The silence in the grand hall was thick enough to choke on. Yuvaan let his words—the claim of his birthright—hang in the air, watching the comprehension and fury dawn on his relatives' faces.
"Now," he said, breaking the silence with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Enough with this debate. It's getting boring. So, let me get to the point."
His demeanor shifted from calculated arrogance to cold, absolute authority. His eyes, like chips of black ice, scanned each of them—Vinod, Susheela, Aakash, Riddhi.
"Whatever happened today," he stated, his voice low and devoid of all mockery, "should never happen again. You have all been misbehaving with my mom for quite a while now. But let's put a full stop to it."
He took a single, deliberate step forward, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"And if any one of you," he continued, his gaze lingering on each of them in turn, "does anything to cause her to shed a single tear..." He paused, letting the threat solidify. "Then, tit for tat. But not tears. Blood will be shed."
He offered them a smile that never reached his eyes. "Let this be a final warning."
With that, Yuvaan turned and strode towards the staircase, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous room. He didn't look back. The conversation was over. The decree had been issued.
The moment he was out of earshot, Susheela collapsed onto a sofa, her hand over her heart. "When? When will we get rid of this boy? He and his mother are a nuisance upon this family!"
Angad, who had been watching the entire scene with growing disgust, shook his head. "You all are behaving so wrong," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "This is not cool. Not at all." Disgusted, he turned and followed Yuvaan's path upstairs, distancing himself from his family's venom.
Riddhi wrapped her arms around herself, a shiver running down her spine. "He's different," she whispered. "Yuvaan seems more dangerous with every passing day. It's not an act."
Aakash, however, puffed out his chest, trying to reclaim some of the dominance that had been so thoroughly stripped from them. "Don't fear him, Riddhi," he said, his voice tight with bravado. "He's only pretending to be arrogant. He's just a cursed orphan lashing out." A cruel smile twisted his lips. "Don't worry. I will soon clip his wings."
But downstairs, as the family stewed in their own fear and resentment, and upstairs, as a son stood guard over his sleeping mother, one truth was now undeniable: the "cursed orphan" was gone. The Warlock King had awakened in his own castle, and his reign of terror had just begun with a promise—a vow of blood.
The heavy oak door of Yuvaan's room clicked shut, the lock engaging with a sound of finality. The moment he was alone, the formidable, villainous aura he had worn like armor downstairs shattered.
A ragged gasp tore from his throat. He stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees on the cold marble floor. His body, which had moments before moved with predatory grace, was now wracked with a violent, internal tremor. He bit down hard on his lower lip, drawing a bead of blood to stop himself from crying out. The metallic taste was a stark contrast to the searing, icy fire spreading through his veins.
Beneath the flawless skin of his chest and arms, a network of inky black veins began to surface, pulsing with a dark, malevolent energy. It was the "dark heart"—the legacy of Kaal—stirring within him, a caged beast reacting to the surge of powerful emotions: the rage at his family, the fierce need to protect his mother, the bitter loneliness that was his constant companion.
The air in the room began to hum, thick and heavy with unleashed power. A heavy mahogany desk trembled, then lifted a few inches from the ground. Books floated from their shelves, pages fluttering like confused birds. A crystal vase containing black roses rose into the air, suspended in the center of the room, its water sloshing in a silent, gravity-defying dance.
He clutched at his chest, his knuckles white, as if he could physically tear the curse from his body. The pain was not just physical; it was a torrent of ancient memories, of a battlefield under a bleeding sun, of a vow whispered with a dying breath. It was the weight of a king's power trapped in the body of a boy everyone saw as a curse.
'...blood will be shed...' His own words echoed in his mind, a promise he knew he was more than capable of keeping.
Tears of pure frustration and agony welled in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Tears were a weakness he could not afford. He was the villain. He brought the danger. But in this private, tortured moment, he was also just Yuvaan—a son fighting a battle on all fronts, his only ally a darkness that was slowly consuming him from within.
He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing all his will, his long hair falling around his face like a curtain. One breath. Then another. Slowly, painfully, he began to push the storm back into its cage. The black veins receded, fading back beneath his skin. The floating furniture lowered gently to the floor, the books settling back onto their shelves with a series of soft thuds. The vase landed without a single drop of water spilling.
Silence returned to the room, broken only by his ragged breathing. He stayed on his knees, forehead now pressed against the cool floor, utterly spent. The performance was over. The villain had left the stage, and all that remained was the devastating cost of the role.
He had won the battle downstairs, but the war inside him was raging, and he knew the Dark Stronghold was the only thing that could end it.