Volmir had completed his first day of training and set out toward Rasur's mansion. Throughout the day, he had encountered teaching methods unlike anything he had experienced before. The scholars were not harsh or crude like the instructors at the military camp. Their approach focused not on rote memorization of words but on understanding the melody, grammar, and logic of the Adler language. Some of them even knew Rhazgord, and whenever Volmir struggled, they stepped in to help him internalize each piece of knowledge. He couldn’t claim to have made significant progress on the very first day, but he already felt himself improving.

  Yet the bag he carried, stuffed with papers, weighed on him. His lessons were few, but the assignments were overwhelming. Still, having grown up in a military camp, he was disciplined. No matter what, he would complete everything flawlessly.

  As he neared the mansion, he sensed something was wrong. A crowd had gathered nearby, whispering and staring at the estate. No one dared approach, but their eyes remained fixed on it. The massive holes in the walls and the surrounding damage sent a chill through Volmir. His first thought was that the black-masked ones had returned and attacked Corvus. Panic surged at the possibility that something had happened to his brother. Clutching his bag tightly, he broke into a sprint toward the mansion.

  Warriors cleaning up the damage, their eyes burning from the dust, tried to stop him, but they noticed him too late. Determined, Volmir pressed through the courtyard, now dominated by the stench of blood and dust, until he froze in place. For a moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The colossal holes stretching through the walls laid bare the devastation. But what truly halted him was the silhouette visible through the wreckage.

  His father’s back—the powerful, upright posture, the sharp lines of his shoulders, and the eerie calmness of his presence suspended in the air—was unmistakable. Volmir knew Sakhaar would return soon but hadn’t expected him in Bahoz. A spark of joy and relief flickered inside him, only to be smothered by dread. The moment he saw his father, his fears about the black-masked ones vanished. Where Sakhaar Tiamat stood, no one dared harm the Tiamats… except himself. This truth replaced the threat of the masked assailants with a far greater terror.

  This destruction could only be Sakhaar’s doing. And when Volmir realized whose body lay stretched at his father’s feet in the ruins, icy horror pierced him. Corvus. His brother. Covered in blood, struggling to breathe, his eyes open but eyelids trembling under the weight of pain. His contorted body on the ground seemed like a momentary pause amid battle and fury. Volmir’s entire frame trembled involuntarily. Corvus was alive… but for how long? Was this punishment? Or execution? Would Sakhaar stop here, or was he waiting to deliver the final blow? As his mind spiraled with these questions, Sakhaar’s voice thundered like a storm, cutting through the chaos with a single sharp strike.

  “How old are you now?”

  Sakhaar’s voice was deep and accusatory. Volmir’s knees nearly buckled. He couldn’t recall his father ever addressing him this way. Amid the wreckage, confronting his bloodied brother, Sakhaar’s question wasn’t about age—it carried the weight of duty, burden, and trial.

  The young man took a deep breath, throat tight, but bowed his head before kneeling. His voice quivered with fear, unease, and hesitation:

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  “I am Volmir Tiamat… I greet the exalted Sanguinar. I will turn nine soon.”

  Sakhaar studied his son a moment longer. His eyes seemed to pierce Volmir’s very core, yet his expression held neither affection nor rage. His face was as stony and inscrutable as when he had faced Corvus hours earlier.

  “So you’ll be nine. Then what does this state of yours mean? Are you not taking your training seriously?”

  Sakhaar’s voice slid over Volmir like a sharp blade—deep, resonant, and probing. The young man felt the weight of his father’s gaze, which had already dissected his frail body, lagging far behind his peers. Volmir’s innate weakness was known to all, but Sakhaar saw no excuse. A Tiamat could not be weak. Should not be. To him, this was not a birthright flaw but Volmir’s own inadequacy.

  Sakhaar reflected. He, too, had once lagged behind his siblings and peers. But he had never surrendered to that gap. The supremacy of Tiamat blood had gradually fused with his body through relentless training and blood-soaked struggles, propelling him to Rhazgord’s pinnacle. Yet Volmir’s reality was different. The boy trained tirelessly, never neglecting his lessons. But no matter how hard he pushed, invisible chains seemed to bind him to stagnation. His frail body and lack of talent confined him. A shadow of disappointment flickered briefly in Sakhaar’s eyes.

  Under his father’s judgmental gaze, Volmir drew a shaky breath. His chest tightened, heart constricted. But he forced his voice steady, stifling his fear.

  “I will focus more intently on my training, sir.”

  Sakhaar tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. Was that mockery or impatient fury? His words boomed:

  “And will you do so here, in Bahoz?”

  The voice echoed off the stone walls. Volmir instinctively stepped back.

  “Why are you here?! Shouldn’t you be in Sorbaj, at the military camp?!”

  A shiver crawled through Volmir. Sakhaar’s anger surrounded him like a blade. The young man withered under his father’s piercing stare, lips parched. He needed to explain. But what could he say? Sakhaar tolerated no excuses…

  “I brought him here.”

  The trembling voice came from Corvus, who was struggling to rise, gripping his swords. His breathing was ragged, face pale. The remnants of Lightstone energy in his body accelerated his healing, but it was slow and insufficient. Every movement of his broken bones sent agony ripping through him, yet he forced himself upright, refusing to appear weak.

  “Reason?!”

  Sakhaar’s voice boomed, a single word heavy as a verdict. Corvus couldn’t answer immediately. Pain wracked his muscles as he finally steadied himself, breathless. He inhaled deeply, the air itself seeming to burn his lungs, then spoke in a weary but resolute tone:

  “The boy is untalented.”

  The words sent a glacial tremor through Volmir’s bones. He felt as if scalding water had been poured over him. But Corvus ignored the disappointment and sorrow trembling in his brother’s eyes. His gaze held no mercy, no hesitation—only cold truth.

  “He lacks the physique to bear our combat skills.” Corvus’ voice sharpened like a judge’s. “But his mind is sharp. I brought him here to learn the Adler language so he can prove useful in mercenary affairs. I’m also devising a fighting style suited to him. Even untalented, I’ll ensure he grows strong enough not to disgrace our family.”

  Sakhaar’s brow furrowed. His eyes lingered on Corvus, face unreadable. Corvus’ merciless stance toward his brother aligned with what Sakhaar demanded. He spoke like a soldier, openly stating his intent to mold Volmir into a useful asset despite his shortcomings. Yet Sakhaar remained unsatisfied.

  “Do you take responsibility?”

  The word 'responsibility' was the very reason Corvus now stood bathed in blood. But his eyes showed no hesitation. Locking gazes with his father, he answered without pause:

  “If he tarnishes our family’s name even slightly, I will offer my head.”

  The vow sliced through the courtyard’s air like a death oath. Silence magnified Volmir’s helplessness as Sakhaar’s expression remained impassive. Was he deliberating, or devising another test? The answer lay shrouded.