An older brother.
How could I forget?
Despite all the time I spent buried in the novel's chapters—despite my boredom with every rosy paragraph and every sigh soaked in shallow love—some details were always right in front of me...
But I never noticed.
Or maybe... I didn't want to notice.
Nier Verton wasn't the only son.
...
He had a brother.
Just one.
The elder brother.
The true heir, the mastermind, the political face.
He's the one who attends the meetings, represents the family, speaks in the Duke's name.
...
And the Duke of Shadows?
The terrifying man said to have torn apart five clans in a single night. The one rumored to have eyes that see lies. The one who appears only twice—twice—in the first 400 chapters, both scenes vague, indirect, soaked in magic and blood...
Is he just a specter?
A ghost written to be the mystery that haunts the castle?
A narrative tool the author used to fake tension?
"What the hell is this crap?"
Yes. I'm angry.
Not just because the author decided to use a character like the Duke of Shadows as a shallow plot device...
But because I'm now part of this mess.
...
I opened the window.
The cold air from the upper floors of the castle carried the scent of old stone.
I looked down at the garden—an organized chaos of black plants and twisted trees, like they were suffering from inner turmoil.
Then I whispered:
"So... where is my brother?"
...
I remember his name...
"Alistair Verton."
The family's political mind.
Always present in meetings.
Known by all, feared by nobles, carefully avoided by rivals.
He doesn't carry the same primal mystery his father does, but he holds something else…
A different kind of authority.
An authority... formal.
Shallow in the novel, but behind it—there was something dormant. Something unexplored.
...
I stepped away from the window.
Walked to the large wardrobe.
Opened it.
As expected, the clothes were organized by season, color, and occasion.
I picked a dark, formal jacket with gray embroidery on the sleeves, and black leather trousers to match the artificial dignity they expected me to carry.
While dressing, I heard knocking.
Slow.
Three evenly spaced knocks.
Calm. Confident.
...
"Lord Nier, your brother Alistair is waiting for you in the eastern wing."
The servant spoke without raising his voice.
I smiled—a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
"Here we go."
...
"His Majesty the Emperor has called a meeting regarding the new economic projects," the servant said while leading me through the corridors of the castle.
"The Emperor himself?"
"Yes, His Majesty. He wishes to review the grand families' proposals. He sent his envoy last night. Alistair began preparing at dawn."
Great...
Now I'm stuck in the body of a sixteen-year-old boy, part of a terrifying family, in a world soaked with magic and blood...
And I have to meet my older brother in a hall of cold marble to talk about... economics?
"Who wrote this?!"
...
But...
There was something else on my mind now.
Not the Duke of Shadows.
Not the Emperor.
Not even the economy.
But… that girl.
Yes—before Nier fell into the toxic spiral of love with Ayla, the novel's heroine, he had feelings for another girl.
Also a duke's daughter.
Very beautiful, described with such poetic exaggeration it was downright annoying.
"Her hair like black silk on a moonless night."
"Her eyes like rubies washed in snowmelt."
"Her voice like the wind through abandoned throne halls."
And more of that nauseating romantic fluff.
But...
The real problem?
She never cared about Nier.
No response. No glance. Not even pity.
Yet...
The author dedicated entire chapters to his feelings for her—how he silently suffered, how he imagined her looking at him, how he memorized her few words, and wrote her letters he never sent.
One-sided chapters.
Chapters full of emotional sludge that stole hours from my life.
And in the end—there wasn't even a tragic event.
She was just... forgotten, as soon as Ayla entered the story.
"That's not character development. That's manipulation."
...
"Nier... you fool."
I muttered under my breath as I approached the eastern wing.
...
Then I stopped.
The air here was different.
No humidity. No chill.
Only... an eerie stillness.
I stepped inside.
The walls were encrusted in shades of black and silver, and the windows bore the family's crest: a shadow standing atop a mountain, with a dagger of light hidden behind it.
At the center of the room stood a tall man with sleek gray hair and a rigid face.
Alistair Verton.
My brother.
My older brother.
He turned toward me—his gaze steady, heavy, suspicious, and something else I couldn't name.
"Awake at last?"
He spoke as if reading me.
I replied:
"Yes... I wasn't expecting a summons from the Emperor so soon."
He stepped closer.
He stood half a head taller than me, his eyes as gray as dry ice.
"Why? Don't you follow the daily reports?"
I answered without hesitation:
"I was reading... something else."
...
Silence.
He stared at my face for several seconds.
Then moved to the table—piled high with papers, maps, and scrolls sealed with the imperial crest.
"The Emperor wants us to present a plan for rebuilding the western provinces."
He opened one of the maps.
"I'll lead the meeting as usual, but your presence will serve as a symbol of family unity. Don't speak much. Just be there."
...
I smiled internally.
"A symbol of unity? Really?"
I replied calmly:
"As you wish, brother."
---
I stood silently across from Alistair.
Between us, a heavy table of dark wood stretched three meters long, covered in maps, ledgers, and documents sealed with golden wax.
It felt like the weight of that table alone could crush any illusion of freedom.
He said nothing more.
And neither did I.
As if our silence was part of the political ceremony in this palace.
He turned away, calmly, flipping through papers.
Then said in a flat tone:
"The meeting is in two hours. The procession leaves in one. Be ready."
Just like that.
No emotion. No hesitation.
I left the eastern wing without a word.
---
The stairs felt longer than usual.
Each step pulled me further from silence—and closer to the mask I had to wear.
I am... Nier Verton.
Second son of the House of Shadows.
The name that does not smile.
The eyes that do not object.
The shadow that must be seen... not heard.
---
I returned to my private wing.
The servant who had fetched me stood still, as if he hadn't moved since.
He bowed slightly:
"Do you desire a bath, sir?"
I gave him a small nod.
...
Preparations took longer than I expected.
It started with the bath—bronze faucets opened with care, filling the stone tub with warm water scented with dried leaves that gave off a faint woody aroma.
A scent I couldn't quite place, but somehow felt familiar.
Had Nier used it often? Or was the body remembering what I could not?
I sat in the water, feeling the weight.
An inner weight.
Something that had nothing to do with clothes, or politics.
A weight I couldn't yet understand.
---
In the corner of the room, my reflection shimmered faintly on the surface of a metal mirror.
I studied my features...
Dark eyes. Sharp brows. A chin slightly tilted to the right.
A hardened face… but empty.
Empty of Nier.
And empty of me.
As if I had come to occupy the space between two voids.
---
Afterward, I wore the formal attire.
It wasn't lavish.
It was symbolic.
Black silk, with fine embroidery on the collar depicting a leafless tree—its roots branching downward instead of up.
"The Verton Tree."
The family's crest.
Roots before branches.
History before hope.
---
The servant tightened the leather belt around my waist, fastened the left cuff button.
Then handed me a pair of gloves—the color of shadows.
I slipped them on slowly.
One motion at a time.
As if I were putting cages on my hands.
Then the carriage arrived.
---
I left the castle accompanied by four servants and a personal escort.
The carriage was massive, crafted from smooth wood inlaid with silver. Its side window bore the imperial emblem: the divided sun.
The symbol of the Emperor.
The symbol of justice... or so they claim.
I boarded and sat alone.
The servant sat across from me, silent—stealing occasional glances.
---
The road to the Imperial Palace was long.
The city still half asleep.
A light mist creeping through old stone, streets slick with rain that had fallen before dawn.
People moved like pale ghosts.
Shops opening. Workers pushing small carts. Guards watching everything with indifference.
And all of it… behind the carriage's silent glass.
As if I belonged to a painted scene… not the real world.
---
When we arrived at the eastern gate of the Imperial Palace, I was welcomed in silence.
The servants bowed.
The guards struck their spears to the ground.
A deep, metallic sound—engineered to remind you:
You are standing before a system that does not forgive.
---
I entered the palace.
The red carpet wasn't glossy—but dull, like it absorbed light.
The wall carvings depicted ancient battles and historic figures—none of whom I recognized.
Everything radiated age... power... finality.
---
My escort led me to the southern meeting chamber.
But...
The pace was slow.
Deliberate.
As if everything in this palace was designed to remind you:
You don't possess time.
Time possesses you.
---
And finally... I arrived.
Before the great door.