floor between them.
"How clumsy of us," he said with a smirk.
Eliot calmly placed his napkin down, ignoring the growing wet stain spreading across his shirt. His fingers moved slowly, with practiced grace, as if he were still attending the tea party and hadn't just been humiliated in front of everyone.
"It happens," Eliot said softly. His voice was gentle, smooth—polished like silk over marble.
He looked up and met their eyes. Not angry. Not hurt. Just… calm.
Unbothered.
Which only made them hate him more.
"Ugh," Sylvaine muttered, turning away. "He always acts like he's above it. Even though he's just the failure."
"The heir who didn't awaken," one of them whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.
"Pretty face, empty blood."
They walked off, satisfied, dragging their whispers with them like poison trailing behind perfume.
Eliot waited until their footsteps were gone before he picked up the broken teacup.
The tea had soaked through his shirt and vest. His hands were shaking. Just a little. But it wasn't from fear.
It never was.
"Master Eliot."
The voice was familiar. Steady. Cool, but respectful.
Gregor, the butler who had served his family since before Eliot was born, stood with a folded towel in hand and an unreadable expression.
"You should change before you catch a cold," he said.
"Thank you," Eliot replied, taking the towel and dabbing his shirt lightly. His golden eyes flicked toward the exit where the others had gone. "They don't even try to hide it anymore."
Gregor remained quiet for a moment. "Children are cruel when they know they can get away with it."
"They're not children," Eliot said, voice soft but firm. "They're nobles. Nobles are just children with better tailoring."
Gregor didn't smile, but something flickered in his eyes. "Would you like me to send word to the Marchioness?"
Eliot shook his head. "Mother wouldn't waste time on such things. Besides, if she were still alive, they wouldn't dare."
Gregor said nothing, but the silence between them was heavy.
Eliot straightened. "Help me dress. We have an appointment."
The Valerian estate stretched across the western cliffs like a golden stain—opulent, beautiful, proud. It belonged to one of the oldest noble houses in the Empire.
And Eliot was its shame.
He was the firstborn. The heir. The rightful successor to the Grand House of Valerian.
But he was also a failure.
No affinity. No awakened blessing. No elemental alignment, no war spirit, not even a minor family trait.
His younger brother, Cedric, awakened two years early and could summon lightning from his fingertips. He was the Empire's golden boy.
Eliot?
He arranged flowers at dinners and played the harp for guests.
Beautiful. Quiet. Worthless.
Everyone said so.
But behind the velvet curtains and golden halls, Eliot's true life was a different story.
Hidden beneath the manor, past a concealed door in the old greenhouse, a staircase descended into silence. No guards. No attendants. Only Gregor followed.
At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy iron door opened at Eliot's touch.
Beyond it lay rows of weapon racks. Spell tomes. Demon skulls. Artifacts glowing with cursed energy.
This was not the Valerian family's storage room.
It was the headquarters of the Western Underworld's Demon Slayers—an organization long believed extinct. Passed down only by blood. Hidden in plain sight.
And Eliot was their sovereign.
He stepped into the room, the light crystals adjusting to his presence. Gregor followed a step behind, quiet as always.
"Three new reports from the border," Gregor said, holding out a stack of letters. "Demon activity near the merchant trail. One Rift sighted near Silveth pass."
Eliot accepted the letters. His expression shifted—still calm, but colder. More focused.
"Any casualties?"
"No. Not yet."
"Send a response team. Two from the second unit, and Myra."
"She just returned yesterday."
"She's the fastest," Eliot replied. "Tell her it's personal."
Gregor bowed.
They moved deeper into the chamber. Past the weapons. Past the reports. To a wall covered in painted sigils. Some glowing, some faded. Eliot paused in front of one.
It was the symbol of his mother's family.
The bloodline of hunters.
She had married into House Valerian as part of a political deal. Beautiful, intelligent, powerful—and gone before Eliot turned ten. No official cause. No funeral. No mourning.
But Eliot remembered.
He remembered the talismans she kept hidden in her dresser. The silver knives etched with runes. The way she used to hum lullabies in an old tongue, ones that made his ears ache and his dreams too loud.
She had left him something. A legacy buried in secrets. And when he turned thirteen, the seal activated.
The hidden world opened.
And Eliot stopped being the heir of Valerian.
He became the Sovereign of the Golden Order—an ancient hunter sect thought to be wiped out by the Empire generations ago.
But that was the thing about lies. They grew roots.
And Eliot had learned how to make them bloom.
Gregor returned hours later as Eliot sat in the central library, going through the reports. He'd changed clothes—back into the pale cream vest, gold-threaded sleeves, polished boots. The perfect noble son again.
Except for the dagger resting against his ankle.
Gregor cleared his throat lightly. "Young Lord Cedric invites you to attend his celebration tonight."
"Of course he does," Eliot said dryly.
"He also requested you arrive with an apology."
Eliot looked up slowly. "For?"
"Outshining him at the winter banquet. The harp performance, specifically."
Eliot sighed. "Do tell him I apologize—for existing. That must be difficult for him."
Gregor paused. "Shall I actually say that?"
"No," Eliot said with a faint smile. "Just tell him I'm coming. Dressed appropriately. Silent, compliant, and beautifully useless."
Gregor didn't smile. But this time, he did laugh.
The night of the celebration, Eliot stood at the top of the grand staircase, wrapped in silk and shame. The ballroom shimmered below, nobles swaying to music, glasses clinking, laughter spilling like syrup.
He descended slowly, movements smooth, expression unreadable.
People stared. Of course they did.
Some pitied. Most smirked. He was always watched. Always judged.
"Ah, the heir with no future," someone whispered.
"Like dressing gold over rot."
"He's pretty, at least. Maybe some lonely old duchess will adopt him."
Eliot smiled politely and said nothing.
He passed Cedric, who raised his glass mockingly.
"Don't trip," his younger brother said under his breath.
"Don't worry," Eliot replied softly. "If I fall, I'll make sure to land on you."
Cedric's smile flickered.
Gregor stood near the wall, watching silently.
Eliot joined the crowd, danced with a few partners, gave empty compliments, and pretended not to notice the spilled wine at his feet.
He did it all with grace.
With poise.
With the knowledge that none of it mattered.
Because the demons didn't care about politics.
And Eliot? He didn't care about anything that bled quietly.
He would attend every banquet, nod to every insult, and smile through every mockery.
And when night fell, and the masks were off, he would go back to the Rift-ridden borders, summon his blades, and cleanse the filth this Empire ignored.
All while wearing gold.