Chapter 8 : The House That Cast Me Out

Lucius  simply watched, aloof.

None of them seemed truly moved by Zerion’s death.

They wore no masks of mourning. Only politics and pride.

And now I’ve stepped into their storm.

His fears were confirmed.

When his report ended, Ariana spoke first.

“So in the end,” she said coolly, “you ran away alone.”

Curtis  blinked.

What?

Had she heard nothing?

Everyone else had died before he even began to move. What else was he supposed to do—lie down beside the dead and wait?

Before he could find his voice, Ariana’s scornful words continued, sharper than any blade.

The Fractured House

“And what is that expression supposed to be?” Ariana’s voice was a lash. “A lowly servant who abandoned his master dares to hold his head high?”

“Ah, there it is. Sister’s lovely temper.” Raven chuckled, his tone slick as oil. “But let’s not mislabel things. He didn’t flee, did he? He survived. A subtle difference, though perhaps not much in the end.”

He smiled, as if defending Curtis .

But the words that followed stripped the pretense away.

“What truly bothers me,” Raven drawled, “is that he’s completely unharmed. Not even a scratch.”

Curtis  tensed. “I… I wasn’t involved in the fighting, my lord.”

“Oh, I heard that part. But isn’t it curious? Everyone else dies. You, untouched. The only survivor in a massacre? Doesn’t that feel just a little too… convenient?”

“What are you suggesting?”

Raven leaned forward, voice cold with accusation.

“Suppose… there was a traitor among Zerion’s retinue. Someone who told the attackers when to strike. Suppose the fight wasn’t mutual destruction, but a setup. And the traitor? Left alive on purpose. Who would know? Who could prove otherwise?”

“That is not what happened!” Curtis ’s voice cracked with fury. “I was nothing but a servant! Lord Zerion took me in when I had nothing. Why would I betray him?!”

“How should I know why?” Raven sneered. “But you might. So—will you confess now, or shall I—”

“Brother.”

The single word cut through Raven’s threat like ice through fire.

Eliana’s voice, firm and brittle, silenced the room.

“Enough.”

“…What?”

“Curtis  retrieved Zerion’s body. He brought back the tome. If he were truly a traitor, he could have vanished without a trace. So why return?”

“Maybe that’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Then let’s hear your answer first. If you have a theory for why a traitor would risk everything to come back to the scene of his crime, I’d love to hear it.”

Raven opened his mouth—but no words came.

Eliana’s lips curved, not in a smile, but in cold contempt.

“No answer? Then don’t ask others to explain the absurdities you can’t even imagine. Stop spitting filth on the name of a loyal man.”

“…You’re getting a little harsh with your words, sister.”

“Better harsh truths than empty civility. Unlike some, I prefer honesty to false graces.”

“You—!”

“Enough.”

The word landed like a war drum.

Boom.

The table trembled beneath Lucius ’s hand. His eyes, dim as overcast skies, fixed on Curtis .

“You may go.”

“…Yes, my lord.”

“I’ve heard what I needed. Remain within the estate until your status is decided.”

“…Understood.”

Curtis  bowed low, then turned and left the hall.

His footsteps were measured, but his face had turned to stone.

“Damn them.”

If not for Eliana’s intervention, he would’ve left that room branded a traitor. And even then—who’s to say he wasn’t already?

Raven hadn’t conceded.

Ariana had sneered from beginning to end.

Lucius … simply observed, neither ally nor enemy. Passive. Silent.

A scapegoat, a deserter, a suspicious figure under quiet watch.

“So this is how they repay me.”

He had hesitated, once, about returning. He’d questioned whether it was wiser to vanish. But out of loyalty to Zerion, out of respect for the man who had lifted him from nothing, he had returned.

He had recovered the body.

He had carried the final message.

And for that, he was rewarded not with reprimand, but with insult.

Whether the siblings truly believed him guilty, or simply despised him as an extension of their half-brother—they had made one thing perfectly clear:

Curtis  was not welcome.

And he owed them nothing.

The image he had long held of House Pelagius—the proud, powerful line he had served for over a decade—crumbled like a sandcastle before a rising tide.

“Very well. You’ve made your stance clear.”

Maybe, in some quiet corner of his heart, he had already known.

The moment Zerion died, that future—his future—had died too.

Now, at last, Curtis  accepted it.

It was time to leave.

The Last Ties of the House

In a great house like Pelagius, even funerals are grand affairs.

Not from joy, of course—nor even quiet sorrow. No, the death had been murder, and the air around the proceedings was heavy with unrest. But regardless of the cause, such a passing stirred the nobility like ripples upon a still lake. Allies, affiliates, retainers—all arrived in droves, and the halls buzzed with the rituals of mourning and the formalities of appearances.

Everyone had a role to play.

Everyone except Curtis.

Banished to silence by Lucius , commanded to remain in “reflection,” Curtis was as good as a ghost in the estate. He, who had once stood beside Zerion like a shadow, was now unspoken, unseen—deliberately forgotten.

Under normal circumstances, such treatment might have made him uneasy. Once, he would’ve sought duties to prove himself useful.

But those days were gone.

Whatever loyalty remained had long since withered. Now, Curtis returned their silence with silence, their disregard with his own.

He no longer felt guilt for secretly studying the family’s sacred tome. That guilt had been drowned by betrayal.

And so, as the halls mourned and the mourners performed, Curtis shut himself away and trained.

In his chamber, a basin of water sat always ready. He summoned the flow, shaped it, commanded it until his mana bled dry. Then he waited. And when it returned, he did it all again.

Again.
And again.
Endlessly.