Chapter 8: The Lion’s Den
—They entered—
And the world shifted with them.
Ashborn led the procession, followed by three others—each clothed in garments so refined they made the air itself feel underdressed.
Their presence was not magical. No flicker of aura. No divine thrum. Yet somehow, their very existence commanded. Like royalty so ingrained in the structure of the world that even the floor bowed underfoot.
The garments they wore weren’t just clothes—they were declarations.
Ashborn’s coat was midnight black with deep crimson trim, each thread stitched with surgical precision, as if embroidered by time itself. Golden lines swept along his sleeves like the hands of a broken clock, caught in some divine stutter.
To his left, the young man wore robes of pure opulence—blinding whites and muted golds that didn’t shout but sang, softly. His fabric looked untouched by dust or time, woven so tight it shimmered like glass yet flowed like water. Not a wrinkle in sight.
The young woman walked behind him with a quieter air. Her outfit leaned less formal—high-waisted trousers paired with a cropped royal jacket, all in deep navy and pearled white. A golden choker danced around her neck, its gem glowing faintly with every step. If the others were storms, she was a breeze... but even breezes carry knives.
Then—the final one.
The older woman.
Her hair was not red like the others. It cascaded in radiant blonde, gleaming like spilled sunlight. Every inch of her screamed polished power—draped in jewelry so numerous that to look at her too long was almost blinding. Her gown shimmered with cascading layers of silver and imperial blue, clasped together by a brooch shaped like a coiled ouroboros eating time itself.
She didn’t walk. She glided.
Not one of them looked at Avin.
Not a single glance.
They passed him like he didn’t exist, moved to their designated seats—three to the left side of the long banquet table. Only Ashborn broke formation, settling alone on the right—not far from Avin, but not with him either.
They sat in perfect sync. Back straight. Elbows precise. Eyes ahead.
Nobles.
Real ones.
They exuded a weight that bent the silence itself.
Leo, who had been standing near Avin just moments before, moved.
His form was immaculate, the picture of protocol, and he marched toward the far end of the room—beyond the guards, just in front of the musicians. There, he took his stance, back turned, eyes forward, like a knight in perfect service.
Avin’s fists curled slightly in his lap.
"This bastard..." he thought. "Respect for everyone but Avin. Everyone but me."
He exhaled through his nose. Forced calm into his fingertips.
Well now...
His eyes scanned the table more closely.
The young man was still. Confident. Not armored, but wearing ceremonial fabrics that bore no stain, no wrinkle, no sign of use. His red hair, like Ashborn’s, was slicked back with a precision Avin couldn’t replicate even if he tried. There was something... familiar about him. Despite Clive’s lack of memory, something in this man’s posture hit a chord in Avin’s body.
"Older than Ashborn?" he wondered. "Is he the eldest?"
He shifted his gaze.
The young woman. Her clothes were more relaxed, sure—but her face was unreadable. Casual. Detached. She sipped from a glass without ceremony. There was no resemblance. No emotional tether. Unlike the young man, nothing about her stirred familiarity in Avin’s chest. It was like she didn’t exist in his memory at all.
"Why?"
Then—his eyes met hers.
The Duchess.
The older woman.
And something snapped.
Avin’s mouth opened before he knew it.
Barely a whisper. Muffled. But the words escaped.
"The Duke’s wife..."
As if his body remembered what his brain couldn’t, his brows furrowed, his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed—not in thought, but in rage. Primal. Reflexive.
His face betrayed everything.
He caught it too late.
With a sharp breath, he dragged his sleeve up over his mouth—swiped away the expression like a painter fixing a ruined stroke. His fingers ran into his hair, smoothing strands into place. A mask, reassembled.
But it was too late.
He had felt it.
The hate.
They ate.
Silently.
Plates moved. Silver cutlery tapped gently. Wine poured. But not a single voice was raised.
Not even a whisper.
It was noble etiquette at its most militant—forks and knives moving in choreographed silence. It was supposed to be graceful, refined.
But to Avin?
It was oppressive.
A thick, eerie stillness settled over the table like fog on a graveyard.
He shifted uncomfortably.
"Why aren’t they talking to each other?" he thought.
His mind ran, fumbling for context, for etiquette rules, for... anything. But came up short.
"This is worse than meeting your girlfriend’s parents for the first time," he muttered internally. "That’s how it was described to me, anyway... I wouldn’t know."
His fingers twitched beside his untouched plate.
"Having someone to watch movies with... play games with... talk to... listen to... kinda like a friend, but with consent. Y’know. Intimacy."
He sighed under his breath.
"Who the hell am I even talking to?"
–TSK–
Enough.
"I have to do something."
He cleared his throat. Softly.
Then louder.
"...Good morning."
Like a thunderclap in a chapel, the words echoed across the silent hall.
Everything froze.
Avin felt it instantly.
The air crushed him.
He could move—but barely. His instincts screamed Don’t.
It was a presence.
Ashborn.
His eyes snapped toward the source—only to find Ashborn staring back.
Expression unreadable. Eyes vicious.
There was no fire in his gaze, no aura—but the message was clear.
"I will kill you."
Then—another voice.
"Oho?"
It rang clear. Light. Amused.
He turned.
The Duchess.
She was watching him now. Her head tilted, a soft smile playing on her lips—but it wasn’t kind. It curved wrong. Off. Her teeth didn’t show, but her menace did.
"What is this now?"
Avin froze again. Eyes darting.
All of them were staring now—except the young woman, still casually sipping from her glass like this wasn’t happening.
Even from across the room, he could feel Leo’s glare burning into him.
The Duchess spoke again.
"How arrogant of you."
That word again.
Arrogant.
His hands twitched under the table.
"You feel you are now qualified to speak in our midst, huh? Nulla?"
That name.
Nulla.
It rang inside his skull like a church bell beaten by hammers.
Nulla. Nulla. Nulla.
His last name. Avin’s curse. The mark of exile.
The sound of it sliced through his brain. His body groaned.
He barely registered the words that followed.
"You think so because you returned from the Abyss?"
Then—the young man.
Calm. Disdainful.
"The Abyss. Father is disappointed in you, Avin. An abyss scorpion?"
He scoffed. The sound echoed like a slap.
Ashborn picked up next.
"Sorry, Mother," he said dryly. "I’ll make sure his manners are... polished."
Boom.
The pressure doubled.
Avin’s chest compressed. His knees screamed. His seat might as well have been the bottom of the ocean.
The world blurred. The room twisted. He could feel his mind unraveling.
The ringing in his ears, the pounding of the name—Nulla, Nulla, Nulla—his body couldn’t take it.
He hated this.
He hated them.
He hated this world.
Then—
"Don’t," the Duchess said.
And it all stopped.
She lifted her wine glass without care, her voice light.
"We need him in his best state of mind—and body—for the spar tomorrow."
His heart snapped upright.
Spar?
She turned to Ashvelar.
"Ashvelar. The training grounds—ready?"
The young man bowed slightly. "Yes, Mother. Barrier, formations... everything is set."
"Ashvelar," Avin thought. "So that’s his name."
Then her gaze swung back to him.
Eyes sharp. Smile thin.
"Are you well prepared?"
The words hit like a thorn sliding under his nail.
Prepared?
What spar? With who? What rules? What weapons? HOW??
Panic flooded him.
He knew nothing.
"What am I going to do? What if—"
"Answer."
Ashborn.
The command shattered his thoughts.
And without thinking—without hesitation—he obeyed.
"Yes."
The Duchess giggled. A soft, chilling sound.
"You should be. If you lose to that Velocraux brat, you lose your head."
She sipped.
"Even trash carries our name. Don’t taint it."
"...Yes," he said again.
Unconsciously.
Defeated.
He was not prepared. He had no plan. He didn’t even know who Velocraux was.
He sighed internally. "Maybe... maybe the Primordial helped. Maybe they gave me something. Some edge. If I could just—REMEMBER ANYTHING THEY SAID!"
His hands trembled.
"This is hell," he thought. "Whoever brought me here must be the world’s most dedicated hater."
"What if this Velocraux guy has god-powers? I’m doomed. But... wait, they called him a brat. So maybe—"
"Do you not want to eat?"
The voice shattered his spiral.
He looked up.
The Duchess.
Still smiling.
Still cruel.
"Are you too good for the food in this place?"
He glanced at his plate.
A chicken.
Small. Bland. Undressed. No seasoning. Not even a glass of water beside it.
"All this time, and I didn’t even notice."
He picked up the knife and fork.
"...Sorry," he said. "I’ll eat."
"Good," she said, turning back to her own meal.
He cut a piece.
Placed it in his mouth.
Chew.
Swallow.
Regret.
"What the fuck is this bland shit?" he muttered under his breath.
He glanced up at the others—feasting like gods.
Same food? Or just another layer of punishment?
He didn’t know.
But he ate anyway.
His body needed it. This was the first meal since he’d arrived in this cursed world—from scorpion sting, to Primordial dream, to now.
He needed the strength.
Even if the food tasted like cardboard soaked in shame.
Time dragged.
The food on his plate dwindled, each bite harder to swallow than the last. His body obeyed hunger, but his mind writhed in a pit of unanswered questions, panic, and quiet rage.
Then—
Chairs scraped back.
One by one, they rose.
No words. No goodbyes. Not even a glance in his direction.
The young woman was first, gliding from her seat like she had somewhere better to be—which, honestly, she probably did. No eye contact. No comment. Just gone.
Ashvelar stood next. Sharp, practiced movements. He adjusted his sleeve with a nobleman’s grace, eyes flicking past Avin like he was less than an object. Then he followed his sister out.
Then the Duchess.
She didn’t rise—she unfolded, like a monarch being hoisted by invisible strings. Her gown rustled softly, a whisper of wealth, as she turned her back and exited the room with a presence so regal it turned absence into dominance.
And just like that, they were all gone.
Except—
Ashborn.
Clive felt his presence before he saw him move. Heavy. Thick. Like a shadow that didn’t need light to exist.
A gloved hand came down.
Clack.
Right on Avin’s shoulder.
Cold. Firm. Not painful—but final.
Then Ashborn leaned in.
Voice low. Like thunder, dressed in silk.
"Better do well tomorrow," he murmured into Avin’s ear, breath warm with malice, "or you’ll go to the academy..."
A pause.
"...without two limbs."
Then, silence.
Ashborn straightened. His grip loosened. And he walked away like nothing had happened.
Clive didn’t move.
Couldn’t move.
"Academy?
What academy?"
No one told him anything about an academy. Or a spar. Or Velocraux. Or limb loss as part of the syllabus.
And then it hit him again.
"Why the fuck does everyone in this family whisper threats into my ear like it’s bedtime ASMR?"
He swallowed.
Hard.
His mind spun again, trying to piece everything together.
He sat there in the echo.
The hall had emptied. Even the musicians had stopped. The guards stood still, like mannequins behind glass.
All except one.
Across the room, near the far wall—
Leo.
Still standing.
Still watching.
Their eyes met.
And Leo didn’t look away.
Not even a blink.
Like a statue sculpted out of hate.
Clive didn’t flinch, but his thoughts were screaming.
"He’s not going to let this go. This isn’t over."
He looked down at his plate again. The meat was gone. The taste of humiliation still lingered.
"So I need to win. Somehow."
But the path was invisible.
He had no memories. No powers. No training. No support.
Just questions. Just threats. Just pressure and secrets and enemies wrapped in bloodlines.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin made of fabric too expensive to exist, folded it neatly, and placed it beside the plate.
His hands shook slightly as he stood.
His eyes didn’t leave Leo’s.
Tomorrow, the world might try to kill him again.
But tonight, he walked out of that hall alive.
And that would have to be enough.
—To be continued—