The aftermath of the attack still weighed heavily on the Lavelle estate. The courtyard, once pristine, now bore the scars of battle, with scorch marks on the stone and shattered fragments of the attackers' weapons scattered about. Lord Lavelle stood beside Noir, his face stern as he watched the servants clear away the last of the bodies.
"This wasn't just an attack," Lord Lavelle said, his voice low but resolute. "It was a test. House Vale is trying to weaken us before the gathering. We must be ready for anything."
Noir nodded, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The attack had been brutal, and for all his efforts, it reminded him just how vulnerable he was in this world. Magic could fail, alliances could shift, and trust was a fleeting commodity. It was a battlefield he hadn't yet mastered, and the weight of the upcoming gathering pressed down on him like a vice. But he knew one thing for certain—this wasn't just about magic or politics. This was about survival.
…..
Later, Lilia found him in the hallway. Her eyes were sharp, her expression unreadable, but there was no mistaking the tension in her voice. "We need to talk, Eryk."
Noir kept his face neutral as she approached, but he already knew where this was headed. She had been growing more suspicious of him, her anger bubbling beneath the surface.
"You're hiding something," Lilia said, her voice low but fierce. "Ever since you recovered from that illness, you've been… different. I don't know what's changed, but I won't stand by and let you endanger this family."
Noir inwardly cursed. Lilia had been watching him closely, and despite his best efforts, she had picked up on the cracks in his facade. He couldn't let her get too close.
"I've been under pressure," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "The illness… it took more out of me than I realized. My magic hasn't been the same since."
Lilia's eyes narrowed, her suspicion deepening. "It's more than that. You hesitate in battle, you avoid questions, and you're struggling with magic that should come naturally to you. What's going on, Eryk?"
Noir sighed, knowing he needed to buy time. "I told you, my illness affected more than just my health. I'm trying to get back to where I was, but it's not easy."
For a moment, Lilia studied him, her gaze piercing. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving Noir alone in the hall. He could feel the tension in the air, the weight of her suspicion pressing down on him. It wouldn't be long before she started digging deeper.
…..
As the day wore on, Noir found himself replaying Lilia's words in his mind. She was right—something was off. But it wasn't just his struggle with magic. It was the illness itself. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Eryk's sickness wasn't natural. There were too many gaps in the story, too many vague explanations from the staff. Something about it felt… wrong.
With this nagging thought, Noir began his own investigation. He questioned the servants subtly, pretending to be curious about his recovery. He reviewed old records of Eryk's illness, but the information was sparse, and the symptoms didn't quite add up. The more he dug, the more convinced he became that someone had orchestrated Eryk's downfall.
His list of suspects grew quickly. Certain servants avoided eye contact when he asked questions, their responses too rehearsed. Some of the family's advisors were equally evasive, offering little in the way of clear answers. It wasn't long before Noir had compiled a mental list of those he believed had a hand in Eryk's sickness. Some were within the household, others outside it—noble houses with a vested interest in the Lavelle family's decline.
And yet, despite the growing danger, Noir couldn't help but laugh. It was all so familiar—the scheming, the backstabbing, the hidden motives. It reminded him of his old life, when betrayal was just another part of the game. Here he was, surrounded by nobles who prided themselves on their honor, yet their world was just as dirty as the one he had left behind.
"Politics, betrayal, and lies," Noir muttered to himself. "Just like old times."
…..
Later that evening, Noir returned to the training hall. Master Theron was waiting for him, his usual stern expression in place. Noir had come to expect these intense training sessions, but this time, he had a different request.
"I need more than just magic training," Noir said as he stepped into the center of the hall. "I need combat lessons—hand-to-hand, dagger play. Something I can control."
Theron raised an eyebrow. "You're a noble, Eryk. Magic is your birthright. Why focus on combat?"
Noir smirked. "Magic's great when it works. But I've always trusted my hands more than any spell."
Theron studied him for a moment before nodding. "Very well. Let's see what you're made of."
The dagger felt familiar in Noir's hand, the weight of it grounding him in a way that magic never had. As he moved through the drills, the instincts from his past life came flooding back. The swift motions, the sharp reflexes—this was what he knew, what he could control. Magic was unpredictable, wild, but a blade? A blade was honest.
Noir couldn't help but reflect on how different he was from these nobles. He wasn't here for honor or prestige. He didn't care how others saw him. He would use any means necessary to survive, even if it meant using dirty tricks. Control was all that mattered. He needed to regain control over himself, especially now that he was trapped in this younger, smaller body.
He paused mid-swing, suddenly struck by a thought. "Wait… how old am I in this body, anyway?"
The absurdity of the question caught him off guard, and he laughed, shaking his head. For all the danger and intrigue surrounding him, there were still moments like this—moments where the absurdity of his situation came crashing down on him. He was a thief, trapped in the body of a noble, pretending to be something he wasn't. It would almost be funny if it weren't so deadly.
…..
As the training session came to an end, Noir wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling a sense of satisfaction from the physical exertion. But his control over magic still eluded him. As he reached for the power within, it flared up wildly, a burst of raw energy that scorched the walls of the training hall. He staggered back, gasping for breath, as the room filled with smoke.
Theron stepped forward, his face grim. "Your magic is unstable, Eryk. And I fear it's tied to something older, something far more dangerous than we realize."
Noir frowned, wiping his forehead as he tried to steady his breathing. The Crimson Eyes were powerful, but there was something about them he still didn't understand. And if Theron was right, that lack of control could be his undoing.
…..
The preparations for the gathering intensified over the next few days. Lord Lavelle gathered the family in the main hall, laying out the strategy for the event. The Lavelle family needed alliances, but they also needed to be wary. The gathering would be a place for politics, yes, but it could also be a battlefield.
"We'll be under constant scrutiny," Lord Lavelle warned. "The other nobles will be watching for any sign of weakness. One wrong move, and they'll pounce."
Noir listened carefully, knowing that the gathering was a crucial moment for the family. But it was more than just alliances and politics. Someone wanted the Lavelle family to fall, and the gathering would be the perfect opportunity for betrayal.
…..
Later that night, Noir returned to his chambers, his mind racing with thoughts of the upcoming gathering. As he sat at his desk, a knock came at the door. One of the servants entered, handing him a letter. It was unsigned, the handwriting unfamiliar, but the message was clear.
"They will strike at the gathering. Beware the false friends among the nobles."
Noir crumpled the letter in his hand, his mind spinning. The warning aligned with his own suspicions—someone was planning something big. But who had sent the letter? And could he trust its contents?
One thing was certain. The gathering wasn't just a political event—it was a trap waiting to be sprung. And Noir would need every ounce of his cunning to survive.