Lucien stood stiffly, posture composed but expression tight. Something twisted deep in his chest—not fear, not weakness, but the unsettling sensation of being moved without moving.
He cleared his throat, forced his voice to stay steady.
"With all due respect, I'll hold off on calling you 'father.'"
A faint grimace touched his face. "Just… feels too weird."
The silence afterward was brittle. Even from outside the chamber, Lucien could imagine Titus raising an eyebrow.
But the Viscount didn't seem offended. He only offered a ghost of a smile—tight-lipped, eyes unreadable. The kind of smile carved from stone and strategy.
"Understandable," Alaric Ravelin said simply. "Sir or Lord will suffice—for now."
He turned away, hands clasped behind his back, footsteps echoing lightly on the marble as he made for the center of the room.
"Now," he added, calm as breath, "we shall be on our way."
Lucien blinked, confused.
"Ride? We're not—"
He stopped.
Because the Viscount had stopped. And something shifted.
Not the air. Not the light. Not sound.
It was presence.
A pressure fell over the chamber. Ancient. Abstract. Not mana—not in the way Lucien knew it. This was higher. Older. Like a law of reality had been momentarily suspended, and something else had stepped in to fill its place.
Lucien flinched as nausea hit. The ring on his finger pulsed once—faint and useless.
His knees buckled. A raw gag punched through his chest as he dropped to one knee, hand clutched to his mouth, breath ragged.
Even Alice staggered, her stance faltering mid-step.
Titus braced himself against the doorway, golden eye narrowing.
Then, Lucien steadied himself. Gritted his teeth. Rose again.
"…Apologies," he muttered, breath sharp between syllables.
The Viscount said nothing. Only raised his hand.
And then—the world cracked.
Reality didn't explode. It folded.
A single line appeared in the air behind the Viscount. Vertical. Seamless. Silent. Like the world itself had just been unzipped.
Through that tear was light.
Not the warmth of fire or the glow of mana. This was golden. Refined. Like sunlight reflected through stained glass—serene, royal, inviting... and deeply unnatural.
They were pulled in.
No noise. No resistance. Just inevitability.
Titus disappeared first—vanishing like ink into parchment.
Alice followed a moment later, her body held firm but her expression unreadable.
Michael was next, wide-eyed but silent.
Lucien felt it when it reached him. Not a force. A reclassification. As if the world had decided he no longer belonged where he stood, and gently placed him where he was meant to be.
"This is my Sacred Gear," the Viscount's voice echoed—already inside the light.
"You are welcome."
And then—
They arrived.
Vireholm Keep
The teleport ended cleanly.
Lucien adjusted his stance, eyes scanning the space automatically.
They stood inside Vireholm Keep—the main estate of House Ravelin.
The floors were pale silver marble, veined lightly with purple. Every surface was clean, polished, and precise. The walls were made of smooth violet stone, set with tall windows spaced evenly along the hall.
Royal purple banners hung between the windows, each one stitched with the house crest in silver. No dust. No damage. Everything maintained to a standard.
The ceiling arched high, with silver beams crossing above. Thin lights hung down in measured lines, bright enough to fill the space but never harsh.
At the far end, a staircase rose wide and shallow, framed by silver railings. No wasted decoration. Everything built to guide the eye upward.
The place wasn't defensive. It wasn't cold.
It was meant to be seen and remembered.
Built to show power by actually just showing.
The Viscount walked ahead without speaking, his steps confident and steady.
He stopped halfway up the stairs and looked back at them.
"Welcome to Vireholm Keep," he said simply.
"Our pride. Our name made manifest."
Lucien said nothing. He didn't need to.
The Keep spoke for itself.
Lucien gazed at the keep, and then at Titus, who stood right next to him.
Fucking hell, he thought.
Was the place made for him?
The golden eyes, the purple hair — it all fit too perfectly.
Though... I do have one golden eye, he reminded himself dryly.
The thought flickered across his mind, but something strange happened.
All the lingering bitterness — the resentment from Rosehall, the unspoken envy — it vanished like smoke on the breeze. Not even a trace of it remained.
There was no need.
Then the Count spoke, voice steady but unmistakably sharp.
"You ought to get changed again," the Viscount said, tone brooking no argument. "Into something less expensive. You're about to be baptized."
Lucien blinked.
Baptized.
Of course.
It wasn't just a ceremony — not here. In the eyes of the Viscount, this was a matter of identity, of loyalty. A full renunciation. A binding.
Lucien remembered faintly — the River Clan didn't believe in the orthodox Nine Gods of Harlen.
They had followed the old spirits — strange, wild deities from the neighboring continent of Vaelmora.
And now, Vaelmora itself was just another jewel in Merrow's ever-growing empire.
Three continents.
Harlen. Vaelmora. Nythys.
All claimed under the same crown.
But right now...
He needed to get changed.
Titus offered him a set of robes — ancient-looking.
Lucien took the robes without comment, following Titus down the long corridor, their steps echoing against the stone walls.
As they moved, Titus's voice, low and a little hesitant, broke the quiet.
"Is it okay for you to renounce your old gods like that?"
Concern.
Actual concern.
Lucien didn't answer right away.
The spirits... they weren't really gods.
Not the way the Nine were.
And the truth was, the River Clan had already been drifting inwardly for years — further from their traditions, further from their old faith.
By the time Lucien — or even the vessel before him — had lived, there wasn't much left of it but whispers and half-remembered rites.
Faded stories no one truly believed.
It's already dead, he thought quietly. I'm just burying it.
Out loud, he only said:
"They were barely my gods to begin with."
Titus didn't argue. He only nodded once, solemnly.
They reached the river.
Wide, dark, and deep.
It curved around the ceremonial grounds like a coiled serpent, its surface like black glass under the night sky.
Dozens of figures stood along the banks — priests, bishops, scribes, knights. All in formal regalia. All waiting.
Lucien felt the weight of their eyes as he approached.
The Viscount was there, of course — standing apart, towering without needing to move. Members of his court flanked him, their faces hidden beneath embroidered veils.
Lucien's gaze drifted upward.
And there it was.
The black moon, still hanging above.
But now — now there were stars accompanying it.
Silver pinpricks across a dark canvas.
The sky was beautiful in its way — cold, vast, unknowable.
The bishop stepped forward, voice carrying across the riverbank, calm and commanding.
"Are you aware of the gods, boy? Here in Harlen, there are nine."
Lucien nodded once.
He didn't trust himself to speak.
His throat was too tight.
"You will belong to the Chained King now," the bishop said.
"Recite these words. Let your soul be claimed."
Lucien nodded again. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
The bishop intoned the words, voice heavy with ritual:
"O Chained King, O Crown of Rust,
Bind my will, betray my trust.
O King of Iron, Lord of Pain,
Tie my soul to forge and chain.
My blood I give, my name I break,
My heart I crush for Your own sake.
In life I bow, in death I fall,
Your chain my law, Your crown my call.
From ash to oath, from flesh to stone,
I kneel unseen, I rise alone."
Lucien closed his eyes.
He repeated the words, soft at first, but growing louder with every syllable.
O Chained King, O Crown of Rust,
Bind my will, betray my trust...
He stepped into the river.
The cold hit him immediately — sharp, biting against his ankles. The water gripped his skin like a living thing.
Still, he walked forward.
Repeating the words.
O King of Iron, Lord of Pain,
Tie my soul to forge and chain...
The water reached his knees.
He could feel the current now, low and insistent, pulling at him.
A whisper against his flesh.
Still, he pressed forward.
His voice grew hoarser.
The air felt heavier.
His mana, usually sharp and steady inside him, began to dull — like a blade dipped in ice.
My blood I give, my name I break,
My heart I crush for Your own sake...
The river rose to his waist.
The fabric of the ancient robes floated around him, heavy, weighted.
Still, he did not stop.
His body shivered from the cold, but he ignored it.
Focused on the words.
Hammered them into himself like nails into wood.
In life I bow, in death I fall,
Your chain my law, Your crown my call...
The water reached his chest.
Each breath was harder now.
The river pressed against his ribs like an invisible hand.
Still, Lucien walked.
Still, he spoke.
Even when his lips went numb.
From ash to oath, from flesh to stone,
I kneel unseen, I rise alone...
The water was at his mouth now.
He had to tilt his head back to breathe.
The words slipped out — half-spoken, half-mouthed — but he forced them out. Forced them into the world.
Each step was a battle.
Each breath a rebellion.
The mana in his core felt muted, heavy, sluggish.
His bones ached, his joints stiffened, his blood thudded slower in his veins.
It was as if invisible chains wrapped around his ribs, his spine, his wrists, his throat.
Pulling.
Binding.
He recited again, even if he wasn't sure anymore if the words were truly leaving his mouth:
O Chained King, O Crown of Rust,
Bind my will, betray my trust...
The river swallowed his chin.
He could barely keep his mouth above the surface now.
The ritual was pushing him deeper, forcing his surrender not just of body, but soul.
And still—
He pushed forward.
Repeating the oath.
Over and over.
O King of Iron, Lord of Pain,
Tie my soul to forge and chain...
His vision blurred.
Stars spun above him.
The moon seemed farther away now — cold, unreachable.
A laugh — dark and old — echoed faintly in the back of his mind.
"Oh dear slave," the voice said.
"I hope you're not actually expecting anything to come from this."
The voice was unmistakable.
Him.
The being who had pulled him from death, who had tethered him to this cursed second life.
Lucien wanted to answer.
But he couldn't even lift his head anymore.
The water pulled him under.
And the chains — invisible but felt in every nerve, every bone — but then they loosened.
"Oh dear slave, you have entertained me again making friends with the killers of your vessel while he is powerless to watch. By the way, what do you think? He is fake but you would not be able to tell."
Lucien responded bitterly, "He is so fucking average. Painfully so."
The voice snorted. "Forget, I'm here to give a little treat. Check your ring later. Also, they think you're baptized now, so you would be able to pray to the Chained One.
BUT YOU BELONG TO ME.
SO YOU PRAY TO ME. UNDERSTAND? Good bye now... Slave.