Regius stood in the center of his private training chamber, shirtless. Steam rose from his skin, venting the excess heat of his physical body. His muscles trembled and coiled, fighting against the crushing fatigue of channeling his abilities internally.
Both of his Marks lit up in white and blue, lighting up his hand to his forearm. A searing sensation grew from his Mark, pressing on his pain tolerance.
Strike.
A blade of pure starlight aimed at his head.
Regius stepped into the arc, shifting his weight. He caught the flat of the blade with the back of his energy-reinforced palm and pushed.
He was doing redirection training.
The attacker blazed past him. Libra—fully manifested in her spectral form of white armor and flowing cape—spun. She slashed her longsword in a downward arc, stopping right before the tip of the blade connected to Regius.
"The execution is excellent." Libra lowered her sword. "But, you're too focused on pushing my blade away rather than flowing with the momentum of the attack. Again."
Regius gasped. He wiped sweat from his eyes.
Libra blurred forward. A flurry of strikes rained on him—overhead, diagonal, lateral, and thrust—intent on pinning him down.
Regius avoided the contact with the slightest of movements. He parried with his hands, using the spatial distortion inherited from Libra to deflect the energy rather than to absorb it.
Flow with the momentum, he thought.
He was learning to be a river, to flow effortlessly during the heat of battle, ingrained as muscle memory. He intended to become a mirror, turning the force of his opponent against themselves.
Thrum.
A note vibrated in the corner of the room.
Regius felt the heavy shift in gravity. He dropped to one knee. An arrow of gravity flew past the space where his head had been a second ago. It impacted the ground, cracking the obsidian floor with a spiderweb fracture, before mending itself back.
Orion sat on his throne. The Hunter was fully manifested, a void of midnight armor. He sat still, his bow resting across his knees, firing arrows with a mere twitch of his finger.
"You are telegraphing your anger," Libra said, circling him. "Your energy is hot. It bleeds intention."
Regius felt the rage simmering in his gut. A hot stone that hadn't cooled down since the funeral of his friend. He wanted to hit, break something—anything.
"Understood."
"Deep breaths," Orion's voice resonated in his Soul Palace, cold and sharp. "Uncontrolled emotion will only hinder your growth."
Another gravity bolt fired. Libra lunged.
Regius closed his eyes. He exhaled through his mouth. His heartbeat thrummed to his ears. He found the quiet, serene space in-between.
Serenity.
He moved, deflecting Libra's lunge, and sidestepped Orion's arrow in a single fluid motion.
"Good," Libra smiled. "Now, feel that balance."
———
Two hours later, the sweat was gone, scrubbed away in a scalding bath. The bath relaxed his muscles and eased the tension between his tendons. Redirected the pain from his prolonged activation of the Summon Marks.
Regius stood before the full-sized mirror in his room. He studied his reflection, ensuring every detail was precise.
He wore a bespoke tailcoat of blue velvet, cut sharp to accentuate his shoulders. Silver thread, woven from energy filaments, traced subtle, geometric textures across the lapels. His shirt was a loose, high-collared white linen, decorated with the Zenith Blade's pin.
Trousers of wool tucked into polished black boots completed the silhouette. It was an outfit designed to announce the standings of his house. It spoke of wealth, merit, and dangerous elegance.
He picked up his black engraved gloves and slid them over his hands. It fit like a second skin.
"Perfect," Lady Lucine said, stepping into the room.
She had picked Regius's current outfit. She wore a gown of silver and blue mesh that flowed like liquid armor. It accentuated her beautiful silhouette.
"I feel like a target," Regius said.
"Because you are," Magnus said, entering behind her. "This will be the first time you attend a noble event in two years."
Magnus wore his formal ceremonial uniform; medals and awards gleamed on his chest. Textured silk and plates woven with each other, creating a blend of elegance and armor.
"They will judge you. Not just your peers, but the heads of houses as well," Lucine said. "Sizing you up. To determine whether you are ally or foe."
"I hate it…"
"To them, you are a generational talent," Magnus remarked. "And it's a lot better than being abducted by the Crown."
"I'll keep that in mind."
They descended to the main courtyard. A dark, sleek, armored limousine waited, its energy engine purring.
The journey to the Keros Domain was not taken by road. The Aethels, as the second most powerful house in the Valiant Faction, had the necessary means to traverse great distances in a blink.
They arrived at the Portal Gate located in the center of the city. It was a massive archway humming with a low frequency; its occupancy was vacated for the event.
Lines of crowds stood—tried to take pictures—waved as the limousine with the Zenith Blade crest went past. It glided through the shimmering mana curtain.
They emerged into a world of red dust and golden sun.
Keros Capital was a fortress city built into the walls of a massive canyon. Banners of crimson and gold snapped in the dry wind. The architecture was brutalist and grand, prioritizing defense and intimidation.
They drove up the causeway to the Keros Estate, passing other luxury vehicles queued at the checkpoints. The Aethel limousine bypassed the line, waved through by the palace guards.
They stopped at the grand entrance. Servants rushed to open the doors.
Regius stepped out onto the red carpet.
Standing at the top of the stairs to welcome the VIPs was the hostess herself, the Duchess Valora Keros. She was a tall, imposing woman with hair like spun iron, wearing a gown that incorporated pieces of actual plate armor.
Magnus bowed, kissing her hand. "Valora, your domain is as formidable as ever."
"And you are as charming as a rockslide, Magnus," the Duchess's laugh boomed. "The same can't be said for you, Lucine. You're as beautiful as ever."
"Likewise, Valora. By the way, where is your husband? Is he not present?"
"Ah, that brute? You know how he is. Prefers to fight those Abyss beasts while I'm stuck here, managing the boring stuff."
"I can relate to that sentiment," Lucine smiled.
Valora turned her gaze to Regius.
Regius bowed perfectly, the movement fluid and precise. "Duchess Keros. Thank you for welcoming us."
Her eyes narrowed. She scanned him, looking for the soft boy she remembered from the last gala he attended three years ago. She paused, sensing the density of his presence.
"It seems that the Young Dragon of House Aethel has returned," Valora said. "And I imagine the border has taught you plenty."
"It certainly has, Duchess."
"Good. I look forward to it. Go on, then. Your peers are waiting."
She gestured to the massive double doors.
Inside, the ballroom was a cavernous hall of red stone, illuminated by thousands of floating lights that drifted like fireflies. The room was segregated into two separate sections.
The adults ascended the grand staircases to the mezzanine balconies and private viewing boxes. There, they would drink wine, watch the floor below, and trade the fates of nations in whispers.
The children and heirs remained on the ballroom floor. They mingled within their own factions.
Regius separated from his parents. Magnus gripped his shoulder once, a silent message: Make them tremble. Then, the High Lord and Lady ascended the stairs, leaving Regius alone.
He walked into the ballroom. And the room went silent.
Conversations died. Heads turned.
The heir of House Aethel that was gone for two years had returned.
Regius moved through the crowd, his eyes scanning the battlefield.
Lounging on elevated platforms, sat the Legacies. The "Old Blood." They watched the floor with heavy-lidded boredom, swirling their wine, treating the event like a boring pastime. To them, everyone else was merely a visitor in a history book they had already written.
Dominating the center of the room were the Valiants. The "Merit Nobility." Like House Aethel and Keros, these families traced their lineage to war heroes and high-achievers. They stood straighter, laughed freer, and wore their medals with aggressive pride.
And then, drifting between them like oil on water, was the Bloc.
The "Petty Nobility." Families whose fortunes had stagnated or rotted from the inside. They didn't have the history of the Legacies or the competence of the Valiants, so they relied on volume.
They huddled in loud, glittering clusters, wearing too much gold and laughing too hard at unfunny jokes. They were desperate, dangerous animals who banded together to bite anything that looked weak.
Regius navigated the currents. He walked with the relaxed confidence of a man who owned the ground beneath his feet.
Bump.
A massive shoulder checked him hard.
Regius didn't stumble, using a subtle flare of internal energy to become immovable. The impact felt like hitting a stone wall.
He turned. A mountain of a boy loomed over him.
Titus Keros, the heir to House Keros.