A few days later, Alaric moved swiftly through the dimly lit corridors of the Vargas estate, a long, stick-like object wrapped in cloth slung over his shoulder. The muffled sounds of household activity buzzed around him, but his focus was on his destination.
As he rounded a corner, he nearly collided with Damian, who was striding purposefully in the opposite direction. The two brothers stopped short, sizing each other up.
"What's that you're carrying, Alaric?" Damian's voice dripped with suspicion and a hint of derision.
"Just some equipment I need for the competition," Alaric replied evenly, his eyes meeting Damian's without wavering.
Damian raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "It looks more like one of your secret projects. You know, Father wouldn't be pleased if he knew you were bringing... unconventional tools."
Alaric tightened his grip on the wrapped object. "Father said to use our skills to the best of our abilities. This is my skill."
Damian scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. "Your 'skills' are nothing compared to proper magic and swordsmanship. Don't embarrass us out there, Alaric. This competition is a chance for us to prove our worth."
Alaric's expression remained calm, but inside, a fire burned. "I'll prove my worth in my own way, Damian. Just worry about yourself."
Damian took a step closer, his face inches from Alaric's. "You always think you're so clever, don't you? Just remember, this isn't one of your solitary hunts. We're representing the Vargas name."
Alaric didn't flinch. "I haven't forgotten."
The tension between them was palpable, each brother's determination clashing in the narrow corridor. Finally, Damian stepped back, his eyes never leaving Alaric's.
"Just stay out of my way," Damian said, turning on his heel and walking away, his posture rigid with irritation.
Alaric watched him go, a mixture of frustration and resolve settling over him. He resumed his journey, his mind more determined than ever. This competition was not just a chance to prove himself to his family, but also to solidify the value of his unique talents.
As he reached the door to his secluded workroom, he paused, taking a deep breath. He knew the days ahead would be challenging, but he welcomed the opportunity to demonstrate what he was truly capable of.
With a final glance down the corridor, Alaric pushed the door open and stepped inside, ready to continue his preparations.
Later that day, Alaric returned from the field, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. His latest creation had performed admirably, exceeding his expectations. The equipment, still wrapped in cloth, felt lighter now, buoyed by the success of his test. He walked briskly through the estate grounds, his mind buzzing with thoughts of refinement and further innovation.
His mood quickly soured when he saw his mother, Isabella, standing in the garden. She was pruning roses, her posture elegant but commanding. As soon as she spotted him, her eyes narrowed, and she straightened, a question already forming on her lips.
"Alaric," she called out, her voice cold and sharp. "What is that you're carrying?"
Alaric sighed inwardly, his moment of triumph evaporating. He approached her, keeping his face neutral. "Just some tools for the upcoming competition," he said, hoping to deflect her curiosity.
Isabella was not easily dissuaded. She reached out, as if to touch the wrapped object, but Alaric stepped back slightly, keeping it out of her reach. "Tools?" she echoed, her tone skeptical. "They seem rather... unconventional. What exactly are you planning to do with them?"
"Mother, it's nothing to worry about," Alaric replied, striving to keep his voice calm. "I have everything under control."
Isabella's eyes bore into his, searching for any sign of deceit. "You better not embarrass this family, Alaric. Your father is already displeased with your antics. Don't make things worse."
"Of course, Mother," Alaric said, his voice clipped. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Isabella's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she turned back to her roses. "See that you don't," she said over her shoulder, dismissing him.
Alaric clenched his jaw, his hands tightening around the cloth-wrapped bundle. He walked away, forcing himself to keep a steady pace. By the time he reached his room, his mood had darkened considerably. He slammed the door shut behind him, the thud echoing in the empty space.
Dropping the equipment onto his desk, Alaric paced the room, his mind racing. His mother's condescension, his father's expectations, his siblings' constant prying—it all weighed heavily on him. The bitterness welled up inside, threatening to overflow. For a moment, a dark thought crossed his mind: burning the entire estate to the ground, watching his family perish in the flames. The image was both horrifying and strangely satisfying.
He stopped, staring at his reflection in the window. "No," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Not yet."
Alaric took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. His time would come. The Iron Dominion was a looming threat, one that would eventually bring his family to its knees. When that day arrived, he would be ready. They would suffer, and they would see the value of the son they had scorned.
For now, he needed to focus on the upcoming competition. It was another opportunity to prove himself, to show the world—and his family—that he was more than just a disappointment. He walked over to his desk, unwrapping the equipment with care. The steel parts gleamed in the lamplight, and the intricate mechanisms promised power and precision.
Alaric sat down, pulling out his tools. As he worked, his mind sharpened, his purpose clear. Each adjustment, each careful tweak brought him closer to his goal. This was his strength, his skill. Magic might define the hierarchy in this world, but he would carve out his place with ingenuity and determination.
The hours slipped by unnoticed, his focus unbroken. When he finally set his tools down, the equipment before him was a testament to his efforts. He leaned back, a small, satisfied smile returning to his face. The bitterness had not vanished, but it had been tempered by the fire of his resolve.
Alaric stood up, stretching his stiff muscles. He glanced out the window, the moon high in the sky. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but he felt ready to face them. His family's disdain was a heavy burden, but it also fueled his drive. One day, they would see. One day, they would understand.
As he prepared for bed, his thoughts turned once more to the competition. He envisioned the looks on their faces when he demonstrated his prowess, the disbelief, the grudging respect. It was a small victory to anticipate, but a significant one.
Alaric lay down, closing his eyes. The anger had not disappeared entirely, but it had been redirected. His path was set, and he would walk it with unwavering determination. The Iron Dominion's attack would come, and when it did, he would be ready to show them all just how capable he was.