The air around the silhouette pulsed—once. Then again.
A low hum vibrated through the corridor’s mana lines like distant thunder beneath glass.
And then, the voice came, no longer hostile... but not gentle either.
"How much do you know?"
There was no malice in it now. Just curiosity—sharp and delicate, like a scalpel hovering above exposed skin.
Lucas lowered his eyes for the briefest moment. When he looked up again, his expression had changed—not smug, not arrogant.
Measured.
Wary.
Exactly the way someone should look when they knew something they shouldn’t.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, as if weighing something. The silence stretched, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Controlled. Like he was treading carefully around a name that carried weight.
"Not enough to matter."
A beat.
Then—he added, just loud enough for the figure to catch:
"But just enough... that saying too much would be the end of me."
He looked toward the edge of the shimmer again, letting a note of tension slip into his voice—not faked, but directed.
"Belthazor didn’t say much. But he made one thing clear."
"There are names you don’t echo, and games you don’t interrupt. Yours..."
He let the sentence drift, unfinished, like a secret half-spoken.
The silence that followed was calculated. Perfectly paced. Enough for the figure to wonder, but not enough to challenge them.
Lucas didn’t need to be believed.
He just needed to be remembered.
A boy from a noble house, touched by an impossible presence, who claimed to carry whispers from something long dead.
A half-liar who might be worth watching.
He kept his posture subdued, careful not to overstep. No threat. No arrogance.
Just potential.
And in the language these creatures spoke, potential was more useful than loyalty.
Lucas let his gaze dip respectfully, subtly turning his head. A small gesture that suggested caution, not submission.
Lucas said nothing more.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t plead.
He simply existed—like a closed door painted with warnings and rumors, the kind of door even the bold paused before opening.
And it worked.
A soft sound echoed from within the silhouette. Not quite a chuckle—something more abstract. Like breath filtered through ancient parchment.
Recognition.
Then came the voice again. Low. Whisper-smooth. Almost amused.
"If Belthazor spoke of us to you..."
A pause.
"...then he must have trusted you."
A ripple passed through the air again, softer this time. Less invasive.
They were intrigued now. Not convinced. But interested.
And that was all Lucas needed.
Then, without warning, the voice shifted tones once more.
Not accusatory. Not probing.
Just quiet. And curious.
"What happened to Belthazor?"
Lucas tilted his head slightly, the movement deliberate—measured like every breath he took in this conversation.
His lips parted, and his voice came soft but sharp.
"Don’t you know already?"
There was another pause.
Longer this time.
And though the shimmer did not speak, something in the pressure around it shifted.
A silent answer.
Yes.
Of course they knew.
Affiliates, fragments, contractors—all those who bore the mark of the deeper court were known to them. Watched, monitored, recorded in esoteric ledgers bound not by ink, but by oaths older than written time.
And if Belthazor was gone—truly gone—then that absence would have echoed through the dark like a bell struck too hard.
Lucas said nothing more.
He didn’t need to.
And across the space, the presence spoke one final word—low, thoughtful, lingering with that cold sort of approval that never sounded like praise.
"...Interesting."
The silence following that single word—"Interesting"—was not emptiness.
It was anticipation.
Lucas could feel it, like the breath before a page is turned, like the pause before a blade is drawn. The weight hadn’t vanished. It had simply shifted—now poised, now watching.
And then—
The voice returned.
"If Belthazor chose you..."
A slow, thoughtful hum.
"...then you have potential."
Lucas remained still, but inwardly, something cold unfurled in his chest. Not fear. Not pride.
Readiness.
Then the voice deepened, just slightly—not in tone, but in intent.
"Boy."
A pause.
Not contemptuous. Not familiar.
Just precise.
"What is it that you want?"
Lucas blinked once.
Then—
He smiled.
Not the smirk he wore at the academy.
Not the feigned amusement he used among the nobles.
How he had tried to earn his place.
Lucas Middleton had been a footnote.
It was resolved.
"What do I want?"
His voice was even. Quiet.
"I want power."
It listened.
He didn’t dare speak of the throne he wanted to usurp, or the names he wanted to erase, or the world he planned to rewrite.
But what he said was true.
"Power..." the voice repeated, almost tasting it.
"Power..."
"...For what, do you seek it?"
There was something cutting in the question now. Not doubt. Not suspicion.
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