The gates of the Vasco Main Estate opened without announcement.
Aden crossed the threshold on foot.
No trumpets. No banners. No welcoming committee. Only the low rumble of whispers carried on the wind as guards and servants peeked from behind iron pillars and veiled windows.
The Black Cloak wrapped around him, silent as death. Its silver clasp bore the sigil of his bloodline—a burning sword draped in serpents, the mark of a Black Knight of House Vasco. It clung to his frame like a shadow, heavier than armor, yet made of cloth. Each step he took seemed to reverberate through the estate grounds, not with sound, but pressure.
The moment he passed the front courtyard, the guards stationed there averted their gazes. Veterans of a hundred skirmishes flinched as Aden's eyes passed over them. One even dropped his spear.
His presence had changed. It wasn't just power that trailed behind him like smoke—it was authority, raw and unnatural, as though the Wrath had carved something inhuman into his soul and left a scar where humility once resided.
Servants who had once whispered about him with mockery now bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the floor. And yet, none dared speak his name aloud.
Rumors had already spread like fire across the estate.
"He fought six Black Knights."
"He walked out without a scratch."
"No, I heard he defeated them all."
"They say Lord Rudeus named him heir."
"Impossible. The Patriarch would never allow it."
Inside the estate halls, even noble retainers—men and women of minor branches who once looked down on Aden as a disgraced heir—found themselves clearing the path.
Aden gave them nothing.
No greetings. No nods. Not even a glance.
The outer council chamber, known as the Vasco Senate, had already convened by the time he reached the main corridor. Word traveled faster than horses when fear was involved. One by one, nobles emerged—some in robes of law, others in battle gear disguised as formalwear. These were the ones who had scoffed when Aden's name resurfaced. Who had voted against his trial being allowed. Who had once said: Let the boy rot.
Now they approached like moths to a flame that might scorch them to ash—or save them if they bowed deeply enough.
"Lord Aden," a senator began, voice trembling, "may I offer my congratulations—"
Aden walked past him without pause. The senator's voice died mid-sentence.
Another tried. A woman with a long veil of silver hair and a reputation for calculated alliances. "If I may have a moment of your time—"
He didn't stop.
Not even when one of them knelt.
Not even when they offered titles, land, pledges.
He kept walking.
He was no longer a boy seeking their acceptance.
He was now the flame they would rally behind, or be consumed by.
When he finally reached the inner chambers and pushed open the doors to his old quarters, the guards posted outside instinctively took a step back. The doors groaned open. The room within was untouched—frozen in time from the day he was cast out.
Dust lay over the desk where he once scribbled sword forms in secret. The window was open, letting the dusk light pour in.
Aden stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Outside, nobles murmured. The senate whispered. The servants scattered like leaves before a storm.
Inside, Aden exhaled—and for the first time since returning, allowed himself a breath of stillness.
He had not come back to reclaim a place in the family.
He had come back to take the entire estate into his grasp—and none of them would stop him now.