Chapter 4: Tea Time with A Side of Tension

The Veilstorm estate loomed before him, its tall spires reaching toward the sky like the skeletal fingers of some ancient giant. The walls, thick and fortified, seemed to hum with the weight of history and expectation. Moonlight bathed the estate in a cold, silver glow, casting long shadows that stretched across the manicured lawns and winding paths. Yet, despite its grandeur, there were hints of neglect—ivy crawling over cracked stone, dust gathering in neglected corners, shadows lingering in places that once held warmth.

To Soren, it felt more like a prison.

His movements were soundless, each step calculated and deliberate as he navigated the outer grounds. The weight of the past few days pressed down on him, sharpening his senses but slowing his thoughts. He slipped into the shadows near the gate, his body melting into the darkness like a phantom. Despite his prowess as a fighter, stealth had always come naturally to him—born not out of skill, but necessity. Exile had taught him to move quietly, to see without being seen. It had taught him to survive.

His sharp eyes scanned the area, taking in every detail. The guards stood in small clusters, their postures relaxed but alert, eyes darting around occasionally, though never with true concern. It was clear they didn’t expect trouble. After all, who would dare challenge the Veilstorms in the dead of night?

Soren’s gaze lingered on a group near the gate, their voices low but not low enough to escape his hearing.

“Did you hear about the councilman?” one guard whispered with a snicker. “Caught sneaking out after dark. Word is, he’s up to something shady.”

The others chuckled, their laughter bitter and humorless. “Please,” another guard replied, his voice dripping with disdain. “Everyone in this city’s got dirty hands. You can’t get ahead without breaking a few necks.”

Soren’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. The words were too familiar, the same kind of idle talk he had heard far too often during his exile. But to hear it here, outside his own home, made his stomach churn. The city he had once called his own, the home he had been cast out from, was rotting from the inside. Corruption, like a slow-growing cancer, had taken root, and now it was festering in the heart of Veilstone. It wasn’t just the academy that had been poisoned—it was everything.

As the guards continued their conversation, Soren’s attention shifted, his eyes locking on a figure just beyond the gate. Reva. She stood with her back to him, overseeing the inspection of crates being unloaded from a merchant cart. The scene seemed mundane, but there was something about her presence that set Soren on edge.

She moved with quiet authority, her sharp eyes flicking over the contents of the crates with practiced efficiency. But it wasn’t her task that drew Soren’s attention—it was the way she moved, the way her body held a tension just beneath the surface, like a predator lying in wait. Calm. In control. And something else—an awareness that made Soren’s skin prickle with unease.

For a moment, he wondered if she had sensed him, if she knew he was there, hiding in the shadows just beyond the guards’ view. He remained perfectly still, his breath shallow, his heart pounding in his chest. Reva’s gaze never lingered, but the way her head turned ever so slightly toward his hiding spot sent a chill down his spine. It was as though she could feel his presence, like a pulse in the night, even if she couldn’t see him.

Then, without a word, Reva turned and began to walk away, leaving the guards and the cart behind. Soren hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to stay hidden, to let her go. But there was something about her—something that pulled at him, beckoning him to follow. Silently, he slipped from the shadows and tailed her, his footsteps light and precise as he moved through the estate grounds.

Reva walked with purpose, her strides unhurried but deliberate. She never glanced back, never acknowledged his presence, but Soren had the distinct feeling that she knew he was there. The streets of the city faded behind them as they entered a secluded park near the estate, the trees casting long, ghostly shadows across the cobblestone path. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and the distant hum of insects.

Reva stopped beneath a large oak tree, her back still to Soren. The silence that followed was almost oppressive, the weight of it pressing down on him like a suffocating fog. For a moment, he considered turning back, retreating to the shadows, but something in him—some gnawing need for answers—kept him rooted to the spot.

“You’re searching for answers, Soren,” Reva said softly, her voice barely louder than the whispering wind. “But you won’t find them by standing in the shadows. You’re still on the outside, watching, waiting. The storm doesnt care about patience.”

Her words him him like a blade cutting through the fog of his confusion. Soren hesitated, unease creeping into his mind. There was something unsettling about her tone, the way her eyes seemed to see through him. He wondered, fleetingly, how much she really knew.

“Sometimes, you understand the storm, you have to walk into its eye,” she continued, her gaze steady, as though daring him to step into the chaos.

Soren’s breath caught in his throat. Those words—he’s head them before. His mother had spoken them to him once, back when the world seemed simpler, safer. What did Reva know about his mother?

Before he could gather his thoughts, Reva turned her head just slightly, allowing him the briefest glimpse of a knowing smile.

“Don’t stay in the shadows too long, Soren,” she whispered, her voice carrying through the night like a gust of wind. “You’ll miss the light. And the darkness…it’s coming for all of us.”

Soren’s heart stuttered, his mind racing as Reva’s figure faded into the mist, her final words leaving a trail of unease in their wake. ‘The darkness is coming? What did she mean by that?’ He stood there, frozen for a moment, his thoughts tangled in the cryptic web she had woven. Who was Reva really? And how much did she know about what was coming?

With a frustrated sigh, he turned and began making his way back toward the estate, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and unease. The conversation with Reva had shaken him more than he cared to admit, but there was no time to dwell on it now. He had come to the estate for a reason, and that reason awaited him behind the towering stone walls of his family’s home.

The echo of Reva’s word followed Soren as he made his way back through the moonlit paths. The darkness was coming. But what darkness? And why did she seem so certain that he was standing on the edge of it? He shook off the unease, but the chill lingered as the Veilstorm estate loomed before him once more.

The Veilstorm estate loomed before him, its tall spires reaching toward the sky like the skeletal fingers of some ancient giant. The walls, thick and fortified, seemed to hum with the weight of history and expectation. Moonlight bathed the estate in a cold, silver glow, casting long shadows that stretched across the manicured lawns and winding paths.

Soren approached the entrance, his heart pounding in his chest. As he neared the front door, a figure emerged from the shadows—a woman in the muted garb of a maid, her posture formal yet natural. Ada had served the family for as long as Soren could remember. She wasn’t much older than him—perhaps in her early thirties—yet her manner carried the quiet grace of someone accustomed to responsibility.

Her features were gentle and unassuming, with a soft, round face that lent her an air of calm reliability. Brown hair was pulled back into a neat bun, save for a few strands that framed her face, highlighting her warm, hazel eyes that seemed to hold an understanding beyond words. She wore the Veilstorm insignia stitched discreetly on the cuff of her uniform—a simple yet elegant mark of her place within the estate, a role she fulfilled with unspoken dignity.

“Master Soren,” she greeted him with a small, respectful bow. Her voice was soft and warm, but tinged with the formality expected of someone in her position. “Your father is expecting you.”

Soren forced a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. As Ada turned to lead him through the halls of his childhood home, he noticed the slight wear on her uniform—a testament to her years of quiet service, a constant presence in a house that felt increasingly hollow. Everything looked the same—the grand portraits, the ornate furniture, the polished wood—but it all felt… distant. Ada’s steady presence was like an anchor, a quiet reminder of what this place had once meant to him.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong here anymore.The boy who had left for the academy had been hopeful, proud. The man returning now was different. Scarred. Angry. But what cut the deepest was the thought of facing his father. The man who had always loomed so large in his life had shrunk over the years. And now all that stood between them was a door and the weight of all that had been left unsaid.

“Lead the way” he finally said, his voice betraying none of the storm brewing inside.

Ada turned, leading him through the grand hallways of the estate. Her footsteps were barely audible against the polished marble floors. The air inside was thick, almost suffocating, with the scent of polished wood, old books, and something else—something faint, but bitter. It was the smell of a house that had stood too long, burdened by too many secrets.

As they walked, Soren’s eyes drifted over the familiar sights—portraits of ancestors long dead, towering bookshelves filled with dusty tomes, and ornate chandeliers that cast flickering shadows along the walls. Everything was just as he remembered it, and yet… it felt different. Colder. More oppressive.

“I see Great-Grandfather’s portrait is still judging everyone who passes by,” Soren remarked, gesturing to a particularly stern-faced painting. The joke came naturally, an old habit from countless trips down this hallway.

Ada’s professional demeanor softened slightly, a flicker of amusement crossing her lips. “That portrait has survived three attempts to relocate it. Your father insists it stays.”

“Of course he does.” Soren chuckled quietly, though his tone was strained. “Still practicing his speeches in front of it?”

“When he remembers to leave his study at all,” Ada replied, then caught herself, her expression turning more formal. “The Lord has been… very focused on his work lately.”

Soren glanced at her. He had always appreciated Ada’s ability to speak plainly when they were alone, a trait he suspected she saved only for him. They hadn’t been close in a personal way, but her presence had always brought him a sense of stability. She wasn’t just a maid—she was someone who had been there through the small, often unnoticed moments of his childhood.

“Focused enough to skip meals, I’m guessing?” He pressed gently, his tone casual despite the underlying concern. “Some habits really don’t change.”

Ada gave a small, knowing smile. “The kitchen staff have learned to leave trays outside his door.” Her voice quieted slightly. “Though lately…its different. The house feels…different. It’s as though the very walls are holding their breath, waiting for something.” She trailed off, discretion tugging at her usual candor.

Soren frowned, watching Ada carefully. Her usual calm demeanor was shadowed by something deeper, something unspoken.

“But now that you’re back…” Ada’s voice softened as she glanced towards the hallway. “It’s good, Master Soren. The house has needed its spirit back. For too long, we’ve been running on empty. Without you…”

There was something in the way she said it, the way her eyes lingered on him for a second longer than usual that made Soren’s throat tighten. He had never thought of himself as the “spirit” of anything, much less this house, but there was something comforting in her words, like the recognition of a role he hadn’t realized he played.

Before he could respond, they had reached the familiar oak door, its surface worn smooth from years of use. Ada’s professional mask slid back into place as she bowed her head slightly, stepping aside.

“He’s waiting for you inside,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The lightness of their exchange evaporated, and the reality of what lay ahead settled back around Soren’s shoulders like a heavy cloak. He hesitated for a moment, his heart racing in his chest. He hadn’t seen his father in over a year, not since his exile from the academy. The anger, the betrayal—it all still burned beneath the surface, a fire that refused to die. But he pushed it down, forcing himself to breathe, to stay calm.

With a deep breath, he raised his hand and knocked.

“Enter,” came the deep, commanding voice of his father from the other side.

Soren pushed the door open and stepped inside. The study was dimly lit, the glow of the fireplace casting flickering shadows across the room. Arthur Veilstorm sat behind a massive wooden desk, surrounded by stacks of papers, maps, and reports. Even seated, his presence filled the room, his broad shoulders wrapped in dark, layered attire that hinted at both command and readiness. The worn, utilitarian fabric clung to his form, with subtle straps and leather accents that lent him a primal, restrained power—like a storm held in waiting. His face, marked by the years, carried a fierce intensity beneath his salt-and-pepper hair, and his piercing blue eyes held Soren in an unyielding gaze.

As Arthur looked up, the firelight cast sharp contrasts on his complexion—a shade lighter than Soren’s but still carrying the Veilstorm’s rich undertones. His expression remained hard, every line on his face an echo of a life spent balancing on the knife’s edge between duty and restraint.

Soren pushed the door open and stepped inside. The study was dimly lit, the glow of the fireplace casting flickering shadows across the room. Arthur Veilstorm sat behind a massive wooden desk, surrounded by stacks of papers, maps, and reports. Even seated, his presence filled the room, his broad shoulders wrapped in dark, layered attire that hinted at both command and readiness. The worn, utilitarian fabric clung to his form, with subtle straps and leather accents that lent him a primal, restrained power—like a storm held in waiting. His face, marked by the years, seemed a mix of wild intensity and cold calculation, with piercing blue eyes and silver at his temples sharpening his fierce gaze.

Arthur looked up from his work, his eyes narrowing as they landed on his son.

“Soren,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with unspoken tension. “You’ve returned.”

Soren nodded, stepping further into the room. “I did.”

Arthur’s gaze lingered on him, cold and calculating, as though assessing the weight of his words. “Why?”

Soren swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Mother asked me to come home.”

For a moment, Arthur’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something Soren couldn’t quite place. Pain, perhaps? Regret? It was gone as quickly as it had appeared. In that brief instant, Soren almost saw the father he remembered—the man who had once been larger than life, fierce yet warm. But now, that figure seemed like a ghost haunting the shell of the man before him.

“I see,” Arthur replied.

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, broken only by the crackling of the fire. The weight of their history hung in the air, heavy and oppressive, like a storm waiting to break.

Finally, Arthur leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Soren’s. “Sit.”

Soren hesitated for a moment before taking a seat in the chair across from his father’s desk. His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the familiar sights—the bookshelves lined with ancient texts, the maps pinned to the walls, the reports scattered haphazardly across the desk. It was all so familiar, yet so distant, like a memory from another life.

“I imagine you have questions,” Arthur said, his voice steady, but there was an edge to it—a tension that made Soren’s skin crawl.

Soren met his father’s gaze, his own eyes hardening. “I do.”

Arthur’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then ask.”

Soren’s mind raced, his thoughts a tangled mess of anger, confusion, and betrayal. There was so much he wanted to say—so much hurt that had been buried for so long. But he forced himself to remain calm, to keep his emotions in check.

“Why didn’t you do anything when they exiled me from the academy?” he asked, his voice low but steady. “You could have stopped it. You had the power.”

Arthur stood from his desk, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room. “You think I didn’t try?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I didn’t fight for you? There were forces at play that you don’t understand.”

Soren’s jaw tightened. “Then explain it to me,” he demanded, his voice rising. “Explain why you let them ruin me.”

Arthur’s eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and frustration. His hands, clenched at his sides, trembled ever so slightly before he forced them still. “I did what I had to do to protect this family. To protect Veilstone.”

Soren shook his head, his fists clenched at his sides. “At my expense? You sacrificed me to protect your precious city.”

Soren’s heart pounded in his chest, his anger mixing with a hollow ache he hadn’t expected. This man was supposed to be his hero, a figure of strength and wisdom. Instead, he was a stranger—someone who could say “sacrifice” with chilling ease. For the first time, Soren felt the painful clarity of betrayal and the sting of disillusionment, like ice slowly settling into his bones. How had they come to this? How could the man he once admired have built a wall so high and so unfeeling?

Arthur’s face softened for a brief moment, the hardness in his eyes giving way to something softer. “I did what was necessary,” he said quietly. “Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices.”

Soren’s heart pounded in his chest, his anger boiling over. “And what about now?” he asked, his voice shaking. “What are you protecting now? Mother? Veilstone? Or yourself?”

Arthur’s expression faltered for a moment, his gaze shifting away from Soren’s, as if searching for something just out of reach. “This isn’t just about me,” he muttered, barely audible. “You don’t know what we’re facing—what’s coming. You’re not ready for those answers yet.”

Soren frowned, stepping closer, his frustration mounting. “Stop talking in riddles, Father. What is it? What are you hiding?”

Arthur’s face hardened again, the brief glimpse of vulnerability gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Leave it alone, Soren. You wouldn’t understand.”

Arthur’s face hardened, but there was an involuntary pause, a flicker of something unspoken that flashed across his gaze. His eyes lowered, just for a heartbeat, before he looked up, his expression quickly regaining its steely mask. “There are things in motion that even I don’t fully control,” he finally said, his voice quiet, almost defeated, as if for a split second, he’d allowed Soren to see the weariness he carried.

Silence hung heavy between them, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire. Soren’s mind churned with unanswered questions, but every time he pushed, his father pushed back harder, retreating behind his wall of stoic authority. He could feel the truth slipping through his fingers, but he wasn’t ready to walk away.

“Why was I exiled, then?” Soren demanded. “You keep saying you’re protecting me, but from what?”

Arthur’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t answer. His silence, more than anything, sent a shiver of unease through Soren’s spine.

“There are things in motion that even I don’t fully control,” Arthur finally said, his voice quiet, almost defeated. “You have to trust me, Soren. Not everything is as simple as it seems.”

Soren stared at him, his fist trembling at his sides. His father’s word offered no comfort, no answers—only more confusion. And yet , there was something in the way Arthur spoke, the weight of his tone, that made Soren pause.

Arthur’s quiet admission struck Soren harder than any of his father’s command ever had. The man who had been unshakable, unyielding, now seemed…tired. Soren almost pitied him. Almost. But pity wasn’t enough to erase the betrayal, the silence that followed his exile.

He wasn’t a child anymore, waiting for his father’s approval or explanations. He’d carried that naive hope for too long. Whatever connection had once existed between them was fractured, perhaps beyond repair. His gaze hardened as he took a step back, feeling the weight of his own determination settling into place.

He would find his own answers—even if he had to tear down every wall Arthur had built to get them.

But trust? Trust was a luxury he no longer afforded easily.

“Trust?” Soren scoffed, his voice bitter. “You’ve been playing this game for so long, I’m not sure you even remember what trust is.”

Arthur turned away, his broad shoulders tense. “It doesn’t matter what you believe. In time, you’ll see.”