About an hour passed. After the little girl stepped in front of the patriarch’s attack, he seemed to have calmed down. The electric tension in the courtyard dissipated, leaving behind only a cool breeze and the gentle patter of water trickling in the nearby fountain. Broken fragments of sunlight spilled through the clearing clouds.

  Several maids came down to the courtyard and took the girl, giving her a bath, cleaning her up, and offering fresh clothes.

  Their hushed voices and practiced efficiency contrasted starkly with the chaos that had ruled the courtyard only moments before. The girl, still trembling from the shock of interposing herself between the patriarch and Jonathan, allowed them to lead her away without resistance. Her wary eyes darted about, lingering on Michael and Jonathan until the last moment, as though afraid they might vanish if she let them out of her sight.

  Meanwhile, Michael and Jonathan were ordered to go to the meeting room where they would discuss the events that transpired.

  Summoned by one of the patriarch’s assistants, they were led through winding corridors lit by a mixture of oil lamps and recessed modern LEDs that revealed the manor’s uneasy balance between tradition and innovation. The floors echoed with each step, a testament to the sheer size of the estate. Despite the occasional flicker of half-burned sconces, neither brother could escape the lingering chill of their father’s presence; it felt as if the patriarch’s magical aura still haunted every corridor, pressing in on them from the dark wood paneling and the paintings that stared with disapproving eyes.

  Jonathan walked slightly behind Michael, gingerly touching his bruised side, even though the wound had all but healed by the time then went inside, something psychosomatic reminded him of the blow he had received. Yet his demeanor, buoyed by that unflinching grin, betrayed no sign of remorse or fear. If anything, he looked almost amused, like someone reveling in the aftermath of a tempest he helped stir.

  Michael, on the other hand, stole glances at his older brother, remembering the flash of power when Jonathan was sent flying across the courtyard. The ripple of tension in the air still clung to his nerves. Every time he recalled the sight of the little girl stepping forward, heart hammering yet unwavering, a pang of concern cut through him—one that mixed guilt and protectiveness in equal measure. He looked down at his arm, still feeling a certain level of rigidity in his grasp as an uneasy sensation weighted down his chest.

  Their path eventually led them up a broad staircase of polished stone, lined with austere portraits of ancestors long past. Each painted face seemed to watch them ascend, as though judging whether these two heirs were worthy of bearing the family’s name and burden. At the top of the stairs stood a pair of tall, carved doors inlaid with the family crest—an emblem that shimmered under the glow of overhead lights, the symbol of the Mercy guild.

  “Meeting room, huh?” Jonathan murmured, pausing to catch his breath. “I can’t remember the last time we were called somewhere so official,” the tension in his voice was subtle, overshadowed by his usual bravado, but Michael could still hear it.

  “The hostage incident,” Michael stated with a slight smirk. “We might as well get it over with,” Michael sighed. “I wonder what it will be this time.” He briefly closed his eyes, recalling the swirl of curses and the moment he froze his father’s arm in place. It felt so good, empowering, finally standing up to his father. For a second, he wondered if he had gone too far—or not far enough. Perhaps, if the girl hadn’t been there, he would have never been pushed so hard.

  A steward, dressed in a muted black suit, opened the doors with the quiet, efficient grace of one long accustomed to the household’s eccentricities. Inside, the meeting room glowed with a subdued elegance: wooden paneling reached from floor to ceiling, and carefully arranged chairs surrounded a broad, rectangular table lit by a chandelier that combined both candlelight and discreet LED bulbs.

  Michael and Jonathan stepped into the room, their eyes adjusting to the warm glow. The hush that filled the space bordered on oppressive, as though the walls themselves had been primed to stifle any comfort the brothers might find. Though the patriarch was nowhere to be seen yet, the weight of his authority settled in the air like a constant reminder of who ruled here.

  They stood by the table at the end of the room, neither sitting nor speaking, while the steward waited politely by the door, ready to announce the arrival of the patriarch. Jonathan ran a hand through his hair, grimacing when his shoulder twinged in protest. Michael looked down at his own hands, recalling how they had trembled when he enacted his curse.

  Eventually, the Patriarch walked through the doors as his heavy footsteps radiated an oppressive atmosphere everywhere their sound reached. The Madam followed after him, tossing a gentle smile to her sons as she entered the room, signaling that everything would be okay. Alex trailed behind them with a smug expression, appearing thoroughly satisfied about the scolding the two were sure to receive. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes glinted with a certain schadenfreude as he took in Michael’s and Jonathan’s anxious faces.

  “Gentlemen, please sit down,” the Patriarch gestured as he sat at the end of the table. He settled into his chair with a quiet authority that seemed to press upon the space itself.

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  The madam sat down to his right, pulling her chair closer to him, while Alex sat to his left, avoiding eye contact with his father.

  Her gentle features, framed by a few loose strands of dark hair, belied the underlying tension of the moment. Alex, studiously facing away, fiddled with a signet ring on his thumb. It was almost as though he feared that direct eye contact could draw the Patriarch’s wrath in his direction.

  Michael and Jonathan sat on the other end of the table, nervously looking forward with incredibly anxious expressions.

  The stark distance between them and the Patriarch felt symbolic, as though they stood at the far edge of authority’s reach—yet still well within its grasp. Jonathan tapped his foot under the table, unable to fully hide the tremors of tension bristling through him. Michael clasped his hands together, knuckles whitening, a forced calm etched on his face.

  “Now boys, tell me this,” The patriarch sighed. “Why the hell did you rush out all the way to Hamburg to raid some port full of lightning caller drakonians?” he spoke, slightly raising his voice.

  A muffled hush settled over the room in response. The weight of the Patriarch’s question hung in the air, heavy with implied consequence. The faint flicker of candlelight skittered across the table’s polished surface, reflecting the eyes of each occupant like shards of fractured resolve.

  “Well, a dying man crawled all the way from Hamburg and died at our front gate. I felt inclined to adhere to his last wish,” Jonathan explained with a slight nervous chuckle as he grabbed his neck.

  His words, despite the gravity of the situation, carried an undercurrent of earnestness. Jonathan’s gaze darted from his father’s hardened expression to his mother’s gentle countenance, as though searching for any sign of reprieve.

  “And that wish was?” The madam asked with an intrigued expression.

  She leaned forward, hands clasped lightly in her lap, her calm demeanor a counterbalance to the Patriarch’s intensity.

  “To rescue his daughter and well keep her safe,” Jonathan stated.

  His voice lowered, as though speaking it aloud reminded him just how monumental—and risky—the task had been.

  Alex scoffed after hearing those words, rolling his eyes.

  A small, derisive noise escaped his throat. The sound echoed briefly, causing Jonathan’s jaw to tense and the madam’s brows to tighten in disapproval.

  “So, what part of this situation made you hit your brother?” The patriarch frowned.

  He shifted in his seat, the dark fabric of his suit rustling in the silence that followed. His gaze swept to Jonathan, the slight tilt of his head an unspoken command for explanation.

  “He grabbed Micheal by his collar,” Jonathan lowered his gaze.

  At the memory, Jonathan’s fingers twitched involuntarily. Michael’s face remained composed, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes.

  “Oh, and is Michael so weak and pathetic that you need to step up for him?” his father glared.

  That pointed barb hovered in the air, as biting as a lash. Alex’s smug smirk deepened at the corners of his mouth, while the madam’s polite serenity never wavered—though she edged her chair a fraction closer to the Patriarch as if to calm him.

  Michael smiled. Yet behind his expression, savage thoughts raged. Inside of his mind’s eye, the interiors of a golden casino once again sprawled vast.

  The glow of the chandelier dissolved into flickering neon brilliance. Rows of slot machines chimed in the distance, while poker tables stretched endlessly beneath gilded arches. Tension drummed along the edges of this mental illusion, and somewhere close by, a single voice beckoned with a sinister allure.

  “Oh, my dear contractor, how I wish you would just kill that man. I really don’t understand why humans have these strange familial connections. Perhaps it’s something that comes with the territory of being mortal, yet now. Being forced to engage with the people you seldom like just because you came out of the same womb or share a common progenitor.” The raven haired woman spoke, coming closer to the cage, leaning on it as her breasts almost fell through the gaps. “Come on, touch me contractor!” she licked one of the bars of the cage. “Let’s kill all of them together! My wonderful contractor and me.”

  “Not a chance wench,” Michael replied with a low growl.

  His voice reverberated inside the confines of that golden prison, tinged with contempt for her invitation. Outside, in the meeting room, his outward smile never faltered, though a bead of sweat slid down his temple.

  “What a shame,” she separated from the bars, pulling herself back. “You can pretend all you want, but contractor I know you, you always come here when you’re on the verge of letting loose. A contractor like you, so many gifts that you have and you refuse to use them. If you wanted, you could easily spread chaos all across the world. Everyone would know your name and bow their heads in fear and reverie. Yet it’s something you just don’t care about, at least for now. You come here when in doubt, when you need me to dissuade you from doing something stupid. Let us see then, how long you will keep this, how long will you keep playing this can and mouse game.” She spoke licking her lips as the illusion faded out.

  In the space of a single heartbeat, the casino dissolved. The meeting room returned in sharp clarity: the patriarch’s unwavering gaze, Jonathan’s lingering tension, Alex’s smugness, and the madam’s gentle concern. Michael exhaled, tightening his fists beneath the table. For now, he would resist the siren call of chaos, even as it slithered through his mind.

  His father studied him with narrowed eyes, impatience etched in every line of his face. In that charged moment, Michael silently willed himself to remain calm. He drew a long breath, heart thudding, and prepared to face whatever judgment their father would pass down—now that all secrets, and all illusions, had converged in this one suffocating room.

  “Then how about we go to the training room and have a sparring session,” Michael stated with a calm tone. “If I win, you forget this ever happened.”

  “And if you lose?” Alex questioned.

  “I’ll leave the family,” Micheal smirked as his eyes opened wide, with a slight manic smile tugging at the corners of his lips.