The hall was silent as death.
Kurobane Arashi stood motionless at the center of the grand chamber, his slender figure dwarfed by towering obsidian pillars that reached into darkness.
The golden chandeliers above cast flickering shadows, stretching like grasping hands across the polished marble floor.
Before him, on an elevated throne of blackstone inlaid with veins of crimson, sat his father—Kurobane Daizen, the head of one of the most powerful noble houses in the empire.
His face was a mask carved from stone.
The duke's gaze was cold as winter frost, his judgment absolute as law.
Around him, the rest of the Kurobane family watched from their ornate seats, their expressions ranging from naked disdain to calculated indifference. Not a single face showed mercy.
'Ah, yes. The grand inquisition. Wonder if I should look remorseful or just let them enjoy the moment.'
Arashi had expected this.
He had seen it coming since the day he was born without the spark that defined his bloodline.
"You are no son of mine."
Daizen's voice was devoid of emotion, as though he were simply stating a fact about the weather.
His words echoed through the vaulted hall, sealing Arashi's fate with the finality of a tomb door closing.
From this moment forward, he was no longer a Kurobane. No longer a noble. No longer anything in the eyes of the empire.
The silence stretched, suffocating like a noose.
Arashi stood still, his midnight eyes unreadable beneath raven hair. He did not plead.
He did not beg. He simply... watched, cataloging every face that would remember this day differently in years to come.
His father continued, his tone carrying the weight of generations.
"You were born without magic. A disgrace to our bloodline that has flowed with power for ten centuries. A stain on our legacy that cannot be permitted. The empire has no place for the weak, and House Kurobane has no room for failures."
At the word weak, the assembled nobles sneered in unison, a choreographed display of contempt.
'Right, because being born without magic was totally my choice. Next time, I'll be sure to fill out the talent request form before birth.'
Arashi had heard these words his entire life, whispered in corridors, hissed during training, muttered at banquets.
He should have been used to them by now.
Yet, as he looked around the hall at his so-called family, something inside him shifted like tectonic plates before an earthquake.
These people... truly believed he was nothing.
How amusing.
"Do you understand, Arashi?" His father pressed, leaning forward slightly, the first crack in his impassive facade.
"You are no longer a Kurobane. You will be stripped of your name, your title, and your inheritance. Leave these grounds by dawn, and never return."
A noble with eyes like amber stepped forward, holding a heavy iron seal—the Kurobane Crest—intricately engraved with the family's sigil: a raven clutching a bolt of lightning. Without hesitation, he extended his arm and crushed it between his fingers, magic flaring blue around his hand.
The sound of metal snapping reverberated through the hall like breaking bones.
A symbolic execution. A public erasure.
Arashi blinked. Then, he smiled.
It was a small thing, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
A smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
His father's brows furrowed, the first genuine reaction of the evening. "Do you find this amusing?"
"A little." Arashi's voice was calm. Polite, even, like discussing the price of tea. "It's just funny."
His mother, Kurobane Mayumi, resplendent in silks that cost more than a commoner's lifetime earnings, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke.
"What is funny about being cast out?" Her voice carried the same coldness as her husband's, but with an edge of genuine curiosity.
Arashi tilted his head, as if considering the question with academic interest. Then, he met her gaze directly—something no one did to the Duchess.
"...That you actually believe this changes anything."
For the first time that evening, an uneasy shift passed through the nobles like a ripple through still water. Whispers flickered between them like dying flames.
Arashi turned away, stepping toward the great doors of the hall. His footfalls echoed, slow and deliberate against marble that would no longer recognize him.
He did not look back at the family that had never truly seen him.
Behind him, his father's voice carried through the silence, with the first hint of uncertainty.
"You will regret this arrogance, Arashi."
Arashi paused at the threshold, his hand on the carved handle of doors that had welcomed emperors.
'Regret? Oh, absolutely. I'll regret not bringing popcorn for this performance.'
Then, without turning, he spoke.
"No." His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful, filled with the certainty of prophecy.
"You will."
And with that, he stepped into the night, leaving behind a legacy he had never wanted and a family that had never wanted him.
The grand doors slammed shut behind him with the finality of a judge's gavel.
A cold wind greeted him as he stepped into the empty courtyard, cutting through his formal robes—the last finery he would wear with his family's crest.
His breath curled in the winter air like dragon's smoke, and above, the twin moons—one crimson, one silver—cast their unearthly light upon the world, witnesses to his exile.
Arashi exhaled softly, watching his breath dissipate into nothingness.
The noble houses, the empire, the entire world ruled by those born to magic—none of them understood what they had just done.
They thought they were rid of him.
They thought they had thrown away a failure, discarded a weakness.
How unfortunate for them.
Arashi's lips curled into a small, knowing smile as he turned his back on his ancestral home for the last time.
'It begins.'