ESPERSIA, YEAR 1889
ESPERSIA, YEAR 1889
For as long as I can remember, I've had issues with authority. Not in a rebellious, screaming-for-attention way, but more in the sense that I just never saw the point of blindly following rules. There was always this nagging thought in the back of my mind: Who decided they get to be in charge? Why should someone else's judgment be more important than my own?
It started small, I guess. Ignoring orders that didn't make sense, questioning teachers when their rules seemed pointless, and pushing back when I thought something was unfair. That feeling grew as I got older. I didn't just dislike authority—I started to actively distrust it. The more I saw how people in power used their position to control others, the less respect I had for it.
And then, at some point, it wasn't just about ignoring authority anymore. It became about fighting it. Protests, organizing groups, pushing back against systems that felt rigged—systems that were built to keep people like me and the people I cared about in check.
I told myself I was doing the right thing, that someone had to stand up against the people who thought they had the right to decide how everyone else should live. And maybe I believed that, right up until the moment it all went wrong. Until the moment I died, thinking I could actually make a difference.
That's how I've always been. Questioning. Distrusting. Pushing back. I'm not sure I know how to be any other way.
But that was James.
Now, in this life as Zeliot, things are different. The authority I once fought isn't some distant, faceless figure—it's my father. And that changes everything.
There's this conflict in my mind I can't quite shake. James is still there, always ready to push back, to question everything. But Zeliot... Zeliot is scared. He's terrified of the Duke, of falling out of his favor. His entire life has been spent under the shadow of a man who holds absolute power. That fear runs deep.
It's strange—this fear that doesn't really belong to me. James never feared authority, he fought it. But Zeliot... Zeliot knows better.
And now I'm standing here, face-to-face with the man who represents everything I used to fight against. The embodiment of authority. But he's also my father. Zeliot's father.
Despite every instinct screaming to resist, there's a part of me—the Zeliot part—that just wants to bow. To fall in line. To please him.
The doors creaked open, and Duke Valoria entered. Conversation stopped instantly. His steps were slow and deliberate, commanding attention without a word. As he reached the head of the table, he paused, his hands resting on the back of his chair, scanning the room. He didn't sit right away, allowing the silence to settle around him.
Finally, he pulled out the chair and sat, adjusting it with a sharp scrape against the floor.
"We'll begin," he said, his voice steady and low. The room remained still, everyone awaiting his lead (except one.)
The Duke lifted his goblet, taking a slow sip of wine. The clink of metal on wood echoed in the quiet room. "I see that you're recovering well, Zeliot," he said, turning his gaze toward me.
I nodded. "Yes, Father."
He held my gaze for a moment longer before shifting his attention to the others. Raamiz was already eating, stabbing at his food with casual ease, barely interested in waiting for formalities. His smirk flickered as though the tension amused him.
Idris, in contrast, sat completely still. He hadn't touched his plate, his eyes darting between each of us, lingering on our father a second longer, always calculating.
Alba remained composed, his posture rigid but calm, hands resting neatly on the table, awaiting whatever the Duke would say next.
The Duke's gaze swept over the table again before he leaned back in his chair. "Tonight, we celebrate your recovery," he began, his tone formal. "But remember, Zeliot, the family's responsibilities don't wait. Tomorrow, you will resume your studies and training."
I nodded again, deciding to keep my responses sweet and short. "Yes, Father."
Across the table, Raamiz lifted his goblet in a lazy mock toast. Idris didn't move, but I could tell he was watching.
The Duke took a measured sip of wine. The silence dragged before he turned to Raamiz. "Must you always be the first to disregard decorum?" His tone was calm, but the edge wasn't subtle.
Raamiz didn't flinch. He took another sip. "Decorum, Father? I figured we're family. Didn't think we needed to put on a show."
The tension in the room tightened. Alba's grip on his chair shifted slightly, though he said nothing. Idris's eyes flicked toward Raamiz, a faint spark of interest breaking through his otherwise neutral expression.
Before the Duke could respond, Duchess Gaius cut in, voice sharp. "Raamiz, you're too old to play the fool," she said. "And too clever to think you'll get away with it much longer."
Raamiz leaned back in his chair, smile still there. "Mother, I wouldn't dream of it. Besides, it seems we're all just waiting for Father's lead."
The sarcasm landed. No one replied.
Duchess Amelia broke the silence. "How did the trip go, my Lord?" she asked lightly, as if none of it had just happened.
The Duke set his goblet down with a soft thud. "It was... tiring," he said. "Demanding work."
His gaze moved slowly across the table. Nothing else needed to be said.
"I apologize for my absence. I've missed home... in my own way."
Amelia smiled gently. "We've missed you too," she replied easily, her charisma softening the mood. "It's good to have you back."
I wondered, briefly, what had kept him away for so long. Something important, no doubt. Maybe another political dispute, or some endless negotiation about land and titles.
From the books I had just read today—and the few memories I could actually trust—it wasn't unusual for the Duke to spend most of his time away from the royal house. Mahindra, the capital city, was where the real governing happened. That part made sense.
The rest of the family lived in Edevane—a private estate built generations ago for the Valorian bloodline. Not the court. Not the nobility. For the most part, just the family.
Though it's actually kind of perplexing—why the entire family is kept here. Even the Duchesses. You'd think at least one of them would be stationed at the capital…
Before I could get too far in my thoughts, Alba spoke. "Was the trip successful, Father?"
The Duke looked at him, his expression giving away little. "In a way, yes," he said carefully. "But not without its conditions." His eyes lingered on Alba. "I'll speak with you privately about the specifics."
Alba nodded, composed as ever, though there was a weight to the exchange. It was clear that whatever had happened, it involved him.
I racked my brain, trying to pull something useful from Zeliot's memories. Nothing came. I had no idea what the Duke was hinting at—trade, war, something else entirely? Then I remembered the book I skimmed earlier—the Legon family. They were mentioned as a powerful ally. Could this be about them?
I wanted to push for answers, demanding to know what was going on. But Zeliot held me back. This wasn't the kind of place where questions were asked openly.
Of course, Raamiz didn't seem to care. He leaned back, swirling the drink in his goblet before casually raising an eyebrow in Alba's direction. "So, I take it we're not supposed to know what conditions Father's talking about?" His tone was light, playful, but the implication was clear—Raamiz was poking the bear.
Alba's jaw tightened slightly. "Not everything requires your insight, Raamiz."
Raamiz grinned. "Right. I'll just sit here in blissful ignorance, then."
Idris finally spoke, his voice low and smooth. "Perhaps that's for the best. You tend to lose interest in things that require actual thought."
Raamiz's grin faltered for a moment, but he shrugged, taking another sip, choosing not to respond this time.
The conversation could've escalated, but Duchess Gaius stepped in again, her voice as cutting as ever. "Let's not spoil the evening with petty bickering. We're here for Zeliot's recovery." She turned to me, her smile polite.
I nodded, unsure of how to respond. Across the table, Amelia smiled at me too, her expression warmer, but she remained quiet.
The Duke set his goblet down with a final clink. "Indeed. That's enough for tonight." His words were final, signaling the end of the dinner. The servants moved in quietly, clearing the plates as he rose from his seat and left the room, his presence still heavy in the air even after he was gone.
One by one, the rest followed.
After dinner, the halls felt rather empty, a strong sense of quiet. Of course, the peace was suddenly broken when I heard footsteps behind me.
"Quite the celebration, huh?" Raamiz's voice echoed behind me, sounding closer. "Everyone sitting there in silence like they were at a funeral. Real festive."
A small laugh slipped out. "Yeah, something like that."
Raamiz caught up beside me, clearly still stuck on the night. "I'm starting to think Father doesn't know how to celebrate, period."
I didn't say anything. I wasn't thinking about the dinner, or the tension, or any cryptic speeches. Honestly, I just wanted to get to my room and shut the door.
But then Raamiz glanced at me, that grin forming again. "You're not even a little curious about what he meant by 'conditions'?"
I didn't answer right away. Just turned to look at him — and there it was.
That expression. Eyebrows slightly raised, eyes lit with something sharp and amused. He looked genuinely mischievous, like he already had the plan and was just waiting for me to catch up. Clever. Conniving. That face reminded me of someone.
I didn't want to think about who.
Conditions.
Right. From dinner. When the Duke paused mid-sentence and said, "But not without its conditions," looking straight at Alba. No follow-up. Just that. It was blatantly odd the way it was brought up, almost inviting a certain level of questioning. It was hard to tell what the true intention was…
I guess I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little curious. But still, I want to avoid getting into any trouble already. Probably best to be ignorant here.
I shrugged. "He'll tell us when it matters."
Raamiz gave me a look. "Since when does he ever tell us anything unless he's forced to?"
He stepped in front of me, cutting off my path. "Come on, Zeliot. You're seriously just going to let that go?"
I sighed. "Yes."
I don't know what it is, and I don't need to. Whatever happened on that trip, it's Duke business. Which means it's dangerous. And I'm not in the mood to stick my neck out two days after waking up from an attempted murder.
Curiosity got me killed once. I'm not doing that again.
Raamiz raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fair. So you're not going to ask."
"No."
"…Then let's just find out ourselves."
I narrowed my eyes. "Find out how?"
He grinned. "Alba and Father are probably talking about it right now. Somewhere quiet. We just have to be... nearby."
I stared at him. "You're suggesting we spy on them."
"I'm saying we wander with intent."
"Still a terrible idea."
Raamiz leaned in, still smiling. "What's the worst that could happen?"
So many things. So many specific, horrible things that could happen. And I had no reason — none — to say yes.
"Fine," I said.
Raamiz blinked. "Wait—what?"
"Let's go."
I stepped past him, already regretting it.
Why did I say that?
I'm not supposed to be doing this anymore.
Raamiz stood there for a moment, clearly thrown off balance before a grin broke across his face. "Well, well. Maybe head trauma does cause personality changes; the old Zeliot would've never agreed to this. Looks like there's hope for you yet, big brother."
He caught up quickly, eyes gleaming. "Alright, let's do this. I know just the spot where we can listen in without getting caught."
We moved through the shadowed corridors, Raamiz leading the way with a kind of effortless ease, while my thoughts churned behind me.
I hated how natural it felt.
Like I hadn't learned a damn thing. Like all it took was the right setup for me to fall back into the same habits.
I wasn't even thinking about the "conditions" until Raamiz brought it up. Wasn't planning anything. And now here I was, sneaking around like a match trying not to spark in a room full of oil.
And it's not like I had anything to gain. I wasn't trying to fit in. If anything, this made me stand out more. Raamiz said it himself—Zeliot wouldn't have agreed to this.
But I did. Without even hesitating.
Same old James. Same old bullshit.
Still poking at power like it's my job.
...Maybe I'm being too hard on myself.
Maybe I wasn't brought back to play it safe.
Maybe this instinct—the urge to dig, to question, to push—that's the whole reason I'm here.
As I mulled over the strange pull driving me into this, Raamiz led me through the dim hallways, moving with a practiced ease that told me he'd done this many times before. The castle felt almost maze-like in the half-light, corridors twisting and branching in ways that left me disoriented. Raamiz, on the other hand, seemed to know every shortcut and hidden nook.
"Do you do this a lot?" I whispered, following closely behind him.
He threw me a quick grin. "More than I probably should," he admitted, "but you'd be surprised what you can learn if you know where to listen."
We took a sharp turn down a narrower hall, one I hadn't even noticed. "And they don't catch you?"
"Not if you know what you're doing," he replied with a wink, clearly enjoying my mix of skepticism and curiosity. "Father's usually too busy to notice much, and everyone else? They see what they want to see."
I nodded, mentally filing away each twist and turn, trying to keep up. "And you're sure we're not just wandering down here for nothing?"
Raamiz snorted quietly. "Have a little faith, brother. I know exactly where they'll be. And if you're going to keep up with me, you'll have to get used to moving quickly." He turned around mid-step, eyeing me for a moment. "Oh, and quiet."
As I followed Raamiz deeper into the dim hallways, the path narrowed, walls pressing in on either side until it was barely wide enough for us to walk side by side. We reached an alcove partially hidden behind a thick tapestry, and Raamiz slipped behind it, motioning for me to follow. I ducked in after him, finding myself in a narrow, shadowed tunnel I hadn't even known was there.
I glanced around, barely containing my surprise. "How did you even find this tunnel?"
Raamiz grinned over his shoulder, clearly enjoying my reaction. "I have my ways," he said, giving me a look that dared me to pry further.
We moved quickly, Raamiz leading us through the winding passage as if he'd memorized every twist and turn. The air felt cooler here, carrying the faint scent of stone and dust. After a few turns, we finally reached a small opening near the end of the tunnel. A thin slit in the wall offered a perfect view of the room beyond, where candlelight flickered and shadows danced.
"Here," Raamiz whispered, crouching beside me. "Best angle to hear without being seen."
I dropped down next to him. I could already start to make out the Duke's voice through the door.
"It seems much has happened since my journey to Legon," the Duke said, his voice as hard and cold as stone. "In just two weeks, the house feels like it's teetering. That's not the kind of welcome one expects from home."
"I understand what you mean, Father," Alba replied, measured as ever. "But even you would admit much of this was outside our control. Who could've predicted that Zeliot—"
"You were meant to," the Duke snapped, cutting him off. "That is what it means to be born into this position. Into this family. Do you think the Valorian line held Indra this long by chance? We've ruled for over two centuries because we understand the consequences of power—because we prepare for them."
He let that settle for a beat before continuing, voice even sharper now.
"A damn horse-riding accident nearly killing a Valorian—do you hear how that sounds?" His voice cut like steel. "At the very least, I expected enough foresight to prevent a near death in my own bloodline."
A pause accompanied by a distinct stillness followed, long and weighted.
I heard the creak of a chair, then something low—too quiet to make out. Just a murmur beneath his breath.
"That's the price of the role," the Duke said finally, his voice steady again. "You understand that, don't you?"
A moment passed before Alba answered, his voice calm but measured. "I do, Father… though something's been bothering me."
"What is it?"
"I'm having a hard time believing Zeliot's accident was truly an accident."
"Explain yourself."
"There's not much to explain—and even less to prove. From what I've seen, the horse was spooked, the path uneven, the fall bad luck. That's all. But…" He hesitated. "It doesn't feel right."
I leaned closer, barely breathing.
"You'd be a fool not to question the timing," the Duke muttered. The chair creaked beneath him as he sat. "Too many things lined up too neatly."
A long pause.
"So what do we do?" Alba finally asked.
"That," the Duke said, "is not something I will be discussing with you. Not yet."
Did he not trust Alba? Or did he just have nothing to offer yet?
"We have other matters to deal with," he continued. "I've nearly finalized terms with the Legons. You'll be marrying one of Lady Ilma's daughters."
"I expected as much," Alba said. His voice didn't betray much, but there was a tension underneath. A hesitation.
"Does this bother you?" the Duke asked flatly.
"No, no… I'm just thinking. About the timing."
"Alba," the Duke said, sharp again, "stop trying to hint at things like I'm a fool."
"I would never call you a—"
"It has occurred to me," the Duke said, cutting him off once more, "that the timing of Zeliot's accident and our negotiations with Legon are… convenient. But, as I said, we're done discussing the incident for now."
"Understood."
"So then," Alba said after a moment, "what were the terms?"
"Not light," the Duke replied. "Ilma remains as shrewd as ever. For the alliance to move forward, she requested a promise of marriage—and something else of great value."
Alba was quiet.
"She wants a share of power in legislation. Specifically, magic law."
"What kind of power?" Alba asked.
"The power to legislate directly," the Duke said. "Control over the drafting and enforcement of magical regulation. It's not subtle. She knows Penusia has us strained, and she's pressing for concessions while she can."
"Are you going to accept?"
"We'll see."
Raamiz shot a quick look at me, as if to say, What the hell did we just hear?
I met his eye but didn't say a word.
Didn't need to. The look I gave him said enough.
Inside, the conversation paused. Then the Duke's voice came again—lower now, impossible to fully make out.
Then it came—a faint creak, just outside the door. Not from us, but from whoever was inside moving toward the hallway. Raamiz's reaction was instant. He grabbed my arm, yanking me toward a narrow gap between two columns. With a hard shove, he pressed me into the tight space behind one of the marble pillars, barely enough room for both of us. My back was against the cold stone, the uneven surface biting into my shoulder blades as Raamiz pushed in close to cover any part of me that might still be visible.
I sucked in my breath, trying to make myself smaller, the dim torchlight flickering across the corridor just inches from where we stood. My heart pounded in my chest, every beat hammering in my ears as we stayed still, hidden in the deep shadow cast by the pillar.
The door creaked open, and I heard the unmistakable sound of Alba's boots hitting the stone floor with precision. He stepped into the hall, each footfall heavy, almost purposeful. His eyes swept the space slowly, scanning the dark corners and recesses, his gaze sharp as a knife.
I didn't dare move. Raamiz was still, though I could feel the tightness in his grip, anchoring me to the wall as if pulling me deeper into the shadows. The space felt suffocating—too small for both of us—but there was nowhere else to go.
Alba paused mid-step, his eyes settling on our side of the corridor, lingering just long enough to set my nerves on edge. The torchlight flickered again, casting long shadows across the stone. For a brief, tense moment, I was sure we'd been spotted. My heartbeat roared in my ears.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Alba straightened. "I'll get the documents," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the thick silence. He turned back to the door, gave the hall one last glance, and then stepped out, his boots echoing as he walked down the corridor. His footsteps grew softer with each step, until they finally disappeared around the corner.
Raamiz stayed completely still for a moment longer, his grip easing only slightly. Once he was sure the coast was clear, he released my arm and stepped back, but his usual smirk didn't return. He let out a breath, appearing to relax but the playful glint in his eye had remained dimmed. Sweat fell of his brow.
"Too close," he muttered, not looking at me but staring at the spot where Alba had been.
I nodded, but Raamiz wasn't done. His face darkened as he glanced down the now-empty hall.
"Well, that confirms it," he muttered under his breath, almost like he was talking to himself.
"What do you mean?" I asked, though part of me already knew.
He turned to me, more serious than I'd ever seen him.
"Your injury—it wasn't just an accident, was it?" His eyes narrowed. "The way Father talked about it, the way Alba handled it... it all lines up."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
He'd seen what I had—heard what I heard. And now we both knew where this was heading.
"Someone wanted you gone," Raamiz said quietly, like the words themselves were dangerous. "And now you're stuck in the middle of whatever game they're playing."
We stood there in the dim corridor, the flicker of torchlight casting long shadows on the stone, neither of us moving. For once, Raamiz wasn't smirking or shrugging things off. His eyes were cold and focused, a rare moment of clarity.