Chapter 10. My Own Choice

The Estate of the Vargreims

The walls of the manor were cold, as if joy and warmth had abandoned the house forever. The air pressed heavily against the chest, and even the sunlight filtering through the tall windows seemed dim and unwelcoming.

In the head’s study, Dorwein stood by the window. His gaze was fixed on the distance, his eyes empty, as though the light of the world no longer reached his soul. His posture was rigid, and even the silence of the room seemed to suffer with every breath he took.

“Knock.”

“May I enter, Your Radiance…”

Vargel, the eldest son, stepped inside. His footsteps were cautious, as though any movement might cause catastrophe.

“Vargel…” Dorwein turned slightly at last, though his gaze remained cold and piercing, like a blade. “Rumor has it you keep company with Istar. Tell me, is that merely gossip?”

Vargel felt his heart quicken but did not dare raise his eyes.

“No, Your Radiance… we only spoke… nothing more. There is no friendship between us.”

Dorwein strode forward sharply. His face came close to Vargel’s. His voice cut through the air.

“And there must not be. You must be the best in everything. Always at the heiress’s side. Do you understand?”

Vargel felt his father’s finger jab into his chest, as if trying to pierce his heart and force it to tremble.

“Yes, Your Radiance…” he said quietly, staring at the floor. Every muscle in his face was taut as a drawn spring.

“One mistake — and the entire future of our bloodline depends on you! Do you hear me?!” Dorwein grabbed his son’s face, squeezing his cheeks hard enough to hurt even through the wall of coldness around his heart.

“Yes, Your Radiance…” Vargel replied without trembling, though an icy chill spread through his chest.

“Your ‘yes’ is worth nothing! Do not make me regret appointing you!” Dorwein shoved him aside and turned back to the window, as if he did not know what paternal love was.

Vargel remained standing. No tears. No anger. Only emptiness.

He was used to it.

Every word from his father, every touch — part of a life, a fate he had never been allowed to choose. Cruelty was normal. Only obedience spared him greater pain.

“Do not dare be second — only first!” Dorwein’s red eyes burned with fury. “Victory — that alone! Otherwise our house will leave no mark in history! Do you understand? You have no right to make mistakes. At the Assembly of the Six, you must prove yourself!”

“Yes, I understand, Your Radiance,” Vargel answered quietly.

“If you truly understood… you would already be better than that Istar!” Dorwein burst out, his heated voice shattering the study’s calm. “Why did you come at all?”

“You asked me to come before departing to Velaira, the heiress…” Vargel tried to explain.

“Hm. Yes. That’s right. You must persuade her to stand with us, compel her to agree to marry your brother. Do you understand how important this is? This is your chance to become emperor!” Dorwein’s words filled every corner of the room, tightening around Vargel’s heart.

“Yes, Your Radiance…” he replied, barely suppressing a tremor.

“You may go,” Dorwein said dryly.

The door closed softly.

No fatherly warmth. No love. Only cold and merciless indifference.

His fate had been among the harshest of all Dorwein’s children. From early childhood, the impossible had been demanded of him: training to exhaustion, study without the right to fatigue. Always first. Always better. No childhood.

Politics entered his life before he learned to truly laugh — dirty intrigues, secret bargains, smiles hiding knives, and murder as an inevitable instrument of power.

Had he ever known a father’s love? A mother’s smile meant for him, not for an heir?

Only her words were carved into memory — cold, precise:

“When you grow up — kill him.”

No “I’m proud of you.” No “You did well.” Only command.

With the years, Vargel learned to live without expectation of warmth, without praise, without the right to weakness. He did not seek love.

He sought to be enough.

“You never looked at me as a son. In your eyes — only cold.” Vargel walked slowly down the corridor, steadying his breath. The stone floor echoed beneath his steps.

In his eyes still flickered a small, stubborn hope. Dreams of a happy family. Of a home where you are awaited not out of duty.

He stopped by a window. Beyond the glass — a gray sky, straight alleys, immaculate gardens. Everything flawless.

“What do you see out there, Father?..” he whispered. “What do you fail to see in me? What must I do for light to appear in your eyes?”

“Brother.”

The voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned. Alifia stood slightly behind him.

“Going to His Radiance?” she asked calmly.

“No.”

A moment of silence.

“You seem sad,” Vargel said quietly.

“Me?.. No. You’re mistaken,” Alifia replied.

But her gaze was empty.

He knew that look.

The same one he saw in the mirror every morning.

“It’s time for me to go,” he said.

“Yes. Me too.”

Their conversation sounded as though they were strangers. Not brother and sister, but two passersby in a cold palace.

They parted down the corridor, and though only a few steps separated them — in truth, they were impossibly far apart.

In Arvendal, tension grew with each passing day. In markets, taverns, aristocratic halls — everywhere people spoke of one thing: soon the Tormlian Council of Six would convene.

An event that would change the empire’s fate.

A council where the official candidates for the imperial throne would be named. Five of the most influential houses. His Holiness Michael. Six votes. And only three names.

In three days, Arvendal would hear them.

Three names that would divide the city into supporters and enemies.

Three names that would become symbols of hope… or the beginning of war.

The air grew heavy. Even the wind above the capital carried the scent of change.

For when the Council of Six gathers — history prepares to take a step forward.

In the old quarters, the true face of Arvendal revealed itself — the one Istar rarely saw during official walks.

It could not be called total ruin, but compared to other districts, everything looked oppressive: gray buildings, empty streets, air thick and lifeless.

Istar walked slowly, feeling the weight of memories — a past that would not let go; people he had lost; mistakes that still lay upon his conscience… And even as he tried to move forward, his heart stubbornly pulled him back.

How hard it is to erase the past, he thought. To forget is impossible… especially when the guilt is mine.

Suddenly, a thin signal from his Echophone broke his thoughts.

“Yes?” Istar lifted it to his ear.

“Where are you now?” his father’s voice sounded.

“I decided to take a walk… visit a friend. I’ve also been invited to tea,” Istar replied.

“I understand your desire to help, but be careful, son. We need to discuss everything.”

“Yes, Father. I know. I promise I won’t do anything that could harm us.”

“Just stay vigilant. Do not forget the Vargreims’ cunning. I don’t know what they promised Velaira.”

“Whatever they’ve devised, we’ll learn of it first,” Istar answered calmly.

“I worry about you, son. Send word when everything is settled, all right?”

“Yes. I will,” Istar said quietly.

“Very well,” Raymar replied.

The connection ended, and the Echophone fell silent, leaving Istar alone with his thoughts and the hush of the old district.

He lifted his gaze to the night sky. Without turning, he felt it — someone was watching him.

“How much longer will you hide, Seir?” he said coldly, almost in a whisper, though threat already rang in his voice.

A man stepped slowly from the building’s shadow.

“It’s difficult to hide from you… but I tried. I’m not surprised you noticed,” Seir replied quietly, trying to remain calm.

“Hm… I am surprised. Where is Neyros? He was supposed to be here.” Istar stepped forward. His voice sharpened; anger flared in his eyes.

“Yes, forgive me… unforeseen circumstances arose,” Seir explained, feeling his heart race.

“Are you joking?” Istar closed the distance abruptly and seized Seir by the collar. “Do not test me.”

“Please… accept my apologies… and my life…” Seir barely breathed as the grip tightened.

“What use is your life to me?” Istar cut him off and threw him to the ground.

Seir fell, coughing. A heavy, ominous silence hung between them.

Istar lowered to one knee. Their gazes met.

“Do you truly take me for a fool?” he asked coldly.

There was no trace of mercy in his eyes.

“I… I only wanted to deliver information,” Seir forced out, trying to hide his fear.

Istar paused. Slowly exhaled. The anger still churned inside him.

“Speak.”

“Two in the morning… the Tower of Artel the Hero. They will be there,” Seir said quickly, as if afraid he would not finish.

“That all?”

“Mirax. Nothing more.”

Istar rose and ran a hand across his face, as though wiping away the remnants of rage.

“The news sounds promising. And yet… Tell Neyros he is not paid for nothing. His organization exists because of me. Next time, he is to come in person. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Radiance,” Seir answered almost in a whisper.

He bowed and dissolved into the shadows.

Istar remained standing in the middle of the street.

So you’ve decided to test my patience… pointless, he thought.

Who would have imagined it would go this far? The Stone of Control… Do they truly intend to raise a rebellion and seize power?

What foolishness.

But if it is true…

Then this will become very interesting.