The red seal caught his eye first—the Donovan crest, a bolt of lightning coiled around a spear, pressed into the wax.
The courier stepped back as if his job were finished. Aren slipped through the crowd and left through the rear exit. He turned into a narrow, shadowed alley, the cool air a sharp contrast to the suffocating tension inside. There, he broke the seal.
He unfolded the letter and read the neat handwriting.
Aren,
The spectacle beneath the temple dome may have granted you legal innocence, but it has not scoured the stain you have splashed across the Donovan honor.
Once a Donovan's name is tethered to a criminal record, the word 'family' loses its meaning. This letter serves as a formal notice: all blood and legal ties between you and this lineage are severed.
From this moment forward, you forfeit the right to bear our name. You have been struck from our genealogical records; your existence remains only as a dark footnote in our history.
I offer one last act of grace—not out of affection, but to ensure a former Donovan does not crawl through the streets in public disgrace. A sum sufficient to begin a new life, provided you live it far from the public eye, has been transferred to the enclosed account.
You will receive no further shares, nor any further mercy. Henceforth, you chart your own course. You are nothing to us.
— Beryl Donovan
"Ruthless to your own flesh and blood, aren't you?" Aren muttered, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips.
He wasn't disappointed. This banishment seemed like good fortune.
A family obsessed with reputation was a shackle. If he remained tied to them, every move he made would be scrutinized, controlled, or stifled. Everything changed the moment he was cast out.
Whatever I do now, they'll pretend not to see.
That they had paid him to vanish broadened his smile. To Aren, this wasn't a rejection.
It was a payoff for his freedom.
The Central Bank of the Holy Mohen Kingdom loomed at the thoroughfare's end—a monument of cold splendor.
Flawless white marble stretched toward the heavens, its towering columns resembling the ribs of some bleached giant.
Here, architecture transcended finance; it was a cathedral where coin served as the only deity.
Aren stepped through the heavy bronze doors. Instantly, the city's clamor vanished, severed as if by a blade.
Footsteps echoed against the high vaults, punctuated only by the dry, rhythmic rustle of turning parchment.
A sterile, unsettling order governed the hall. Oak counters, taller than a man, flanked the aisle. Behind them, clerks in silver-gray robes worked with mechanical precision.
Their magnifying spectacles perched low on their noses, reflecting the ink of endless ledgers. No one spoke. No one blinked.
Even the prison felt less suffocating, Aren thought. His boots clicked against black-veined marble.
Above, rotating spheres of light replaced candles. Their glow reached every crevice, denying sanctuary to any shadow.
As he approached the far end marked Asset Management, dozens of eyes flickered toward him—a brief, silent interrogation—before returning to their tasks.
This was no mere vault. It was a fortress of secrets.
Above, the chandeliers held neither candles nor lamps. Instead, rotating spheres of light drifted in the air, their glow reaching every crevice, leaving no sanctuary for shadows.
As Aren approached the far end marked Asset Management, dozens of eyes flickered toward him—a brief, silent interrogation—before returning to their ledgers.
This was no mere vault. It was a fortress of secrets. Runes engraved into silver bands snaked along the walls like veins, pulsing with the power that guarded the subterranean vaults of steel and sorcery.
When Aren reached the final counter, the clerk didn't bother to look up. His voice was a rasp, cold as metal scraping against stone.
"Account number and identification."
Aren slid the details from the letter across the wood, along with his temporary papers. The clerk adjusted his lenses, flipping through a massive ledger with practiced speed.
When the pages stopped, a microscopic tremor fractured his expressionless mask. His eyebrows twitched upward.
Without a word, the clerk traced a series of runes across a silver plate and turned it toward Aren. The figure displayed there was staggering—far beyond his highest estimate.
Well... damn, Aren mused, staring at the glowing digits.
Beryl Donovan truly believed her son was a monster, yet she feared a tarnished reputation even more. She hadn't just given him an allowance; she had granted him enough gold to build a small kingdom, provided he remained a ghost.
This wasn't an act of maternal grace. It was a bribe—a golden gag order, telling him never to return.
This benefits me, Aren thought, offering a sharp, practiced nod.
The shock of the windfall vanished as quickly as it had arrived. He leaned across the oak counter, his voice a low vibration intended only for the clerk.
"Convert the account into bearer drafts. Scrub the Donovan name from every record tied to this transaction."
Then, he leaned in closer, his tone shifting to something more calculated.
"And one more thing. If a talented Nyx sought to offer their services—outside the stifling bureaucracy of the official guilds—where would they go to register?"
The clerk's pen froze.
For the first time, the man looked up, his eyes dissecting Aren from head to toe. "Sir," he began, his voice dropping an octave. "My recommendation would be the Soren Academy."
"Soren Academy?"
"You have only just cleared your name," the clerk said, his composure returning. "One misstep now, and every arrow in the kingdom will find your back. Handle your affairs through official channels. Enroll."
The clerk reached beneath the counter, producing a crystalline panel. "Your wrist, Mr. Donovan."
Aren extended his arm. The silver runes encircling his wrist flickered to life, rotating in a slow, luminous ring.
A faint hum vibrated through the air as the symbols rearranged themselves, realigning with his essence. The clerk tapped the crystal with a slender rod, and a figure bloomed in his private vision.
Balance: 10,000 Solaris
"Transaction confirmed," the clerk droned. "All master codes linked to the Donovan family have been erased. This account is now bound to your soul signature—reassigned to your Aureus bracelet as a Shadow Account."
As Aren withdrew his hand, the golden numbers dissolved, sinking into the silver etchings on his skin.
His fortune was no longer in a vault; it was a part of him. In this world, the Aureus bracelet functioned as a bank, but one secured by ether-bound soul authentication. It was a private treasury, sealed to the bearer alone.
Faced with the sheer scale of Beryl's bribe, Aren felt a predatory satisfaction swell in his chest. He had to force his face to remain a mask, lest he grin like a madman.