Chapter 2 — A Blade Without a Name
Morning arrived without warmth.
Gray light filtered through the tall arched windows of Adrian Falkenrath's chamber, painting the stone floor in dull silver. The bells that had rung the night before were silent now, replaced by the distant hum of servants beginning their routines—footsteps, murmured conversations, the clink of metal trays. Life continued in House Falkenrath as if nothing had changed.
As if a son of the house had not nearly died the night before.
Adrian lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his body stiff and aching. He had not slept. Every time he closed his eyes, memories surfaced—some belonging to the original Adrian, others to himself. They overlapped messily, forming a single, coherent understanding of the trap he was in.
The body he occupied was weak.
Not naturally so—but deliberately.
Malnourishment. Interrupted training. Poor healing. Subtle poisons administered in trace amounts over years, weakening muscles and dulling reflexes without leaving obvious marks. Enough to ensure he never became competent. Enough to ensure he never posed a threat.
Enough to make his death inevitable.
Adrian slowly sat up, ignoring the familiar spike of pain along his ribs. He flexed his fingers, testing the range of motion, the tremor, the sluggish response. Bad—but not irreparable.
Not yet.
He rose from the bed and crossed the room, his movements quiet, controlled. The noble attire laid out on the nearby chair was dark and formal—black coat with crimson trim, embroidered with the sigil of House Falkenrath: a falcon clutching broken chains.
He dressed carefully.
The coat hung better on him than it should have. Despite the body's weakness, the structure was there—long limbs, straight posture when he forced it, a frame meant for discipline rather than decadence.
When he finished, Adrian caught his reflection again.
He still looked like a villain.
Sharp-featured. Pale. Silver-eyed. Someone who belonged in whispered accusations and courtroom condemnations. He accepted that instantly.
Changing the world's perception would take time.
Surviving the day would take caution.
A knock came—firmer this time.
"Enter," Adrian said.
The door opened, and a man stepped inside.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in the black-and-red uniform of House Falkenrath's personal guard. His hair was iron-gray, cropped short, and a thick scar ran diagonally across his face, pulling one side of his mouth into a permanent scowl. His eyes were dark brown, sharp, and wary—like a soldier who trusted no one.
This was Captain Volker Brandt.
One of his father's men.
"Lord Adrian," Volker said flatly, inclining his head just enough to be polite. "You are summoned to the family hall."
Adrian studied him.
In the memories of the original body, Volker was a man who obeyed orders without question. He had dragged Adrian by the collar more than once. He had stood silently during beatings. Not cruel—but utterly indifferent.
"Is my presence mandatory?" Adrian asked.
Volker's brow furrowed slightly. "The Duke expects all his children present."
All.
That meant Eldric. Mathias. Clara.
And their father.
"I'll be there shortly," Adrian replied.
Volker hesitated.
For just a fraction of a second, his eyes flicked over Adrian's posture, his gaze, the unnatural calm in his expression.
Something was off.
"As you wish," he said finally, turning and leaving without another word.
The door closed.
Adrian exhaled slowly.
The family hall.
If there was one place in this estate where fate tightened its grip, it was there.
The Falkenrath family hall was vast, cold, and designed to intimidate.
Black stone pillars lined the walls, each carved with scenes of conquest, execution, and kneeling enemies. Crimson banners hung from the ceiling, their fabric heavy and dark, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. At the far end of the hall stood a raised platform with a long obsidian table—polished to a mirror sheen.
Duke Reinhard Falkenrath sat at its center.
He was a tall man with a commanding presence, his silver-streaked black hair tied neatly behind his head. His face was sharp, angular, perpetually unreadable. Cold gray eyes surveyed the room like a general inspecting a battlefield. He wore a tailored noble coat of black and gold, immaculate and severe.
Power clung to him—not magical, but absolute.
To his right sat Duchess Margarethe Falkenrath.
She was beautiful in a distant, sculpted way. Pale skin untouched by age, dark auburn hair pinned elegantly atop her head, sharp green eyes that missed nothing and cared even less. She wore deep emerald silk, her posture flawless, hands folded calmly atop the table.
She did not look at Adrian when he entered.
To the Duke's left sat the eldest son.
Eldric Falkenrath was handsome in a way that commanded admiration effortlessly. Broad shoulders, athletic build, golden-brown hair worn long and tied back at the nape of his neck. His face was warm, smiling easily, his blue eyes bright and confident.
The image of a future hero.
The lie of it made Adrian's stomach twist.
Next to Eldric lounged the second son.
Mathias Falkenrath was lean, almost delicate in appearance. His dark hair fell loose around his face, framing narrow features and pale gray eyes that glinted with perpetual amusement. His lips were curved into a subtle, knowing smile—one that never reached his eyes.
Where Eldric radiated charisma, Mathias radiated poison.
Clara sat at the far end of the table.
She looked smaller than she had in Adrian's room, her shoulders drawn inward, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She wore a simple pale-blue dress, her chestnut hair braided neatly over one shoulder. She avoided everyone's gaze—except Adrian's.
Their eyes met briefly.
She looked relieved.
Adrian took his seat without speaking.
The silence stretched.
Duke Reinhard's gaze settled on him at last.
"You look well enough," the Duke said. "Considering."
Adrian inclined his head slightly. "I'm grateful for your concern, Father."
Mathias' smile widened imperceptibly.
Eldric leaned back in his chair, studying Adrian openly. "You should be careful," he said lightly. "The Church envoys don't appreciate delays. Especially from… unreliable individuals."
Adrian met his brother's gaze calmly. "I'll keep that in mind."
Something flickered in Eldric's eyes.
Annoyance? Confusion?
Duke Reinhard tapped his fingers once against the table. The sound echoed sharply.
"Enough," he said. "Adrian, you will present yourself to the Church tribunal in three days' time."
Three days.
Sooner than expected.
"The accusations remain unchanged," the Duke continued. "Poisoning of servants. Desecration of sacred property. Blasphemous speech."
Margarethe spoke without looking at him. "The evidence is compelling."
It was fabricated.
All of it.
Adrian nodded slowly. "And my defense?"
Mathias chuckled softly. "Defense implies innocence."
Adrian turned his head toward him. "Do you believe I'm guilty, Brother?"
Mathias' eyes gleamed. "Belief is irrelevant."
Eldric sighed theatrically. "This is for the good of the house. If you cooperate, things will go… smoothly."
Adrian understood the subtext perfectly.
Confess.
Die quietly.
Preserve the family's reputation.
He folded his hands on the table.
"I see," he said.
Duke Reinhard watched him intently. "You have something to say?"
"Yes."
Every gaze in the hall sharpened.
"I request permission to resume formal sword training."
Silence slammed down like a blade.
Clara's head snapped up.
Eldric blinked. "Sword training?"
Mathias laughed outright. "You?"
The Duke's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"I will be judged soon," Adrian said evenly. "If I am to die, I would prefer not to die as a disgrace to the Falkenrath name."
That was a lie.
But it was a convincing one.
Margarethe finally looked at him. Her green eyes were cold. Assessing.
Eldric's smile returned, slow and sharp. "I don't see the harm," he said. "Watching him embarrass himself might be… educational."
Mathias nodded. "Cruelty aside, it keeps him occupied."
Duke Reinhard considered for a moment.
"Very well," he said. "You will train in the lower yard. Under supervision."
Adrian bowed his head. "Thank you."
Clara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
The lower training yard was abandoned.
Weeds pushed through cracks in the stone. Rusted weapon racks lined the walls, their contents neglected. This was where unwanted things were placed and forgotten.
A single man waited there.
He was older, his hair white and unkempt, his beard trimmed short. His back was slightly hunched, his clothing plain—worn leathers rather than noble colors. His eyes were sharp, pale blue, missing nothing.
This was Gregor Hale.
Once a master swordsman.
Now an exile.
"So," Gregor said, eyeing Adrian without respect or kindness. "You're the disgrace."
Adrian met his gaze. "So I've been told."
Gregor snorted. "Pick up a sword."
Adrian approached the rack and selected a standard longsword. The weight surprised him—he nearly fumbled it.
Weak.
He adjusted his grip.
"Show me," Gregor said.
Adrian took a stance.
It was wrong.
His feet were misaligned. His balance off. His shoulders too tense.
Gregor struck him without warning.
The blow was fast, brutal, cracking against Adrian's ribs and sending him sprawling across the stone.
Pain exploded.
"Again," Gregor said.
Adrian rose.
Again.
And again.
Each strike taught him something.
Not technique.
Truth.
This body knew nothing.
But Adrian did.
Not instinctively.
Not magically.
But consciously.
By the time the sun dipped low, his arms trembled violently, his breath ragged, blood trickling from a split lip.
Gregor watched him in silence.
Finally, he nodded once.
"You're not talented," the old man said. "But you're paying attention."
Adrian straightened, sweat dripping down his face.
"That's enough," Gregor continued. "For today."
As Adrian set the sword down, something stirred deep within him—not power, not magic.
Awareness.
For a fleeting instant, the world felt… quiet.
As if something unseen had hesitated.
Gregor frowned, glancing around. "Strange…"
Adrian said nothing.
But inside, his silver eyes sharpened.
The blade had not named him.
Fate had not claimed him.
And that, he realized, was enough—for now.