In a city where modern towers loomed over cobbled streets and ancient stonework, the world seemed stitched together by two different eras. Glass-paneled buildings rose alongside rusted lanterns and wooden balconies, giving the place an air of contradiction—where the present lived, but the past refused to die.
Marcus walked through these streets like a ghost. Not a soul noticed him, nor did he try to be noticed. For so long, he had lived in the shadow of his father's brilliance, never once trying to carve out a space for himself. And after what happened… after that moment in the study… he couldn't go back. Something inside him had shifted, and even if he didn't fully understand it, he couldn't ignore it anymore.
He didn't know how to change. He wasn't even sure if change was possible for someone like him.
He wasn't a coward. Not really. It was just that the world always felt… beneath him. As if engaging with it would stain him, pull him into something he didn't want to be a part of. Honor, ambition, legacy—these were ideas that had always seemed pointless to him. Not because he lacked the capacity to pursue them, but because he had never truly wanted to.
Until now.
The streets were buzzing with the usual noise of merchants, nobles, and commoners alike, when something unusual caught Marcus's eye.
A man.
Not just any man—but one who stood out, as if the world bent slightly around him. His clothes were clean but not flashy. His posture calm, deliberate. And on his left hand, etched like a quiet symbol of power, was a mark—a crest. A sign of nobility.
It wasn't rare to see nobles in this part of the city, but this one was different. He carried himself not like someone who wanted attention, but like someone who had already seen more than most could imagine.
Something in Marcus stirred.
Maybe it was restlessness. Maybe boredom. Or maybe it was something deeper—a hunger for answers.
Without fully thinking, Marcus approached.
"What does that mark mean?" he asked, pointing to the noble's hand.
The man stopped and looked at him with curiosity, not offense.
"This? It means I'm bound to something greater. A lineage," he said simply. "It's not just a symbol. It's proof."
"Proof of what?"
"Of strength. Of knowledge. Of responsibility," the man replied. "But mostly… proof that I was taught how to use what others fear."
Marcus felt something twist inside him. A mixture of awe and defiance.
"Anyone can learn it, right?" he asked. "It's not just for the born elite."
The noble tilted his head. "Anyone? No. Not everyone can understand it. Fewer still can handle it. And even fewer are willing to bear the cost."
Marcus frowned. "But there's no law stopping someone from learning."
"No law," the noble said, "just reality. The knowledge is out there. But it must be given. Passed down. Taught. And most who hold it… don't like to share it."
There was a silence between them.
Marcus didn't break eye contact.
He didn't care if this man was powerful. He didn't care if he was supposed to be respectful. For once, he wanted answers, and he was done hiding behind silence.
"I want to understand it," he said, finally.
The noble studied him for a moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Good. You've asked your first real question. Let's see if you're ready for the next."