The drive to Barkinham stretched long, the silence inside the car more pronounced than the rumble of the engine. Ishira's hands rested firm on the wheel, his profile fixed against the blur of green fields rolling past the windows.
Alora sat straight in the passenger seat, her gaze locked on the endless road ahead. She looked serene to the untrained eye, but her stillness carried a weight that spoke of unspoken thoughts.
In the back seat, Conus leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching the trees streak by in muted colors. The hum of the tires over asphalt became a low drone that matched the pressure in his chest. Barkinham was closer with every passing mile, yet the distance he felt had nothing to do with geography.
The silence pressed against him until he broke it.
"Why did you hide so much about your family?" His voice was low, but it seemed to fill the car.
Ishira's grip on the wheel tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing, as though the question were a stone he did not want to lift. At last, he exhaled, a sigh that carried years of weariness.
"They are not good people." His words were simple, but each syllable was heavy.
Conus sat forward, unwilling to let it go. "Does that matter? They are still your family—"
Alora turned then, her voice gentle yet steady, cutting across his words. "Do not blame your father. The choice was mine."
Conus blinked. "Yours?"
"When I found out I was pregnant," she continued, her eyes softening as they found his, "I told Ishira that some ties were better cut before they could cause harm. His family was one of them."
Conus fell quiet. He leaned back again, pressing into the seat, the questions still burning but caught in his throat. His gaze slid back to the fields rushing by, and the silence returned to the car like a familiar shadow.
Two hours later, the world changed. The narrow road curved into a long paved drive lined with ancient oaks that arched high overhead. At the end of the avenue, the mansion rose like a sentinel of stone and history. Its gray walls gleamed faintly in the light, ivy climbing toward high windows latticed with black iron. A balcony jutted above the entrance, sharp and commanding, giving the building the look of something carved from time itself.
Even in mourning, the house had grandeur. It was beautiful, yet severe, and the weight of its presence pressed on Conus's chest.
The grounds were already filled with mourners. Black-clad figures moved quietly along the path toward the front steps, their voices hushed, their arms heavy with flowers. The air smelled faintly of lilies and damp earth.
Ishira parked the car close to the entrance, and the family stepped out together. Waiting at the wide oak doors stood a woman dressed in simple elegance, her long black gown flowing to her ankles. Her posture was composed, her dark hair pinned neatly back, and her features bore the unmistakable resemblance to Ishira's.
When her eyes found him, warmth broke across her face.
"Ishira," she said quickly, moving forward with open arms. "I didn't think you would come."
Her embrace was swift, filled with relief. Ishira returned it with a faint smile. "He was my father too."
She pulled back, and her eyes shifted to Alora. "Alora. It has been years."
Alora returned her hug with grace, the two women holding each other briefly before stepping aside.
Then Ishira's hand fell lightly on Conus's shoulder. "This is my son, Conus."
The woman froze. Surprise widened her eyes before soft laughter escaped her. "Your son? I never even knew." She wrapped her arms around him without hesitation. "You look well, and far too handsome. You must have inherited your mother's side." She leaned back slightly, studying him with mock seriousness. "I suppose all Normies like us have to work harder to stay good looking, don't we?"
Ishira's voice cut cleanly. "He is no Normie. Conus is a Pugnator."
Laura's smile faltered, her shock plain. For a heartbeat, silence hung, then her expression softened again, though the new glint in her eyes lingered. "A Pugnator," she repeated, almost to herself. "Then I am even more proud. Though it saddens me he never met Father."
She stepped back, gesturing toward the hall. "Come inside."
The interior swallowed them in wealth and history. The great entrance opened to a marble floor polished to a mirror's shine. A sweeping staircase of dark oak curved upward, its banister carved with intricate detail. Above, chandeliers glittered, their crystals scattering light in shifting colors. Oil paintings lined the walls, stern faces of men and women whose pride stared down from gilded frames.
The hall opened into a chamber hushed with grief. At its center rested a coffin draped in black silk. The people within moved quietly, some pausing to look inside, others gathered in small clusters. The scent of lilies was stronger here, mixing with the stillness of mourning.
Conus's eyes caught on a portrait propped near the coffin. The face there was strong, carved by time, with eyes that seemed to carry the weight of command. Something about the set of the jaw, the lines of the brow, tugged at Conus's memory.
They approached the coffin. Inside lay the body of a man in a dark suit, his stillness profound. Conus stared, unsettled by the silence of death. All the power of a life, all its pride and strength, ended in this motionless form. The thought made his chest tighten.
A new voice shattered the quiet.
"Why are you here?"
It was sharp, hostile.
Ishira did not flinch. His gaze lingered on the coffin for a moment longer before he turned. His movements were calm, deliberate, and his expression unreadable.
"This was my home once," he said evenly. "I have the right to stand here." He let a humorless smile touch his lips. "Hello, Elder Brother."
The man before him was taller, broad in the shoulders, his black suit straining over the strength of his frame. His hair was swept back neatly, but the resemblance in his features left no doubt. The jaw, the eyes, the proud bearing, they were cut from the same line.
The elder brother scoffed. "Still as pompous as ever. It is astonishing, considering how weak you are."
The tension sharpened, heavy enough that even the mourners nearby fell quiet. Conus felt it in the air, a pressure like two blades poised to meet.
Laura stepped quickly between them. Her tone was calm, but it carried the weight of command. "Enough. This is Father's funeral, not a battlefield. I will not let you shame him."
The brothers locked eyes, the silence stretching, before both finally stepped back, yielding in silence if not in spirit.
Conus turned inward, activating his gift. Numbers appeared faintly above heads, levels glowing in the air. His gaze fell on his uncle, and his breath caught. There was no number. Only three shifting question marks.
"What…?" The word slipped from him before he could stop it.
He looked around the hall, letting his sight drift. Many bore numbers in the thirties and forties, some soaring past a hundred. Yet scattered among them were the same question marks, unreadable veils of power.
His eyes fixed on a man seated alone in a corner, sipping wine as if oblivious to the mourning around him. His scarred face twisted slightly when he drank, but it was the number above his head that froze Conus.
195
The highest he had ever seen.
The man noticed him. Their eyes met, and Conus felt a cold weight grip his chest. He looked away quickly, heart pounding.
So that is what the question marks mean, he thought. They are those beyond me. Locked doors I cannot yet open.
The thought should have frightened him, but instead it sparked something else. Curiosity. Hunger.
Ishira's voice drew him back. "Laura. How did he die?"
Her expression faltered. She lowered her gaze. "The Inspectors ruled it suicide."
Ishira's brow furrowed. "Impossible. An Elder, an A-ranker… suicide?" His voice was firm, yet disbelief edged every word. "Still, I cannot discredit the Inspectors. Their work is precise."
The elder brother's voice cut in, lower now, though his tone carried the same weight. "They do not make mistakes. I cannot picture Father taking his own life either, but if the Inspectors declared it so, then it is true."
The words settled like ash over the hall.
Conus turned again to the portrait. Recognition struck him suddenly, clear as lightning. The jawline, the eyes, the aura of strength. He had seen this man's face before, in stories, on TV.
Kayden Aromanus. The Slasher.
The truth hit him like a blow. His father had changed the name. Aromanus to Aromane. For years, Ishira had built walls of silence around their history. And now, those walls had cracked.
Conus almost laughed at the absurdity. He had always thought of himself as the boy clawing upward from little. Yet here was the truth, he was already bound to a lineage of an elder, to a family that stood near the top of the world. A family of power, pride, and secrets.
And whether he wanted it or not, he was one of them.