The Rozzlyn estate was a monument to Aether’s vision of supremacy.
Ivan walked through the towering gates, his boots tapping against the pristine stone pavement as he entered the courtyard. Everything about the estate was too clean, too perfect—the polished iron walls gleamed under the pale afternoon light, untouched by time or imperfection. No cracks. No signs of age. It was a house frozen in a state of artificial perfection, maintained not by care, but by sheer force of will.
A pair of attendants bowed as he passed, their navy uniforms pressed and starched to crisp precision. They never spoke unless spoken to, a rule drilled into them as much as the expectation that they not be seen lingering idly.
Ivan stepped through the grand entrance, the massive iron doors parting with a smooth, mechanized hiss.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the weight of the house settled on him.
It was always like this.
The Rozzlyn estate was not a home. It was a monument—a statement. A place where warmth did not belong.
The parlor was gilded in soft gold tones, a deceptive warmth that masked the rigid coldness beneath. The furniture was immaculate, untouched, arranged in a manner that suggested they were for display rather than comfort.
At the center of it all, Kait Rozzlyn sat perched on an opulent chaise lounge, her posture as rigid as the house itself.
She was the kind of woman whose presence demanded attention. Her silver hair was coiled into a flawless chignon, not a single strand out of place. Her gown—a deep shade of blue embroidered with delicate gold filigree—was tailored to perfection, its high collar framing her sharp features.
But it was her eyes that held the most weight.
Cold. Detached. Dismissive.
The moment she saw Ivan, her expression did not shift. Not a smile. Not a flicker of warmth. Just a slow, appraising glance—like an aristocrat inspecting a possession, ensuring it was still in working order.
“You’re late,” she said coolly.
Ivan did not flinch. “The lecture ran long.”
Kait exhaled, setting down the porcelain cup of tea she had been holding. “Your instructors should respect the time of those more important than them.”
Her words carried an undercurrent of quiet arrogance—as if the very idea of a scholar taking liberties with her son’s schedule was offensive.
Ivan didn’t respond. There was no point.
Kait Rozzlyn’s world was one of status, appearances, and class. Anything outside of that was merely an inconvenience.
Her eyes flicked to his uniform, scanning it for imperfections. “Your collar is slightly off-center,” she noted absently, as if discussing an unpolished piece of silverware. “Fix it.”
Ivan obeyed without a word, straightening the fabric with an effortless motion. She expected perfection. He had learned long ago that offering less was not an option.
Satisfied, Kait leaned back. “Your father is in the study,” she said dismissively. “He wishes to speak with you.”
Ivan gave a slight nod before turning toward the staircase.
“Do be mindful of your posture,” Kait added, her voice following him like a whisper of frost.
Ivan did not respond. He never did.
At the top of the grand staircase, a shadow stirred.
Metil, Ivan’s personal aide, stood waiting at the landing.
He was a man of few words—not out of subservience, but by design. His presence was silent, his movements fluid, his posture precise. Dressed in a deep gray coat with silver embroidery, he blended into the background, as if he were meant to be unseen.
Ivan barely acknowledged him as he passed. “She’s in a mood,” he muttered.
Metil dipped his head slightly. “She often is.”
A flicker of amusement touched Ivan’s lips. Dry. Honest. Blunt. It was the closest thing to humor he would get in this house.
Metil fell into step beside him as they moved toward the study. “Your father has been speaking with the governors all afternoon,” he said evenly. “I suspect the conversation will not be brief.”
Ivan exhaled slowly. “It never is.”
Metil’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. Then, as always, he simply nodded.
The doors to the Rozzlyn study loomed ahead. Inside, Brent Rozzlyn sat behind a massive iron-wrought desk, the surface meticulously organized. Stacks of documents were placed at calculated angles, as if even disorder had no place here.
Brent was a man carved from discipline and expectation. His neatly trimmed goatee framed a face that had never known warmth, and his piercing gaze—bottle-green, just like Ivan’s—was as sharp as ever.
“Sit,” he ordered without looking up.
Ivan obeyed. There was no need for pleasantries.
For a long moment, there was silence. Brent continued scanning a document, his fingers occasionally tapping against the desk in measured thought.
Then, without preamble—
“The immigrant crisis is spiraling.”
Ivan said nothing.
Brent leaned back slightly. “More Honorary Aethans are being accepted into the city. More foreigners, more disruptions.” His voice did not rise, but the weight of it was enough to fill the room. “The Governor’s new directive will see to their containment, but it is an issue that will not disappear overnight.”
He finally met Ivan’s gaze.
“This is the future you are inheriting,” he said. “Do you understand?”
Ivan held his father’s stare. “I understand that change is inevitable.”
A beat of silence.
Brent studied him. “Change is controlled.”
Ivan’s expression remained unreadable. “Not always.”
His father’s fingers twitched slightly. A subtle reaction, but Ivan had learned to notice the smallest fractures in his father’s stoic mask.
Brent exhaled. “The Governor is taking steps to ensure Aether does not bend to change. The Honorary Aethan Initiative will proceed. The chips will be distributed. Order will be maintained.”
Ivan tilted his head slightly. “And if the immigrants resist?”
Brent gave him a look that was equal parts patience and disappointment.
“They won’t.”
A simple answer. Aether did not give choices. It gave instructions. The conversation shifted.
Brent asked about his studies—a ritual, more than genuine interest. Ivan recited what was necessary. He did not embellish. He did not falter.
His father nodded at all the right moments, but there was always a quiet dissatisfaction behind his eyes.
It didn’t matter how well Ivan performed. He would always be compared to Brent.
The meeting ended as it always did—with Brent giving instructions, and Ivan nodding in silence.
As he stepped out of the study, Metil was already waiting.
“You’re brooding,” Metil observed.
Ivan huffed softly. “You’re observant.”
A faint smirk. “You are your father’s son.”
Ivan did not respond immediately.
Then—“We’ll see.”
Metil said nothing, but there was something knowing in his silence. The estate was silent.
Not the comforting silence of a home at rest, but the cold, calculated stillness of an institution—a place where voices were measured, where laughter did not belong, where every step was accounted for.
Ivan made his way toward the private dining hall, where his mother and father would already be seated. Meals were not a time for conversation in the Rozzlyn household; they were a performance of etiquette, a carefully choreographed display of refinement.
The doors parted for him as he entered. The dining hall was expansive, with vaulted ceilings lined with mana-infused chandeliers that cast a sterile white glow over the polished stone floors. A long ironwood table stretched through the center, set with pristine silverware and untouched dishes that looked more like works of art than food.
At one end of the table sat Kait Rozzlyn, her back impossibly straight, her napkin folded with crisp precision on her lap.
At the other, Brent Rozzlyn, his movements composed, his presence an extension of the house itself—cold, commanding, unshakable.
Ivan took his seat in the space designated for him.
The meal began in silence.
The attendants moved like clockwork, refilling glasses, adjusting plates, ensuring that nothing was out of place.
It was Kait who broke the quiet first, her voice smooth, distant.
“I was speaking with the other councilwomen today,” she mused, slicing into her meal with a grace that spoke of decades of aristocratic conditioning. “The topic of the new immigration policies was raised, of course. It’s simply appalling how these… people believe they can integrate into Aethan society.”
She dabbed her lips delicately with a napkin, though she had barely eaten.
“They should be grateful they are being given any status at all,” she continued, as if the matter were already settled. “Instead, they demand more. Always more.”
Ivan listened, expression unreadable.
Brent finally spoke, his voice steady. “The Honorary Aethan Initiative is necessary. It establishes order.”
Kait scoffed lightly. “It establishes compromise.” She set her silverware down with an almost imperceptible hint of distaste. “If we continue handing out ‘honorary’ status, soon there will be no distinction between us and the mongrels we conquered.”
A silence fell over the table.
Brent regarded his wife with an almost passive curiosity. “And what would you have us do?”
Kait lifted her chin. “Aether does not need to bend. It needs to remind these people that they serve at our pleasure. That their continued existence within our walls is a privilege.”
Her eyes flicked toward Ivan. “Don’t you agree?”
Ivan’s fingers curled slightly around the stem of his glass. A test.
They did this often. His parents, in their own ways, always positioned him—subtly probing for signs of weakness, deviation, or defiance.
He lifted his gaze, meeting his mother’s sharp, ice-blue eyes.
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“Gratitude is an expectation,” he said evenly. “But fear is the stronger motivator.”
Kait’s lips curled slightly in approval. “Precisely.”
Brent’s gaze lingered on Ivan for a fraction longer before he returned to his meal.
The conversation shifted, flowing into political matters, social expectations, Aether’s unyielding control.
Ivan ate in silence, letting their words pass over him like wind against stone.
They saw the world as something to shape.
Ivan saw the cracks forming beneath it.
After dinner, Ivan walked through the east wing of the estate, his pace slow, deliberate.
Metil followed a step behind him, his presence a constant but unobtrusive shadow.
“You played your part well,” Metil murmured.
Ivan didn’t look at him. “Did I?”
Metil tilted his head slightly. “Your mother is satisfied. Your father remains… uncertain.”
Ivan exhaled through his nose. “He always is.”
They walked in silence for a time.
Then—
“You don’t belong in that room,” Metil said softly.
Ivan stopped walking.
The words were simple, but their weight was immense.
Metil rarely spoke freely, but when he did, it was never without purpose.
Ivan turned his head slightly. “And where do I belong?”
Metil did not answer.
Because they both already knew. The Rozzlyn estate was always awake.
The walls listened. The corridors held secrets. The people within it existed under a constant state of quiet surveillance.
Even Ivan.
Especially Ivan.
As he entered his chambers, he let out a slow breath.
It was a lavish space—polished steel fixtures, high windows overlooking the city, furniture designed with function rather than comfort in mind. A room befitting an heir to Aether’s most revered name.
But Ivan had never seen it as his own.
He walked toward the window, pressing a hand lightly against the cool glass.
Below, the city sprawled in quiet perfection. An empire of order.
But even in Aether, order was never absolute.
There were fractures, deep and hidden.
And Ivan intended to find them.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would wake, attend his lessons, play the part expected of him.
But tonight, in the privacy of his mind, he allowed himself to think. To plan.
To question.
Because a house built on control cannot stand forever.
And he would not be its foundation.
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Interlude: The Forgotten Grave of Grieg’s Lair
To the northeast of Millinggarde’s fractured remains, beyond the reach of civilization’s order and Aether’s suffocating grasp, lies a place that has been forgotten by time itself.
Grieg’s Lair.
A name spoken only in hushed tones, carried on the wind like a dying whisper. A place where the air is thick with the scent of rust and decay, where the earth itself seems to reject life, swallowing all who dare tread upon it.
But Grieg’s Lair was not always this way.
Long ago—before the war, before Aether’s conquest, before even Millinggarde stood at the height of its progress—this land was a void.
A place without name. Without rulers. Without laws.
It was an exile’s purgatory.
And it was here that Grieg, the man who would lend his name to the cursed wasteland, was cast away to meet his fate.
THE MAN WHO POISONED A NATION
Grieg was not a warlord. Nor a king. Nor a revolutionary.
He was a scientist. A scholar. A man who understood the delicate balance between power and consequence—and how easily one could tip the scales.
It was said that in his prime, Grieg had been a visionary of Aether, a mind sought after for his brilliance in mana-infused alchemy. He had studied the properties of magic and its interactions with the physical world, developing formulas and methods that enhanced the capabilities of Aether’s ruling elite.
But great minds are often the most dangerous.
Grieg did not share Aether’s rigid philosophy of control. He believed that power, if left unchecked, would become a poison. And so, in a move that was as bold as it was catastrophic, he decided to test his theory.
He crafted a substance, a deadly mana inhibitor, something so potent that it could nullify the very lifeblood of Aether itself. And with it, he did the unthinkable—
He poisoned Aether’s entire water supply.
In a single night, millions suffered the effects. Those who had been sustained by magic their entire lives—those who had never known a moment without mana coursing through their veins—collapsed as their bodies rejected their own existence.
He had crippled a nation in a single stroke.
And for that, he was condemned.
But Aether did not execute him.
No. That would have been too merciful.
Instead, he was cast into the northern wastelands—a land where no magic flowed, where no water ran, where nothing but dust and death awaited.
A fitting punishment, they thought.
But Grieg did not die.
THE BIRTH OF THE LAIR
Where there is suffering, there is kinship.
Where there is exile, there is a cause.
And where there is injustice, there is vengeance.
Grieg was not the first to be cast into the wastelands, nor would he be the last.
Over time, others like him—criminals, rebels, exiles—found themselves banished to the same desolation. Murderers. Thieves. Outcasts. Some sent away for their crimes, others for merely existing in defiance of Aether’s rule.
At first, they fought each other, scrambling for what little could be scavenged.
But survival breeds necessity.
And so, beneath Grieg’s guidance, they formed something new.
Not a kingdom. Not a nation.
A den of monsters.
The wasteland was transformed. What had once been barren land became a network of underground tunnels and fortified ruins, carved out by those who refused to be forgotten.
They crafted their own weapons. Crude, but deadly.They devised their own laws. Brutal, but fair.They took what they needed. Without mercy.
And soon, what had once been a place of exile became a place of power.
Aether had cast them out.
But Grieg’s Lair would not be ignored.
THE WAR THAT NEVER CAME
For years, rumors spread of the ghosts of the wasteland.
Caravans that passed too close to the border would vanish without a trace. Soldiers sent on patrol would never return. Supplies would go missing, stolen by unseen hands.
Whispers of a force rising from the ashes began to reach Aether’s courts.
The rulers of Aether feared what was growing beyond their borders. They had expected the exiles to wither and die, not to organize and expand.
And so, before it could fester into a true threat, they did what they had always done.
They purged it.
Aether’s forces, thousands strong, marched upon Grieg’s Lair, bringing with them the full force of their magic and steel.
The battle lasted three days.
Three days of fire and blood.
Three days in which Grieg and his people fought like demons, refusing to surrender, refusing to bow.
But they could not win.
Not against Aether’s full might.
In the end, the lair was reduced to rubble, its tunnels collapsed, its people slaughtered.
And Grieg was never seen again.
Some say he was burned alive in the purge.Some say he escaped into the depths of the wasteland, living out his final days in hiding.And some say he still lingers beneath the ruins, waiting for the day when Aether’s downfall will come.
But the truth no longer matters.
Because Grieg’s Lair is dead.
Or so the world believes.
THE GRAVEYARD THAT BREATHES
Today, Grieg’s Lair is nothing more than a stretch of desolate ruin.
A place where no flowers bloom, where no rivers flow. Aether has long since abandoned it, the land considered cursed, left to rot under the weight of its own history.
And yet—
The most foolish of travelers claim that when the wind howls across the broken wasteland, they can hear whispers beneath the stone.
That when the night is at its darkest, they have seen shadows moving in the ruins.
That not all who were exiled had perished.
That Grieg’s Lair is not dead.
Only waiting.
And if that is true—if there are still embers buried beneath the ashes—then perhaps Aether’s greatest mistake was not its destruction…
But thinking it could be forgotten. To stand at the borders of Grieg’s Lair is to feel the weight of something ancient pressing against your soul.
The land does not welcome. It does not yield. It devours.
The air itself is thick, heavy—not with magic, but with something far older, something woven into the very bones of the earth. Aether has long since erased its name from records, buried its history beneath official decrees, and yet, those who dare to venture close know the truth.
This place remembers.
The iron-laced soil is cracked and dry, refusing to bear life. What few plants dare sprout from the earth are brittle, colorless things—shadows of what they should be. The wind carries a scent of dust and rust, the remnants of a time when blood soaked this soil in rivers, when the dying screamed into the night, and the echoes refused to fade.
Few venture here, and those who do never stay for long.
Not because they fear the place itself.
But because, when night falls over Grieg’s Lair, the silence feels alive. At the heart of the wasteland lie the ruins of a city that never was.
Collapsed tunnels yawn open like the mouths of forgotten beasts, their jagged entrances gaping with the remnants of an empire that never had a chance to rise. The skeletal remains of iron fortifications jut from the ground, twisted and blackened by time, whispering of a war fought in desperation rather than strategy.
Here, there is no beauty in ruin. No remnants of grandeur lost to time.
Only destruction.
The remnants of fortified strongholds, their walls torn asunder by Aether’s siege weapons, stand like broken ribs protruding from the carcass of the land. Their interiors have long since caved in, devoured by erosion, leaving behind only hollow husks where exiles once planned their vengeance.
Yet, despite the decay, the city does not feel empty.
Some say the spirits of the dead still roam these corridors, trapped in an eternal cycle of defiance. Others whisper that not all who lived here perished. That beneath the ruins, in tunnels untouched by Aether’s fire, something still lingers.
Waiting.
Watching.
Breathing.
The ruins above may be silent tombs, but the tunnels below?
They are something else entirely.
Deep beneath the charred remnants of the lair, where even Aether’s forces dared not chase the last of the exiles, there is a place untouched by time.
The undercity.
Carved into the stone by desperate hands, it was once the lifeblood of Grieg’s rebellion—an intricate network of underground corridors, built not merely for survival, but as a means to resist. The exiles of the lair knew that Aether would come for them one day. They knew their walls above would not hold.
So they built beneath the land.
Miles of passageways, fortified with whatever scraps of iron and stolen mana-infused stone they could salvage. A second city, hidden beneath the bones of the first.
Aether believed they had destroyed all of Grieg’s Lair.
But they never found the deepest tunnels.
Even now, the air down there is different. Stagnant, unmoving. The walls are lined with marks left behind by those who once lived here—records carved into the stone by hands desperate to be remembered.
Some messages are simple. Names, dates, fragments of stories left unfinished.
Others are more chilling.
"Aether will never break us.""The fire cannot reach us here.""We still hear them walking above."
And then, the final words ever carved.
"They are coming. The doors won’t hold. We will not scream."
Beneath those words, there are no more carvings.
Only silence.
Time has done little to erase the weight of Grieg’s Lair.
Aether may claim it is gone, reduced to nothing but an empty wasteland, but the land remembers.
And sometimes, so do its people.
The resistance that still festers within Millinggarde’s oppressed cities speaks of Grieg’s Lair with reverence, with a quiet, desperate kind of hope.
They say that its people are not truly gone.
That in the deepest tunnels, past the ruins no outsider has set foot in, something still stirs.
Aether’s control is absolute. Its power unmatched. Its reach unyielding.
But even the most unstoppable empire fears the whispers of the forgotten.
Because history has a way of resurfacing when it is least expected.
And if the embers of Grieg’s Lair still smolder beneath the earth, waiting for the right breath of air to bring them back to life—
Then Aether’s reckoning is not a question of if, but when.