1.2 An Audience with the Duke
Aldric barely had time to adjust to his new reality before the servants scurried into motion. Word had already spread—the frail young lord, who had been at death's door for two weeks, had miraculously awakened. The news would reach the Duke within minutes.
And Duke Alaric Ravensbourne was not a man known for his patience.
Aldric wasn't ready to face his father—not yet. His body was too weak, his knowledge of this world still incomplete. But he had no choice. Refusing an audience would only confirm his weakness in the Duke's eyes.
As the maids rushed to help him dress, he assessed his body.
His muscles were atrophied, barely able to support his weight. Even simple movements made him wince. His joints ached, and his vision swam every time he moved too quickly. His previous self's condition had truly been dire.
The maids draped a fine midnight-blue tunic over his shoulders, embroidered with silver thread—House Ravensbourne's colors. It was too loose, a sign of how much weight he had lost. His hands trembled slightly as he fastened the belt at his waist, but he forced himself to steady them.
Weakness was unacceptable.
When he was finally dressed, an older servant—a gray-haired steward named Gregor—cleared his throat.
"My lord," Gregor said, his voice cautious. "Your father has summoned you to the great hall."
Aldric took a deep breath. Here we go.
The Walk of Judgment
The castle halls were as grand as they were oppressive. Tall stone pillars lined the corridors, carved with intricate engravings of House Ravensbourne's crest—a silver falcon soaring above a battlefield. Thick tapestries hung between them, depicting the glorious conquests of his ancestors.
The servants they passed averted their gazes, stepping aside in practiced submission. Their expressions were unreadable, but Aldric could sense their uncertainty.
They had expected him to die.
Now, he walked among them, thin and pale—but alive.
His body protested with each step, but he kept moving, his posture as upright as his weakened frame allowed. Every breath felt like a battle, but he refused to show weakness.
By the time they reached the great hall, his body was already screaming for rest.
But the real battle was just beginning.
The Duke's Judgment
The great hall was a monument to power. Tall marble pillars stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, where a massive chandelier of iron and crystal bathed the room in flickering golden light. The walls bore tapestries of conquest, and at the far end of the chamber sat the throne of the Duke.
Duke Alaric Ravensbourne.
The man was a titan. Broad-shouldered, dressed in a rich black and crimson doublet, he exuded an intimidating presence. His face was carved with hard lines, his sharp gray eyes like steel—piercing, calculating. A man who had built his legacy through blood and war.
And he was staring directly at Aldric.
To the Duke's right stood Lucien Ravensbourne, Aldric's half-brother. Where the Duke was like an iron fortress, Lucien was a blade. Tall, lean, with raven-black hair and piercing green eyes. Unlike Aldric, he was everything a noble heir was expected to be—strong, charismatic, and a seasoned warrior.
He watched Aldric with a carefully neutral expression, but there was an unmistakable hint of intrigue in his eyes.
Aldric's return had caught them both off guard.
For a long moment, the hall was silent.
Then, the Duke spoke.
"You live."
A simple statement, but the weight behind it was crushing.
Aldric met his father's steely gaze, forcing himself to stand tall despite the burning exhaustion in his limbs.
"I did." His voice was steady, but slightly hoarse. "Did you wish otherwise, Father?"
There was a flicker of something unreadable in the Duke's gaze—approval? Annoyance? It was gone before Aldric could be sure.
The Duke leaned forward slightly. "You have been in a coma for two weeks. The physicians expected you to perish. And yet, here you are." His eyes narrowed. "Explain."
Aldric didn't flinch. "It seems fate had other plans."
The Duke's expression didn't change, but the air in the room grew tenser.
"You were poisoned."
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Aldric kept his expression calm. "So I've heard."
"Yet you show no outrage."
"I have been unconscious, Father," Aldric said evenly. "I haven't had the luxury of outrage."
A faint murmur spread through the room—subtle, but present. Aldric's calm response was unexpected. They had expected shock, fear, or anger. Not this.
Duke Alaric studied him for a long moment before leaning back into his seat.
"Very well," the Duke said. "Then let me give you a reason for outrage."
Aldric remained silent.
The Duke's expression hardened.
"The poison was meant to humiliate you, in your final moments" the Duke said. "A calculated move by certain noble factions who seek to discredit our house. They wanted to cripple you further, to ensure you remained a weak, bedridden heir."
Aldric's jaw clenched. So that was it.
His former self had already been viewed as weak—a noble without strength, without prospects. The poison had been a deliberate attempt to ensure he would never become a threat.
"And you let them?" Aldric asked coolly.
The Duke's gray eyes flashed with something dangerous.
The murmurs in the hall stilled.
Lucien's lips twitched, barely concealing his amusement.
For the first time, Duke Alaric truly studied Aldric.
This was not the same frail, sickly boy he had known.
Something had changed.
And for the first time in Aldric's new life, he saw something in his father's expression that he had never expected.
Interest.