“The Prince of Revelry rules the night, the drink, and of course—the women!”

  Petyr was already on his feet, wobbling slightly as he hoisted his glass toward the chandeliers. The toast was an old favorite. His voice boomed across the dining hall, drawing cheers from the crowd gathered around the long, cluttered table.

  Lucon surveyed the faces washed in the amber glow of candlelight. His friends—if one could call them that—were a collection of sycophants, aspiring social climbers, and thrill-seekers drawn to chaos like moths to flame. Nearly all of them loved him for the spectacle he provided, not the person he was.

  But tonight, that worked perfectly well for him.

  Glasses clinked. Furniture scraped. Wine sloshed onto sleeves. The toast crescendoed, voices a slurred chorus.

  “To Lucon!”

  “To the Prince of Revelry!”

  “Long may he revel and long may we be there to enjoy the show!”

  Laughter rang out.

  In the Flow, Lucon felt a hidden presence. Behind the closed door to the dining hall stood his father.

  Auric’s emotional signature spiked at Petyr’s toast. A storm of emotions spiraled inside him—horror, fury, and a self-control restrained only by the thinnest thread. The temptation to barge in, drag his son out by the ear, and demand answers for every disgrace of the night was nearly overwhelming.

  Lucon simply smiled into his cup.

  He still hadn’t spoken with his father since interrupting whatever announcement was planned.

  At the table, there was exactly one man who joined the celebratory toast in a different way—a man with a massive frame and bald head.

  While glasses were in the air, Monk Georgi raised a humble pewter cup of water.

  “Georgi!” Petyr barked. “Water? You insult our honored Prince!”

  The bald monk sighed, unbothered. “Monks do not drink.”

  He paused, his eyes flicking briefly to Lucon.

  “Well…most monks.”

  The table roared with amused appreciation.

  “Oh, come on!” Petyr whined, practically shaking Georgi’s thick arm. “Just one drink! One! For old time’s sake! We never get together like this anymore.”

  Georgi merely shook his head and sipped his water with infuriating serenity.

  Before Petyr could complain more, one of the sycophants near the end of the table leaned forward eagerly.

  “Oh, enough about Georgi’s boring monk ways. What I want to know is how in the Abyss did Lucon get so strong!?”

  The table erupted with agreement.

  Even Georgi’s calm mask cracked with curiosity, leaning in closer toward Lucon.

  Lucon lifted his hands in a helpless gesture and laughed. “I’m actually quite weak. Truly.”

  Groans filled the room.

  “Modesty does not suit you!”

  “Liar!”

  “You defeated a Named Hero candidate!”

  “And with slaps! Who slaps someone that strong?!”

  Their noisy admiration rolled across the table.

  Lucon shook his head and sighed. “They say Rhavak is supposed to be as strong as my brother. But ask yourselves, do you really think I could do the same to Claude?”

  The question gained a moments long pause. The boisterous energy faltered. Glances were exchanged. No one, not even in their drunken state, could picture it. Claude was…Claude.

  Lucon let the hesitation settle before he continued.

  “Rhavak is a phony,” he said coolly. “He doesn’t deserve to be a Named Candidate in the first place.”

  “But Dragnol Fire-Storm is backing him,” one man pointed out. “The Tower Master himself—”

  “The same Tower Master who tried to kill me out of nowhere tonight?” Lucon cut in smoothly, waving his long pipe dismissively. “The old mage has gone senile. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

  The table erupted into vibrant, chaotic conversation, dissecting his words, the logic spreading through them like wine.

  Lucon watched them with a serene smile.

  This was the reason he let these sycophants linger. They were fertile ground. By morning, the rumor would be all over the barony and on its way to Teleris and beyond: Rhavak Cysserian was a weak fraud, propped up by a crazy old man. Claude Edelyn was the one, the only, true candidate for Named Hero.

  Lucon leaned back, letting pipe smoke drift upward lazily from his mouth.

  He wasn’t entirely lying—he really wasn’t that strong. Captain Mavor could kill him effortlessly. If Rhavak had abandoned that blue Mana line to aim, he would have defeated Lucon just as easily. Dragnol was a Master Mage who had achieved the rare feat of dual-element mastery, commanding both fire and lightning. If he had chosen to use his fire magic, Lucon would have been reduced to ash, unable to dodge a spell that blanketed the entire area like Claude’s [Inferno].

  He glanced at Peytr who saw him staring and leaned closer as if prompted.

  Lucon said, “Let’s continue our discussion from earlier—about doing one’s duty.”

  Face flushed from alcohol, Peytr nodded. “That would be grand, Prince. I was waiting for you to return.”

  One of Lucon’s eyebrows lifted.

  Peytr smiled widely. “The same Lucon who seemed he could take on the world.” He turned to see the burly monk listening in. “Isn’t that right, Georgi? Our Lucon, now able to match his words from back then. Remember? He’s going to raise the barony to be equal to even Teleris City.”

  Georgi reflected for a moment. “It really has been quite some time since we got together…”

  Lucon had known both young men since childhood. They had grown up in his shadow, entranced by his presence and the bold promises of the future he once swore to build.

  “Now is the future, friends,” Lucon promised, using the same tone he did back then. “Victory will be ours, just like I said it would. A river of gold will flow through the barony.”

  ***

  The sound of raucous laughter and drunken cheers echoed down the manor’s quiet corridors, a familiar, unwelcome ghost from his childhood. Claude followed the noise toward the dining hall, his steps measured even as his mind whirled with the evening’s catastrophes.

  He paused. There, standing rigidly before the closed doors, was his father. Auric’s back was turned, his fists clenched. His entire posture radiated a fury so intense it seemed a miracle the wood hadn't burst into flames.

  Auric straightened abruptly, sensing his presence. He turned, his features hastily shifting into a mask of strained calm. "Claude. I was...just passing by."

  "Father," Claude began, his voice low. "About Lucon’s behavior—interrupting your announcement—"

  "Don't worry about it," Auric cut him off. "Your brother has clearly grown arrogant from whatever occurred in the Wilderwood. He believes he can do as he pleases." He placed a hand on Claude’s shoulder, his grip a fraction too tight. "I will handle it. You have enough to concern yourself with."

  Claude simply nodded, recognizing the dismissal. He watched his father stride away, the lie of 'passing by' lingering in the air. Only when Auric had vanished around the corner did Claude turn back toward the door.

  He cracked it open just enough to peer inside.

  The scene was a familiar one: the haze of pipe smoke, the clatter of bottles, the flushed faces of his brother's sycophants lost in revelry. It was a portrait of the "Prince of Revelry" he had grown up watching from afar. The sight of Monk Georgi, once a part of Lucon’s inner circle, appeared as the lone unexpected detail.

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  His eyes found Lucon. He wasn't carousing with the others. He was seated at the head of the table, leaning in close, speaking with intense focus to Peytr. The clerk's usual anxious energy was gone, replaced by a rapt, almost feverish attention. This wasn't a drunken conversation; it was a private council.

  Claude closed the door softly, the wood a curtain he shut on the enigma his brother had become.

  Hours slipped by. The noise from the dining hall gradually faded, replaced by the sounds of stumbling farewells and slurred goodnights. The manor settled into a deep, late-night silence.

  Finally, the dining hall door opened one last time for the night. Lucon and Georgi emerged, supporting a barely-conscious Peytr between them.

  "Think you can manage him from here?" Lucon asked, his voice steady despite the hour and the undoubtedly empty bottles left behind.

  Georgi nodded. The monk easily hefted Petyr’s dead weight onto his shoulder. There was no need for a holy spell; the muscles protruding from beneath his robes weren't just for show.

  “We should do this again, Georgi,” Lucon prompted.

  Georgi glanced at him a stern look. “I’m not the same man I was back then.”

  “Neither am I.”

  That gave the monk pause, but then he shook his bald head. “Have a good night, Young Lord. Mercy be upon you.”

  Lucon grinned. “And upon you, Georgi.”

  Georgi turned and carried Petyr down the hall, his footsteps fading into the night.

  Alone, Lucon took a long pull from his pipe, the ember flaring in the darkness. He blew the smoke out in a slow, thoughtful stream.

  His voice then filled the empty corridor, "Did you wait for long, brother?"

  Claude stepped out of the shadows, his expression unreadable. "We need to talk."

  Lucon didn’t answer. He merely gestured for Claude to follow and stepped past him. There was something in that stride—the unwavering confidence, the set of those broad shoulders—that pulled Claude back years, to a cold day on the streets of Teleris:

  Their father, busy in one of the shops he owned, had left them alone outside to play.

  Claude was small, hiding behind his older brother’s back. Lucon, just a boy himself, stood with his shoulders squared, his knuckles scraped raw. His tunic was torn, his face a mosaic of fresh welts and a bloody nose that dripped onto the cobblestones.

  Three older boys were retreating, but they barely had a scratch on them. They were merely exhausted. Lucon was the one who looked like he’d been through a thresher.

  “And it’ll be worse for you if I catch you picking on my little brother again!” young Lucon shouted after them.

  The fight had been a one-sided affair. Claude had been cornered, teased for his “girly looks,” when Lucon charged in without a second thought. Lucon had no technique, no power; he had only a furious, stubborn refusal to stay down. They beat him mercilessly, but he kept getting up, forcing them to expend their energy until, frustrated and tired, they gave up.

  Lucon turned, his face a mess of pain and triumph. “You alright, brother?”

  Claude, seeing the bloody nose, the purpling bruises, and the sheer amount of hurt his brother had absorbed for him, felt a wave of overwhelming guilt. He didn’t answer. Instead, he began to wail, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Lucon’s bravado faltered. He looked flustered, awkward. “Hey, don’t…don’t worry about it. I’ll get them back one day. Just you wait. Once I’m an Arisen, they’ll have to think twice before messing with us again.”

  The memory faded, leaving Claude uncertain and confused. He stared at the back of the man walking ahead of him now, the puffs of smoke from his pipe somehow being blown in a way to avoid Claude behind him.

  Why did I think of that? Claude wondered, the sentimentality feeling foreign and unfamiliar.

  Then he remembered Lucon’s boot on Rhavak’s head.

  “Submit to my brother, who will be the next Named Hero.”

  The words and the action—they were echoes of that childhood protection. A part of Claude, a small and long-forgotten part, wanted to believe that the brother who had once taken a beating for him was still in there, fighting for him in his own chaotic way.

  He shook his head, physically dispelling the thought. No.

  That was a fantasy. The Lucon of today was not a protector; he was a destabilizing force who thought only of his own whims, his own vices, and his own inscrutable games. His "help" was often more destructive than any enemy’s blade.

  Claude couldn't leave for Vusric with this noose tightening around the neck of their family’s legacy. For Mother’s peace of mind and Father’s sanity, he had to rein his brother in.

  “The stables…?” Claude murmured as they approached it.

  Why was his brother leading him here? A sinking feeling filled his stomach. What if Lucon saw him as someone who was usurping his title as rightful heir? What if what Lucon said during his fight with Rhavak was to get Claude to let down his guard…?

  The sight that greeted them in the stable yard sent a jolt of alarm through him.

  Leaning against a weathered wagon was a man covered in intricate ink, his features bold and foreign. Beside him lounged two massive panthers—one a black as shadow, the other a white ghost. Their green eyes tracked Claude with unnerving, predatory stillness. Mana Sense told Claude what kind of beasts they were.

  Instinct took over. His hand flew to his hip, grasping at only his belt. He'd left his sword behind, never imagining he'd need it within the manor walls. His heart thumped against his ribs.

  He staggered back a half-step before Lucon’s soft chuckle sounded behind him.

  “Why so jumpy, brother?”

  Claude forced himself to breathe, to observe. The cats weren’t moving. Not even tensing. The tattooed man was passive.

  "Are those...Mana Beasts?" Claude asked, his tension not easing in the slightest.

  Lucon ignored the question, his gaze turning thoughtful as he stared into the middle distance.

  "I haven't been much of a brother to you these past few years, have I, Claude?"

  The question, so blunt and unexpected, rattled Claude. A torrent of complicated emotions—resentment, longing, confusion…He shoved it all down. This was not the time for sentiment. This was the moment to assert control, to rein in the chaos.

  "What do you want, Lucon?" Claude demanded, his eyes flicking anxiously between his brother and the unsettling trio by the wagon. He needed to get to the point, to deliver the lecture he had prepared.

  Lucon's smile was a small, knowing thing. "I wanted to give you your present. You didn't think I forgot, did you?"

  A present?

  Claude stared.

  He honestly hadn’t expected Lucon to attend the Vusric celebration—much less bring a gift. Lucon seldom attended anything, let alone something that celebrated Claude.

  Lucon signaled to the tattooed man with a slight nod. The barbarian moved to the back of the wagon, hefted a heavy, iron-banded chest, and set it on the ground before Claude with a solid thud. He flipped the lid open.

  Claude's breath caught in his throat. His eyes went wide, all thoughts of lectures and reprimands vanishing. The chest was filled to the brim with gold coins, glittering in the faint moonlight.

  "This..." Claude stammered, his mind reeling. "What is this?"

  "You're going to Vusric," Lucon said. "You'll need financial support to build your reputation, to gather resources, to secure allies. Our barony, in its current state, isn't ready for that kind of outflow. This private sum will have to do."

  Claude could only open and close his mouth, utterly at a loss for words.

  Lucon went on, his tone conversational. "Do you know the bandit gang that's been harassing the barony and the trade routes to Teleris? The Blood Wraiths?"

  Claude nodded slowly. The elite guard had failed to catch them for years—even with Claude’s help, the hunts had been a total failure.

  Lucon gave a lazy shrug. "This is what they stole from you. From us. Consider it returned, with interest. A gift for the future Named Hero."

  “You…defeated them?” Claude asked.

  Lucon paused for a moment. “I would say they defeated themselves. A disagreement on leadership, you might say, led to their downfall.”

  The tattooed man shifted uncomfortably when Lucon winked at him.

  Claude couldn’t believe his financial worries suddenly evaporated—at least for a few months by the looks of it.

  Before losing Swordmaster Eregnil, his finances had been his greatest worry. Vusric was a place for the elite—trainers, Masters, rare resources. Everything was expensive. Even with his title, even with House Edelyn’s name behind him, Claude had known he would be stretched thin.

  Ruined, perhaps.

  His biggest unspoken fear—the one he never voiced to Mother or Father.

  “There will be more where this came from,” Lucon promised, eyes steady. “I promise you that.”

  Claude had so many questions, but Lucon didn’t seem to want him to ponder too deeply upon it as he continued speaking.

  “Your final gift from me,” Lucon offered and nodded toward the tattooed man again.

  The tattooed foreigner pulled out a Mana Crystal—but not just any crystal. Intricate carvings covered its surface. He raised it to his lips, and a sharp note rang out, revealing it to be a whistle.

  Before Claude could process the strange whistle, the white panther moved. In a fluid, powerful leap, it landed directly before him, its massive form settling with a soft huff. Only then did Claude notice the saddle on its back—a hastily altered piece of horse tack that looked absurd, yet thrilling, on the magical beast.

  "This is your new mount," Lucon stated, as if presenting a new pair of boots.

  Claude was completely floored. "What do you mean? It's a Mana Beast!"

  Lucon waved a hand, prompting the tattooed man. With a resigned sigh, the barbarian began a demonstration, blowing a series of short, dissonant notes on the carved whistle. The panther's ears twitched; it obediently sat, then lay down, then rose again, its movements perfectly synchronized to the sounds.

  Claude, his mind a sharp instrument for learning, watched with intense focus. He memorized the sequences—the variations in pitch and rhythm that dictated each command. It was a language of control, and he absorbed it in moments.

  When the demonstration was over, the man held out the whistle with clear reluctance. As Claude reached for it, the man's grip tightened—a silent, possessive tug-of-war that lasted a heartbeat.

  Lucon cleared his throat, casting a meaningful look at the foreigner.

  The tattooed man’s shoulders dropped in defeat, and he released the whistle into Claude’s hand.

  Flushed with a mix of triumph and awe, Claude mounted the white panther. The beast’s muscles shifted powerfully beneath him.

  "The saddle is temporary," Lucon called up, smoke rising from his lips. "The saddler altered one meant for a horse and did so in a hurry. We'll send a proper one later."

  Claude didn't care. He brought the whistle to his lips and blew the command for 'forward'.

  The world became a blur.

  The panther shot across the stable yard, its speed so exhilarating it stole Claude's breath. The wind whipped his blonde hair back, roaring in his ears. He whistled again, a different sequence, and the panther gathered itself and leaped, landing with impossible grace on a low section of the manor roof. With another powerful surge, they scaled the steep slate tiles, coming to a perfect, balanced stop at the very peak of the Edelyn manor.

  Claude was breathless. He looked out over the sleeping barony, the moonlit fields, the dark silhouette of the Wilderwood. The world was at his feet. This was the most incredible, the most thoughtful, the most powerful gift he had ever received.

  He whistled the command for 'return', and they descended just as swiftly, rushing back to the stables where Lucon still leaned, smiling lazily as he smoked.

  "This…This is…!" Claude stammered, dismounting, his heart still pounding with adrenaline.

  "You'll really turn heads in that fancy First Year parade at Vusric," Lucon said with a grin.

  The memory of Norlon's preening and the ivory carriage flashed in Claude's mind. This—a majestic, powerful Mana Beast—was infinitely better. His excitement peaked, a genuine, unguarded smile spreading across his face.

  Then Lucon’s voice softened, the casual tone vanishing. "I'm sorry, Claude…for not being a good brother."

  The words landed like a physical weight. Claude felt shaken. He approached gingerly, rubbing his arm, his gaze dropping to the ground. He had no response. The apology was everything he had wanted to hear for years, and yet it felt utterly disorienting.

  Lucon continued, his voice devoid of its usual lazy drawl.

  "Things will change." He met Claude's eyes, his own blue gaze unnervingly direct. "I plan on seizing control of the barony from Father."