Until now, Vesper and his faction had no interest in Alaric. He was a weak candidate—barely worth a second glance. So, they had no reason to waste resources keeping him in check.

  But now, things had changed.

  Vesper had set his sights on Nyx.

  To claim him, the bond between Alaric and Nyx had to be severed. And there was only one way to break it—by ending the master’s life.

  Vesper stepped out of the combat ring; his decision made.

  Alaric had to die, and it would happen soon.

  Alaric watched Vesper’s retreating figure, his chest rising and falling in steady exhales. He had barely made it back without exposing himself.

  But something nagged at the back of his mind.

  Nyx’s movements were too refined, too precise. Every strike had been calculated, every step purposeful. That wasn’t something one picked up by mere observation. That was the result of years of training.

  But when? How?

  In every memory Alaric had of Nyx, he was always by his side—enduring punishment, never resisting. Helpless. Submissive. A victim.

  So, when had he found the time to train?

  His thoughts churned as he reached the corridor leading to his room. But as he approached, he halted.

  A figure stood in front of his door.

  The man was tall, his build broad and muscular despite his age—likely in his fifties. He wore a crisp white shirt, neatly tucked into black pants, paired with a matching black coat. A black bow sat perfectly at his collar, and his gloved hands, clad in white, rested calmly at his sides.

  Alaric’s brows furrowed. He had no recollection of this man.

  The stranger turned at Alaric’s approach, offering a deep, respectful bow. His stern expression did not waver as he spoke, his voice firm yet smooth.

  “This lowly one greets Young Master Alaric.”

  Alaric accepted the greeting with a nod, watching the man closely.

  Without wasting a moment, the stranger reached into his coat and retrieved a neatly sealed envelope. He extended it toward Alaric with a practiced, polite motion.

  “I am here in your presence to deliver an invitation for the annual meeting of House Drakonis.”

  Alaric’s fingers hesitated before taking the envelope. As soon as the words left the man’s mouth, a faint memory stirred in the back of his mind. He recalled Alaric receiving similar invitations before—each sealed with the family’s crest, summoning him to the gathering.

  But Alaric had never attended. Not once.

  The man bowed again, and without another word, he turned and walked away, his presence disappearing down the dimly lit corridor.

  Alaric stood there, staring at the invitation in his hand.

  He had no idea what this meeting was about, but something deep inside him screamed that he needed to be there.

  He entered his room, ordering Nyx to follow.

  “Follow me.”

  Nyx obeyed without hesitation.

  Alaric sat down on the couch, his gaze distant.

  “Sit.”

  Without a second thought, Nyx dropped to his knees on the floor.

  Alaric sighed, rubbing his temples. “Not there.” He pointed at the couch directly opposite him. “Sit here.”

  Nyx hesitated for a moment before obeying. His mind raced, trying to make sense of Alaric’s sudden change in behavior.

  'Why? This wasn’t like him.'

  Alaric had never once asked him to sit like an equal. It was unsettling.

  Still, he stood and took the seat.

  Silence stretched between them until Alaric placed the envelope on the table between them. He tapped a finger against it, eyes locked on Nyx.

  “Tell me everything you know about the annual meet.”

  Nyx blinked, confused by the question but answered, nonetheless.

  “It’s an important gathering to determine the power structure for the following year. Ruling figures report on their territories, discussing achievements, disputes, and budget allocations. If a position is to be reassigned, it’s announced there. Changes in command, alliances, and trade agreements—all major decisions are made during the meet.”

  Alaric leaned back, absorbing the information. So, it wasn’t just a simple family gathering.

  “That means everyone of importance will be there,” he mused.

  Nyx nodded.

  Alaric exhaled slowly.

  Stolen story; please report.

  This was a battle he couldn’t win alone. He needed subordinates for the future, and the annual meet was the perfect opportunity to find them.

  “Alright,” Alaric said, his voice firm. “We’ll be attending the meet tomorrow.”

  Nyx, still processing the situation, murmured in confusion. “We?”

  Alaric glanced at him. “You’re also coming with me.”

  Nyx’s head snapped up. “To the annual meet?”

  Alaric met his gaze without hesitation. “How many times do you want me to repeat myself?”

  A long pause stretched between them before Nyx finally gave a slight nod. “As you wish.”

  Alaric smirked. “Good. You’re dismissed.”

  Nyx stood up, bowed slightly, and left the room.

  Alaric leaned back, deep in thought.

  Nyx had always reminded him of a misfortunate child, a powerless shadow—someone shackled by the circumstances of his birth, a puppet forced to dance on strings he never chose. That was the Nyx he had known. The one who obeyed, endured, and accepted.

  But during the duel…

  For the first time, Alaric had seen something different.

  That look in his eyes—it wasn’t just survival. It was desperation. A raw, burning desire. Not to endure, but to win.

  And that changed everything.

  He had made his decision.

  Nyx would be his first subordinate.

  But before that… he had to find out who the real Nyx was.

  The silent, obedient shadow? Or the fighter whose eyes blazed with something more?

  Standing outside, Nyx kept his gaze fixed on the floor. Something was off.

  For the past week, the master he served had been… different. He hadn’t hit him, hadn’t thrown him around like before. His curses had increased, sure, but something about them was different—less venomous, less cruel.

  And today…

  Alaric had interfered.

  When others looked down on him, Alaric was the first to join in, mocking and degrading—reminding him where he stood. But today, he had stepped in instead of standing by.

  And now he was talking about the meeting. Asking questions. Including him.

  He spoke smoothly, without malice—like a sane man.

  'Had he… changed?'

  Nyx shook his head.

  'Impossible. It was just one of his mood swings. And even if he had changed… it didn’t matter.'

  'After all, he was going to die soon. And I will get my freedom.'

  Without another thought, Nyx turned on his heels and walked away.

  The next morning, Nyx returned to Alaric’s room as usual, preparing to lay out his clothes. But as he stepped inside, he froze.

  Alaric was already dressed.

  Nyx blinked, momentarily thrown off.

  'Since when does he dress himself?'

  Usually, Alaric barely put any effort into his appearance. He would carelessly tug on a wrinkled shirt, never bothering with a coat, and he never—never—combed his hair. It was always a tousled mess, as if he had just rolled out of bed.

  But today…

  Today, he was in a perfectly tailored two-piece, the dark fabric crisp and refined. And as Nyx watched, Alaric stood before the mirror, running a comb through his ash-purple hair with deliberate strokes.

  "You’re here," Alaric’s voice snapped Nyx out of his thoughts.

  Nyx straightened. "Good morning, young master."

  Alaric merely smiled and turned back to the mirror, adjusting his collar.

  Nyx remained rooted to the spot, unable to look away. In four years, not once had Alaric dressed. No matter the occasion, he had always carried himself with the careless arrogance of someone who didn’t need to try.

  Nyx’s mind churned.

  'Why was he behaving differently from his past self? Why now?'

  Alaric, meanwhile, continued his careful grooming, tilting his head slightly as he studied his reflection.

  "I really am handsome," he mused aloud, a smug grin tugging at his lips. "Women will be fawning over me once I grow up."

  He wasn’t wrong. With sharp, almost regal features—high cheekbones, a sculpted jawline, pale and flawless skin —he looked like he had stepped right out of a portrait of nobility. His piercing eyes, a shade of unnatural purple, held a commanding intensity that demanded attention.

  He was still admiring himself when Aster’s voice cut through his thoughts with its usual dry sarcasm.

  [If you’re done fantasizing about a future fan club, please move. I’m tired of looking at that smug smile.]

  Alaric chuckled, tilting his head slightly, still admiring his reflection. "You’re jealous, aren’t you?" He smirked. "With this level of handsomeness, how could you not be?"

  [Jealous?]

  Aster scoffed.

  [Please. That pretty face is completely wasted on a brainless fool like you.]

  Alaric clicked his tongue, amused. "Tsk. You really have no taste, do you?"

  [Oh, I have taste. That’s why I’m suffering, having to be stuck inside your head.]

  Nyx, standing in the background, sighed as he watched Alaric argue with himself yet again.

  'Here we go again…'

  He shook his head, exasperation creeping in.

  'What am I even thinking? He’ll never change.'

  ***********

  Alaric and Nyx stood before the grand double doors of the designated hall. The intricate carvings on the wood loomed over them, almost taunting.

  They were late—thanks to the two of them getting lost—but that wasn’t what made Alaric fingers twitch.

  Today, he would stand before his future enemies and one of the men responsible for Alaric's death.

  He took a slow, steadying breath and pushed open the doors.

  The moment he stepped inside, the room fell silent. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Eyes turned toward him, some wide with surprise, others narrowed with contempt. A few exchanged hushed whispers, but Alaric barely noticed.

  His gaze had already locked onto the man sitting at the far end of the hall.

  Perched atop a grand chair, overlooking everyone like a monarch surveying his subjects, was a man whose mere presence exuded absolute power. Not just the kind that came from wealth or status—but something deeper. Something primal.

  His ash-colored hair and purple pupils, the same shade as Alaric’s, gleamed under the dim chandelier light, but that was where their similarities ended. Unlike Alaric, there was no warmth to his features, no softness. His chiseled face was a mask of cold authority, unreadable and unmoved. His posture was relaxed, yet every inch of him radiated dominance.

  There was no doubt.

  He was Vaelric Kael Drakonis, the head of Drakonis and one of the strongest people in the family as well as the continent.

  The instant their eyes met; Alaric felt it—an unseen force crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

  His breath hitched. The air around him thickened, suffocating, as if invisible hands had wrapped around his throat, squeezing. The weight on his shoulders felt unbearable, pressing down on his spine, making his knees buckle. His lungs burned, and his pulse pounded against his ribs like a war drum. His vision blurred at the edges.

  His body screamed at him to kneel.

  To submit.

  'What… is this?!'

  The pressure was unlike anything he had ever felt. It wasn’t just intimidation—it was control, pure and absolute. The kind that didn’t need words to demand obedience. The kind that made his very bones tremble with instinctual fear.

  Alaric clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms, sharp pain grounding him.

  His legs trembled under the unbearable weight. Just as his knees nearly buckled, the man looked away.

  And just like that, the crushing force vanished.

  The air in the room lightened, the invisible chains around his body snapping loose. Alaric sucked in a quiet breath, forcing himself to stand tall despite the slight shake in his limbs. His heart hammered against his ribs, but he had held his ground.

  Barely.

  The long hall stretched before him, filled with high-ranking figures seated in arranged order, likely by heritage or status. But Alaric didn't care about them. His focus remained on the empty seat near the front.

  With slow, deliberate steps, he made his way toward the empty seat near the front. His expression remained unreadable, his movements controlled, but he could feel their gazes piercing into his back.

  Nyx followed closely behind.

  As Alaric reached his designated seat, he turned slightly, his eyes flicking to Nyx.

  “Sit,” he commanded.

  Nyx hesitated. “But, young master, I—”

  “I said, ‘Sit.”

  Nyx immediately obeyed, lowering himself onto the chair, though his discomfort was clear.

  Then, a sneering voice cut through the whispers.

  "Who invited this disgrace here?"

  Alaric didn’t react immediately. Instead, he exhaled, tapping his fingers lightly against the table.

  So, it begins.