Without a second thought, Aric spun around and bolted out of the room. His legs moved instinctively, faster than his mind could catch up, driven by a wild, frantic energy.

  He skidded to a halt in the hallway as his eyes nded on her.

  A maid. Polishing the railing, her movements are slow and deliberate. But the instant she saw him, her hands froze, the cloth trembling ever so slightly in her grasp.

  Aric didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a handful of her skirt, his breath ragged as panic cwed at his chest. "The year. Tell me the year."

  Her wide eyes locked onto his with shock, and she flinched, almost dropping her cloth. "Y-Young Master—"

  Her voice trembled, and her hands quivered like leaves in the wind.

  Aric blinked, his mind briefly bnk.

  Right. He remembered. He had been a spoiled brat. Arrogant. Demanding. A little tyrant who barked orders and broke things when life didn’t bend to his will. A child who never considered the world beyond his own desires.

  He steadied himself, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the wild thoughts racing in his head. He couldn’t afford to act like that again, not now.

  "Just tell me." He forced out, trying to sound less frantic. "What year is it?"

  The maid bowed deeply, clearly struggling to keep her composure under the weight of his gaze. "Autumn, milord. Of the year 1521."

  Aric froze.

  His chest tightened, as if the air had suddenly thickened. For a moment, it felt as though the world had stopped spinning. A hollow, almost manic ugh slipped from his lips, louder than it should have been, echoing in the silence around them.

  The Heart of Vel’nareth had brought him back to the moment before everything began to fall apart.

  One year. Just one year before the world he knew turned to dust.

  Before the debts consumed their estate like wildfire.

  Before the Estate War stole everything—honor, nd, and family.

  Before—

  Father.

  The word struck him like a bde to the chest.

  A fsh of memory seared through him.

  A man with a stern face, sharp as steel. Eyes like cold gss. A voice that never wavered—only scolded, never softened. A presence that loomed like a mountain—distant, immovable.

  For so long, Aric believed his father hated him. Hated him for being born out of love. For embarrassing the family name. For failing.

  But that man—

  That rigid, unforgiving man —

  He gave his life to save him.

  An idiot—too proud, too angry.

  A boy who secretly joined the war, not for glory, not for duty… but out of jealousy.

  Out of pride.

  “To save me… Father gave his life.”

  Aric’s breath hitched.

  Memories he had buried deep—memories he thought time had erased—rushed back in a wave.

  Too fast.

  Too vivid.

  Too much.

  He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, trying to hold himself together as the weight of it all threatened to crush him.

  Father.

  The word echoed in his head, heavy and full of regret.

  He didn’t think—couldn’t think. His body moved on its own, fueled by instinct. He spun on his heel and ran. His feet hit the cold stone with urgency, pounding down the hallway as he sprinted, ignoring everything else.

  Down the hallway. Past startled staff. Through the wood corridor, the drapes were whipping past like ghosts.

  He ignored the butler's calls behind him.

  Even when a knight tried to stop him, he shoved past.

  He had to see him. Had to make sure. Had to know it wasn’t just a dream.

  The doors.

  The great twin doors to the head’s office.

  He smmed them open, bursting into the room—startling the nobles and advisors mid-meeting.

  “FATHER!”

  Every head turned.

  And there he was.

  Sitting behind the grand oak desk. Stern. Regal. Alive.

  The moment Aric saw his face—he broke.

  He ran forward, leapt onto his p, and threw his arms around the man.

  “Father—Father—”

  His voice cracked.

  Then the tears came.

  Heavy, hot, unstoppable.

  He buried his face in the man’s shoulder, sobbing like a child.

  Because he was a child.

  Because he finally had him back.

  And this time, he wouldn’t lose him again.

  The Head of House Valebde—Lord Caelric—stared, stunned, at the boy clinging to him.

  His second son had burst into the meeting like a storm—startling guards, interrupting nobles, shouting like a madman—and now he was...

  Sobbing.

  Right there, in front of the crowd. Arms wrapped around his father like a lifeline. Shoulders shaking with every breath.

  Lord Caelric blinked, struggling to compose himself.

  “Aric…” he said carefully, resting a gloved hand on the boy’s back. “What is this behavior? Compose yourself.”

  But the room had already gone still.

  Every advisor. Every knight. All eyes were on them.

  Because everyone knew Aric Valebde.

  The spoiled second son. The sharp-tongued brat who screamed at servants and shattered vases just to make a point. The boy with fire in his eyes and ice in his voice.

  But this?

  This boy was trembling. Crying.

  “I… I’m sorry for barging in like this,” Aric mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. “I just wanted to…”

  But the words died on his tongue as his eyes fell on that face.

  That smile.

  The rot at the root of it all.

  Standing just behind the advisors, smug as ever, was Gerem Vals.

  And in that single moment, everything inside Aric went cold.

  The memories hit like a storm.

  The Valebde family—Knights of the Iron Crest, protectors of the bordernds—had once been proud. His father, Lord Caelric Valebde, held the title of Viscount of Veldenmoor, a harsh and rugged estate surrounded by cracked earth, jagged hills, and forest too thin to hunt from.

  The nd was poor. Crops barely grew. Trade was thin. Monster and beast raids were their only real income, and the Valebde family survived by taking mercenary contracts—fighting for coin, bde by bde, wound by wound.

  But this year… the raids were fewer. The coin was less.

  With mouths to feed and no other choice, Lord Caelric had done what many in his position would’ve done.

  He took out a loan.

  But not from the Royal Bank, as he'd been led to believe.

  No. Gerem Vals, representative of Royal Bank, had twisted the papers, rerouted the gold, and bound their name in blood to Count Salvesor—a neighboring lord known for predatory lending and even worse appetites.

  The terms were impossible. The interest was high and unnatural.

  And when the family struggled to repay, Count Salvesor struck—turning debt into chains. Forcing the Valebde into his personal army. Draining them dry. Making their proud name a byword for ruin.

  And when the house had nothing left—no gold, no soldiers, no power—he came for them.

  With bdes. With fire. With blood.

  He took Aric’s father.

  Took more than half the estate.

  Left them to burn in silence.

  Aric’s vision blurred.

  His chest heaved. Rage and grief tangled like thorns inside him.

  Gerem.

  The man who smiled with polished teeth while feeding his family to wolves. The man who sold them out from within—like a parasite in their walls.

  The man who caused it all.

  “Aric.”

  His father’s voice snapped him back.

  Sharp. Calm. Grounding.

  “Aric,” Lord Caelric said again.

  Aric blinked.

  His hands were clenched. His shoulders were tense. His gaze locked on Gerem like a bde waiting to strike.

  But this wasn’t the time.

  Not yet.

  He took a breath. Then another.

  Forced his fists to unclench.

  Pushed the memories back where they came from—just for now.

  “Forgive me, Father,” he said, his voice quiet.

  “I... I’m just happy to see you.”

  Lord Caelric studied him, eyes narrowing slightly—but he nodded.

  And for now, that was enough.

  But as Aric stepped back and cast one st gnce at Gerem, his thoughts turned dark.

  You bled us dry.

  You smiled while we drowned.

  This time, I won’t let you.

  He took a breath.

  Wiped the tears away for good.

  Lord Caelric, adjusting the papers on his desk. “Ahem… As you can see, I’m in the middle of something, Aric. We’ll speak ter.”

  Aric didn’t flinch. “Can I stay and watch the meeting? I want to learn. I want to see how you manage things.”

  His father raised an eyebrow. “Aric…”

  “I promise,” Aric said quickly, cutting in with wide, pleading eyes. “I’ll be quiet as death. I swear.”

  Lord Caelric coughed. “Fine. But if you try anything—”

  “I’ll throw myself out before you have to,” Aric grinned.

  He dragged a stool beside his father’s chair, sitting with the eager stillness of a child in a war room. His back is straight. His eyes locked on Gerem Vals.

  Smile all you want, you bastard.

  I’ll drag you to hell myself.