Nathan had no goal.
No dream, no path. He simply lived — without purpose.
He took whatever life threw into his hands and… grew tired of it.
Tired of idleness. Of golden boredom.
He had tried everything he ever wanted. Everything he had once longed for.
And now, he was drawn to the forbidden — precisely because it was forbidden.
His brother's words echoed in his memory — calm, but never indifferent:
— I know what you want me to become. But Nathan, I never intended to be a Miracle-Bearer.
— Why not? You always said that power was… — Nathan began.
— Power is good. But we already have enough powerful ones. What we lack are the smart ones — those who can guide power in the right direction.
He had pointed to the family flag, where a silver serpent curled around a sword.
— Don't forget our ancestor's motto. It is wisdom that guides the blade.
Why did I even remember that nonsense…
Nathan sighed. All of this — velvet couches, lazy days, aimless wandering through the castle halls — it all made him sick.
He stood up from his chair, looked into the dark window and whispered:
— Why am I going to the Dark Island?.. Because I want to see what I'm capable of.
— Like hell you are! — came a voice.
At the large oak desk sat a plump man in an ornately embroidered vest. His name was Levantel — Nathan's uncle and, at the same time, the head steward of the castle.
— First you'll sign a document retracting all your stunts from yesterday. Then you'll go and apologize to the entire family. And forget about the Island.
He leaned back in his chair with a snort.
— Sixteen years old. You've done nothing but lounge your whole life. And now you think you're some kind of hero?
— Children grow up so quickly, — said a woman by the window, calmly. Her voice was old but firm.
Grandmother. She was blind, but had once seen more than anyone.
— What he's about to do — is the act of a man.
— Uncle, I've already made my decision, — Nathan said quietly.
— I'm not bothering anyone. I'm not dragging anyone with me. Just let me do this.
Levintel snorted.
— Even if I said yes, they wouldn't allow it.
This whole thing is a waste of time. Time I could've spent… let's say, in more pleasant company.
— Uncle… — Nathan paused.
— If they approve me for the expedition, promise you won't interfere.
Levintel stood up, approached him, and unexpectedly took Nathan's wrist gently. His face grew serious. He leaned in close and whispered right into his ear:
— Do you even understand what you're getting into? Even if they let you go… you're not coming back. Not even the strongest Miracle-Bearers survive out there. And you — you haven't even begun your path.
He held his gaze.
— Forget this. You have a future. Women, titles, a castle. You could take my place. Or better. You're smart for your age.
— Enough flattery. I know what I'm doing.
Nathan looked him in the eye.
— You know I'm a born strategist.
Levintel stared at him for a moment, then smirked:
— A strategist, huh? More like a born troublemaker…
— Fine. If you convince your father — I'll support you. Money, people, whatever you need.
— Father? What does he have to do with anything? He doesn't decide who goes on the expedition.
— Maybe not. But he decides whether you live or die.
One word from him — and every door opens. Or slams shut.
That was true.
Father…
The last time they'd seen each other was at a banquet.
He hadn't even looked Nathan's way.
Does he even know my name?..
— We'll see what happens, — Nathan breathed and disappeared through the doorway.
When his footsteps faded, Grandmother turned to Levantel with a smile.
— Remember how you used to say he was your spitting image when you were young?
— I do.
— Only bolder. And smarter.
— Smarter, — Levantel repeated, sinking back into the chair.
— He reads so much I can barely keep up with his thoughts…
I just hope he'll be alright.
Meanwhile…
In a spacious room with tall windows and heavy curtains, Nathan's father — Severan Eldrit — was having an unhurried conversation.
Beside him, like a silent shadow, sat the head of Fenrir himself — Marionette.
Ever since the appearance of the Dark Island, relations between the Eldrit and Fenrir families had unexpectedly warmed.
Shared interests, mutual fear of the unknown — it brought together those who had always kept their distance.
One of Fenrir's daughters was even considering marrying a man from House Eldrit.
A blood-bound alliance seemed only natural in the face of approaching darkness.
Suddenly, a knock at the door. Firm, polite — but impatient.
— Come in, — said Severan Eldrit without turning.
The door opened. A young man entered, just past the threshold of manhood.
He was around eighteen. A worn sword at his belt, his chest dusty, boots stained with earth.
Not a trace of aristocracy, not a hint of grace — only exhaustion, resolve, and the scent of the training hall.
— Dorian Eldrit, — murmured Marionette.
— If I'm not mistaken, I've seen him hanging around the knights.
A bastard. Born out of wedlock, yet still bearing the name Eldrit.
A Miracle-Bearer. One of the rare few.
He had no inheritance. And no claims.
— Father, — he said, bowing his head. — Let me join the expedition. I want to prove what I'm capable of.
Marionette gave a dry chuckle, folding his arms.
— I envy you, Severan. So many sons. And I've got seven daughters and three boys — two of whom spend their time arguing over who lies better on a couch.
He smirked.
— That one, by the way, reminds me most of you. Just as silent. Just as stubborn.
— Shame he's not nearly as talented, — Severan replied in his low, marble-like voice. — But yes. He's got backbone.
He turned to Dorian.
— You're not the best of my sons. Not the strongest. Not the fastest. But perhaps the most persistent.
A pause.
— Even so — you're not ready. You'll be a burden. I'm sure you won't help yourself or anyone else.
Dorian didn't flinch. But his face turned to stone.
Severan went on:
— However… this expedition is the largest in centuries.
I can find someone to vouch for you.
If you want to face real monsters — I'll make it happen.
But remember: there will be no time for regrets.
— Thank you, Father, — Dorian breathed, bowing his head.
And then — the door opened again, this time without knocking.
Another young man entered — same height, but entirely different.
Slender, refined. No dirt, no weapon. His clothes looked freshly tailored.
His hands — clean. His movements — precise. An aristocrat down to his fingertips.
He bowed smoothly, just as Dorian had, and with a slight smile, said:
— Hello, Father. It's been a while.
Silence fell upon the room. Even Marionette — a predator used to controlling any situation — froze.
— I want to go to the Dark Island, — the young man continued.
Again — silence.
Even the air in the hall grew thicker.
Severan looked at him. For a long time.
Unpleasantly long.
— Go wherever you like, — he said in an even, cold voice.
Not a drop of emotion. Not a hint of approval.
Nathan froze.
What?..
Was this a joke?
It was too easy...
Still, he nodded like Dorian, gave a respectful bow — and walked out.
The silence in the room hung like a veil.
— Did you even have a son like that?.. — Marionette asked cautiously, rubbing his neck.
Severan exhaled.
— To this day, I can't remember his name.