“Listen up, lad. We’re droppin’ you on some planet again. This time you’ll have some information, but Selera will walk you through it. Your task’s simple—become old man Weiss’ favorite and get granted heir position before we come back to pick you up. Easy, right?

  Conditions: we won’t be waitin’. We’ve got things to do elsewhere—treasures to steal and all that. So be ready for anything between a couple months and half a year.”

  Hope froze on the spot. Heir? Weiss? Wasn’t it supposed to just be huntin’ some creature this time? Something smelled fishy here…

  “A couple things to note. Hard rules let’s call it. One, you’re not allowed to mention us—no names. As for you, you’ll use your own name with an added surname so you fit in. Two, even if you hit level 100, you’re not allowed to ascend tiers before we pick you up. Stay Tier 1. And three—the most important—you are not allowed to use Spacetime during your stay.”

  What!? No… no Spacetime?

  Hope snapped out of it, curiosity bubbling over. “Captain, if I may ask—”

  “That’s the plan, lad. No changes. So… all good?” she cut him off, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Well… there was a shit-ton of things to ask, but she had said Selera will tell him more about it, so…

  “Yes, Captain.” He bowed respectfully.

  “Beauty.” She blinked, grinning. “See you after you get dressed nice and proper, kid.”

  And with that, he vanished.

  Next thing he knew, he was standing in Selera’s room.

  “So, ehm… what’s all this about?” he asked.

  Selera’s lips curved, her voice as poised as ever:

  “You are to dwell where nobles reign,

  To walk their halls through joy and strain.

  Barion shall be your noble name,

  In rites and feasts you’ll stake your claim.

  With wit and strength you must prepare,

  Till Weiss himself declares you heir.”

  Hope blinked, lost already. “Maybe… give it to me easier to understand?”

  Selera’s eyes softened, but her cadence never broke:

  “The Captain holds ties with Barion’s head,

  So under his roof you’ll claim you were bred.

  A scion returned from far away lands,

  To join the gathering of houses so grand.

  Three banners will rise, nine heirs will compete,

  Your aim is to climb, to take the high seat—

  And win the regard of Titus Weiss,

  The one who crowns the strong that rise.”

  Before Hope could stumble into more questions, Selera pulled a slip of parchment, her hand gliding in flawless calligraphy. She passed it to him.

  It read:

  “Your name will be Hope Barion, age fifteen, grandson of Robert Barion. Talented in Air Magika, a competent warrior of the spear. You possess no knowledge of Spacetime, nor may you use it, by order of the Captain. You are to remain among the noble houses, learn their ways, prove your worth, and rise above your peers.”

  Hope scratched his head. “But… like, how am I supposed to show off if I can’t even use what I’m best at?”

  Selera’s smile curved sly.

  “The path is yours, no guide, no crutch.

  Your skill must speak without that touch.

  So rise, young Barion—forget the rest…

  Now hush, and let me see you dressed.”

  Before he could even ask, Selera produced a full gear kit from her Inventory. Not just the clothes—an entire ensemble. A new spear, a set of garments, and a couple of gleaming accessories.

  The curtains in the corner stirred, drawn by an invisible breeze, then curled inward until they enclosed him in a neat circle.

  “Change, and swiftly so,” Selera intoned. “The garb is tailored, it fits, you’ll know.”

  Hope sighed, shoulders slumping as he stared down at the pile. Enchantments were fine enough, though someone had swapped his beloved Spacetime stat for Air. And then—his eyes froze.

  An earring?

  A fuckin’... earring?

  How the hell was he supposed to wear that shit? He already felt out of place in noble clothes, and now this? He muttered under his breath as he held it up, glaring at the delicate curve of silver etched with runes.

  Whisperwind Spear / Effect: +300 Physis, +30 Magia, +1 Air Handling, +1 Spear Handling

  Runewarden’s Coat (3-set) / Effect: +200 Magia, +3 Enchanting, +3 Magika Sensing

  Thaumaturge’s Pants / Effect: +50 Magia, + 2 Alchemy

  Vitriol Boots / Effect: +50 Magia, + 1 Alchemy, + 1 Enchanting

  Haze Ring / Effect: +50 Magia, + 2 Air Handling

  Windrider Earing / Effect: +50 Magia, + 1 Air Handling, +1 Magika Sensing

  He stripped down reluctantly and began tugging the new gear on. The coat was deep midnight-blue with thin silver tracings running along the cuffs and hems—symbols that pulsed faintly when touched. The fabric was far too fine, soft like water against his skin, and heavier than it looked. The pants were cut sharp and snug, the boots gleamed like polished stone, and the ring all but hummed against his finger.

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  And then, finally, the damned earring. Hope stared at it like it was a trap.

  “…Uh. How the hell do I even wear this?” he muttered, holding it up awkwardly as he stepped out from behind the curtains.

  Selera sighed softly, stepping forward with her usual grace.

  “Through the ear, not through the hand,

  A mark of birth, a noble brand.

  Hold still, young heir, and do not flinch,

  It bites no more than air, a pinch.”

  Before he could protest, her fingers brushed his ear—precise, delicate—and with a deft twist the earring clicked into place.

  He blinked, feeling the strange sensation, then caught sight of himself in a polished brass panel along the wall.

  Fancy. Noble. Like some pampered heir strutting around in his daddy’s coin.

  Hope grimaced. “I look ridiculous.”

  Selera chuckled, a light sound as she reached for a comb from her desk. With a flick of her wrist, a small pair of silver scissors shimmered into being.

  “Stand still, and cease that pout,

  A noble heir should show no doubt.

  Your hair’s a mess, it will not do,

  So let me shape a finer you.”

  Hope blinked. “Wait, you’re—hey, careful with that thing!” He flinched as the blades snipped past his ear.

  Selera ignored his protests, humming softly as she trimmed away uneven strands. The comb followed, smooth and deliberate, tugging his tangled mess into something that actually resembled style. Locks of hair fell to the floor, and in their place… something cleaner, sharper, almost princely.

  At last, she stepped back, brushing a stray strand from his forehead.

  “There. Dashing, strong, yet still sincere—

  You’ll turn each gaze that lingers near.

  Now walk with pride, and play your part,

  The stage awaits—so steel your heart.”

  Hope caught sight of his reflection again. He didn’t look like himself… at all! Which, he guessed, was kind of the point.

  Selera then offered him something else—an ornate token, no larger than his palm. Gold-like edges framed an emerald core that shimmered faintly, as though alive. Strange lines pulsed faintly across its surface, some inner enchantment he couldn’t make sense of. Looked useless—at least to him. But carved right across the front, in precise, sharp strokes, was a single word: Barion.

  “Hold it close, and guard it true,

  This token marks the blood in you.

  Barion’s scion you now stand,

  A noble son in foreign land.”

  Hope didn’t know if he should laugh or sigh, so he just tucked the token into his pocket with a bow.

  “Thank you, Senior.”

  And with that, space folded. He found himself standing once more in Syra’s chambers. Gob was waiting—sharp teeth flashing, lips twitching as though he was swallowing a laugh at the sight of Hope dressed up like some noble’s heir. The little bastard’s eyes glimmered with amusement, but he kept it contained.

  Syra leaned back in her chair, one boot propped on the table, metal fingers tapping against her armrest. Her black eye gleamed as she grinned wide.

  “Well, look at ye, lad. Mighty fine, that’s what I’d call it! Careful with the ladies, eh? Don’t go breakin’ hearts where we drop ye.” She chuckled, sharp and playful. “Now—off ye go. See you in a while.”

  Before Hope could so much as breathe, the space around him warped—deeper, heavier than before. His gut twisted, vision snapped, and then—

  Light.

  He stood in a wide, well-lit chamber. Stone walls dressed in polished wood, banners hanging above. Gravity pressed on him—slightly stronger than he was used to. The air was clean, breathable, though tinged faintly with incense and oil.

  In front of him stood an old, bald man, back straight despite his years. His eyes were sharp, calculating, though touched with a deep weariness. To his right stood a man in his middle years—broad-shouldered, stern-faced, with the posture of one trained in both war and court. To the left, a woman in her forties, elegant, her gown flowing, her gaze measured yet cool.

  “Hope, I reckon,” the old man said, his voice calm and balanced, carrying the quiet authority of one long accustomed to being obeyed. A faint note of tiredness coloured his words, but no less weight was in them.

  Hope nodded, chest forward, forcing himself into the posture Selera had drilled into him. He bowed with what he hoped was the right measure of respect.

  “Yes, Senior.”

  The man’s gaze lingered on him for several long seconds before he spoke again.

  “During your stay here, you will go by the name of Hope Barion—my grandson, the blood of Robert Barion. You are son to Gregore and Julia Barion, raised beyond these halls but returned now to your rightful station. You will honour the House name, uphold its dignity, and heed its laws. You will walk as heir in training, watched by many eyes, and every word, every bow, every silence will be measured against our name. You will dine with us, learn our ways, and bear yourself as scion of Barion, no less.”

  Gregore folded his hands behind his back, gaze cutting toward Hope as though weighing every inch of him.

  Julia inclined her head ever so slightly—no warmth in it, no trace of welcome. Only the barest gesture of acknowledgment, cool and distant.

  “Understood, Senior.”

  “You will refer to me as Grand Sire, your father as Sire, and your mother as Madam,” Robert intoned, his voice measured.

  “Yes, Grand Sire,” Hope answered, already feeling the irritation crawl up his spine. Useless noble bullshit. Still, he had no choice but to play along for now.

  “Your mother will introduce you to your two sisters and show you the grounds where you will stay. The Game of Houses will not begin until six weeks from now. Use your time wisely. Abide by the rules. Do not overstep where you shouldn’t.”

  Julia turned with a sweep of her gown, cold voice cutting back at him.

  “Follow. And mind this—your sisters do not know the truth. To them, you are their blood, son of Gregore and myself. You will not break this illusion. Do you understand?”

  Hope’s gut twisted. He forced a nod, though inside he was already cursing. Fake family, fake name, fake everything. Just great.

  “Yes, Madam.”

  Her heels clicked on marble as they walked through the manor’s corridors—high ceilings, walls dripping with banners and oil paintings of long-dead Barions who looked like they ate pride for breakfast. Hope shoved his hands behind his back, trying to look “noble”.

  They stopped at a pair of tall oak doors. Julia knocked once, and they swung open.

  Inside, two girls turned.

  The first—long black hair spilling down her back, dark eyes gleaming with amusement—arched a brow as soon as she saw him. Her smile was quick, sly, almost conspiratorial. “Well, well. So this is our long-lost brother. Finally crawled out of Grand Sire’s pocket, did you?”

  Hope blinked. She was… kinda pretty. And kinda weird too.

  The other—blonde hair tied neat, posture stiff as a sword—merely glanced his way. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Not a word. Not even a nod.

  Both looked about his age, maybe the blonde one a couple years younger, give or take.

  Julia’s voice cut in, colder than stone. “This is your older brother, Hope Barion. Treat him as such.”

  “Yes, Mother,” the blonde said. Not one ounce of warmth in it.

  “Yes, Mother,” the dark-haired one echoed—but her grin widened as she leaned closer to Hope. “So, brother. Do you smile like that all the time, or only when you’re nervous?”

  Hope scratched his cheek, grinning wider just to spite her. “Guess you’ll find out, sis.”

  The blonde turned her shoulder outright, already bored. The black-haired one let out a laugh, light and sharp.

  “Hope, these are your sisters,” Julia said coolly. “Elira, the eldest.” She gestured toward the dark-haired, talkative one.

  “And Lyra, the younger.” She motioned to the blonde, posture stiff, gaze cold.

  Before Hope could even open his mouth to say hello, Julia exhaled—already finished with the scene.

  “Show him the grounds. He will reside in the east wing.”

  And with that, she swept away, leaving Hope standing awkwardly between his two “sisters.”

  Lyra was gone a heartbeat later. Elira, on the other hand, slid right in, looping her arm through his like they’d been best mates forever.

  What the hell, girl? I just popped into your life out of nowhere… where’s the doubt, the suspicion?

  “Come on, brother,” she smirked, tugging him toward the stairs. “Let’s show you around.”

  Hope sighed, already resigned. Looked like he was stuck with this one.

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