The scent of marrow stew hit Thalos halfway down the staircase.
He descended into the heart of the house—Duskhaven stone warmed by enchantments, lined with runes that glowed faintly with layered protection magic. As his feet touched the lower floor, the sounds of life sharpened around him: the clink of spoons, bursts of laughter, chairs scraping, and a high-pitched shriek that ended in a dramatic cough.
The Valen family kitchen was equal parts chaos and comfort.
Seven seats surrounded a sturdy stone table, worn smooth by time and family squabbles. Half the chairs were already occupied. Keral—the eldest, built like a guard tower—sat lounging in the corner, chewing absently on a marrow dumpling as if he owned the world. His training leathers were scuffed at the edges, the mark of someone who never just trained.
Next to him sat Relin, barely a year younger but twice as sharp-tongued. He was spinning a fork between his fingers, watching it dance with idle precision while teasing their younger sister, Lyn.
Lyn glared back. "Do that one more time and I'll carve it into your wrist."
"Promises, promises," Relin said with a grin, flipping the fork perfectly into the stew pot behind him without looking.
The youngest pair—Brin and Jessa—were locked in a whisper-fight over who had more fruit slices in their bowl.
Mira stood at the kitchen hearth, wielding a ladle with the same authority she once carried into battle. She turned as Thalos stepped into the room and gave him a quick nod toward the empty seat beside Lyn.
"Before someone else steals it."
Thalos slid into the chair. A bowl was passed to him, hot and heavy with thick stew, bloodroot shavings, and slices of smoked heartfruit. The aroma was rich—iron, spice, and warmth. His stomach tightened with hunger that felt deeper than physical.
"I'm calling it now," Keral said without looking up. "He won't last five minutes in Dad's drills."
"You lasted four," Mira said dryly, ladling stew into another bowl. "And that was after crying through two."
Brin snickered into his cup. Lyn gave Thalos a sideways glance. "You sure about Academy prep? You're not exactly built like a wall."
Thalos shrugged. "I've got a month."
Relin raised an eyebrow. "A month to survive him?" He nodded at the end of the table.
There sat Dregan Valen—their father.
He hadn't spoken a word yet, but his presence grounded the room like a mountain that judged silently. His shoulders were broad, his hair streaked with the frost of years, and his crimson eyes scanned everything without hurry. His vambrace—worn even at home—rested on the table beside a cup of rootwine.
Finally, he spoke.
"You've decided?"
Thalos nodded. "Academy."
"Not the Guard?"
"I want to learn more than patrol routes."
Dregan grunted. That wasn't disapproval—just acknowledgement.
"You'll train with me. Mornings. Second bell."
Thalos swallowed a mouthful of stew before answering. "Understood."
"Start tomorrow. We check your baseline, then we work from there."
Relin leaned in toward Thalos. "You should start writing your eulogy tonight."
Lyn rolled her eyes. "Just don't pass out like Keral did his first day. Took us an hour to peel him off the courtyard."
Keral gave a lazy thumbs-up. "Glorious nap."
Mira set her ladle down with a sigh. "Enough. You'll scare him off before he breaks a sweat."
Thalos looked down at his bowl, thinking. The food was good—better than anything he remembered tasting outside—but it was the conversation that had weight.
This was normal.
Teasing. Sibling banter. Training talk at breakfast.
But every word, every jab, carried an undercurrent of expectation. Combat wasn't an elective in Duskhaven. For vampires—especially common-born—strength wasn't just status. It was survival.
Mira sat across from him and studied his expression. "You're not like your brothers," she said quietly.
"I noticed."
"That's not a bad thing. But it means you'll need to work twice as hard. You've got a good base. Better than most. But talent isn't what gets you through Academy gates."
"Will?"
"No," Dregan cut in. "Consistency. Everyone wants to rise fast. Few are willing to rise slow—to fail, adjust, and keep walking."
He met Thalos's eyes directly.
"You'll be hit. Outmatched. Humiliated. Everyone is. What matters is if you come back swinging the next day."
"I will," Thalos said.
The words came without hesitation.
Something in him meant them.
"Then we'll see," Dregan replied.
Mira pushed a second roll toward him. "Eat more. You'll need it."
As the table returned to the usual flow of chatter and arguing, Thalos relaxed into the noise. He let the warmth of the stew settle into his bones and the comfort of the chaos anchor him.
One month.
That was all the time he had before the Academy opened its gates. Before evaluations would separate the worthy from the weak.
His stats were average.
His affinity was nothing special.
But he had a home.
He had a family.
And he had one other thing: the drive to shape his own path—not because it was easy, or fated, but because he chose it.