Chapter 5: The Silent Storm Approaches
The 5 Year Old Fox
The soft glow of candlelight flickered across the polished wooden table where Kitsaro sat, his small fingers gliding across the pages of an ancient tome. He read with silent concentration, his violet-gold eyes scanning each line with meticulous precision. The room was quiet, save for the faint clicking of knitting needles in the background. His mother, Sylvara, sat nearby, gracefully weaving delicate silver thread into a scarf.
It was an unusual sight—Sylvara, the cold and distant Lady of House Vaelthyr, engaged in such a simple, domestic act. Yet, in the privacy of their quarters, where no prying eyes could judge, she allowed herself this moment of stillness.
Kitsaro had grown accustomed to these evenings. There were no affectionate gestures, no bedtime stories or warm embraces, but there was a quiet understanding between them. She allowed him his solitude, and he allowed her hers.
But the peace was short-lived.
A knock at the door interrupted the rhythmic sound of knitting needles. A moment later, an attendant stepped inside, bowing deeply before addressing Sylvara.
"My lady, I bring news from the council."
Sylvara did not look up from her knitting. "Speak."
The attendant hesitated, casting a wary glance at Kitsaro before continuing. "The Council of Elders has issued an order regarding the upcoming coming-of-age ceremony for the heir of House Veyra. You and your son are required to attend."
Kitsaro did not react, merely turning another page in his book.
Sylvara, however, stilled.
The knitting needles in her hands stopped moving. The air in the room turned heavy.
The servant gulped, shifting uncomfortably. "The eldest son of the main family will be undergoing his awakening in three days. It has been deemed mandatory for all members of the House to be present for the occasion."
A long silence followed.
Kitsaro remained calm, but inwardly, he was analyzing the implications. His half-brother—the rightful heir—was reaching the age where his bloodline would awaken. This ceremony was not just a celebration; it was a display of power. A political statement.
He was not surprised that the council wanted him and his mother present. What did surprise him, however, was what the servant said next.
"However, the council has also decreed that you and your son will not be permitted to enter with the main family."
Sylvara finally looked up, her icy gaze piercing through the servant like a blade.
"They expect us to attend, yet deny us entry alongside the main house?" Her voice was quiet, yet laced with barely restrained fury.
The servant visibly flinched. "Yes, my lady. And…" He hesitated again. "Should you refuse to attend, the financial allocation for your estate will be reduced by half."
A deadly silence filled the room.
Then, in a single swift motion, Sylvara lifted her hand, and the silver knitting needle in her grasp shot forward, embedding itself into the wooden wall beside the servant's head.
The man froze, his breath caught in his throat.
"Leave. Before I decide to aim for something softer."
The servant did not need to be told twice. He bowed hastily and rushed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
Sylvara exhaled, pressing her fingers against her temple. "Those damned old fools."
She turned to Kitsaro, expecting to see some flicker of emotion in his expression—anger, disappointment, frustration. Instead, he remained utterly composed, his small fingers still resting on the pages of his book.
His lack of reaction was unsettling.
Sylvara's gaze softened slightly as she studied him. He was only five, yet there was nothing childish about him.
Kitsaro was already showing signs of the Vaelthyr bloodline's infamous allure. His features, delicate yet striking, bore an otherworldly charm that made people instinctively drawn to him. His golden eyes, framed by long silver lashes, gleamed with intelligence far beyond his years. Even the way he carried himself—calm, unreadable—was unnatural for a child.
Sylvara's gaze softened slightly as she studied him. He was only five, yet there was nothing childish about him.
She took a deep breath before speaking. "Do you understand what this means, Kitsaro?"
He finally looked up from his book. "They wish to remind us of our place."
Sylvara nodded, pride flickering in her eyes. "Good. Then you also understand why this is not simply about a celebration."
He did.
House Vaelthyr had always viewed his existence as an inconvenience. While they could not outright cast him aside due to the power of his bloodline, they sought to weaken his position through subtle means. This was one such attempt.
But in the end, it didn't matter.
"We will go," Kitsaro said simply. "It doesn't matter if we enter with the main family or not."
Sylvara's fingers tightened around her unfinished scarf. "They will use this as an opportunity to humiliate us."
"Then let them." Kitsaro met her gaze evenly. "If we refuse, we give them power over us. If we go, we show that their tactics are meaningless."
Sylvara stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a smirk.
"You truly are my son."
Her voice held the faintest trace of amusement, but beneath it was something far stronger.
Determination.
But as the fire in her eyes dimmed slightly, she exhaled, setting her knitting aside. Her sharp features, always unreadable, softened just enough for a flicker of something else to emerge—regret.
She glanced at her son again. Five years old. Yet no trace of innocence remained.
A boy should not grow up like this.
Sylvara had spent years hardening herself against the cruelty of their house, but seeing her own son do the same—it was different. It was bitter. She had dreamed of a different life for him once, a life where he did not need to constantly prepare for the next slight, the next challenge, the next battle for dignity.
And yet, here he was. A child, learning to wield silence like a weapon, unshaken by the knowledge that his own blood sought to diminish him.
The thought sent an unfamiliar ache through her chest.
She sighed, closing her eyes for a brief moment before rising from her seat. "Enough reading for tonight, Kitsaro."
He blinked at her, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. "But—"
"No arguments," she interrupted, brushing her fingers against his silver hair. "You need rest. Tomorrow, we will go into the city."
Kitsaro tilted his head. "For what purpose?"
Sylvara smirked. "If they expect us to attend, then we will ensure that when we walk into that hall, we will not be overlooked."
She turned towards the door, her voice lowering. "We will find something fitting for the occasion."
Kitsaro watched her for a moment before closing his book without protest.
The weight of what was to come loomed over them, but neither mother nor son would bow.
And when the day arrived, the storm they had cast aside would come roaring back to them.
Unseen. Unrelenting.
The silent storm was approaching.
~~~~~~
Morning arrived with an icy chill, the skies above House Vaelthyr cloaked in thick, grey clouds. A perfect reflection of the tension that had settled over the estate.
Sylvara stood by the entrance of their manor, draped in a dark violet cloak, the color of nobility, trimmed with silver embroidery that gleamed under the muted sunlight. Kitsaro, dressed in a finely tailored black coat, stood at her side, his expression impassive as ever. Behind them, two attendants followed in silent deference, their heads slightly bowed as they prepared to escort them to the city.
But before they could take another step, a presence blocked their path.
A tall man, broad-shouldered with a regal air, stood before them. His long, silver hair cascaded over his shoulders, sharp violet eyes staring down with an unreadable expression.
Zephiron Kael Vaelthyr.
Beside him, a woman draped in layers of silk smirked, her delicate features twisted with barely concealed amusement. Her hair, the same silver as Zephiron's, was coiled into intricate braids, her gown a pristine shade of ivory and gold—deliberately chosen to project an air of superiority.
Selene Yuki Vaelthyr.
And standing before them, gripping his mother's hand, was a boy no older than Kitsaro. His sharp violet eyes burned with arrogance, his chest puffed out in exaggerated pride.
Zachary Vaelthyr.
A perfect, picturesque family. The esteemed Duke, his beloved wife, and their proud son.
Sylvara exhaled slowly, already dreading the inevitable conversation.
"How quaint," Selene murmured, her gaze sweeping over Sylvara's simple yet elegant attire before settling on Kitsaro. A mocking smile curled her lips. "It's been quite some time, hasn't it? I was starting to wonder if you had faded into obscurity."
Sylvara arched a brow. "Obscurity? Funny, I was under the impression you'd been too busy stuffing your mouth with gossip to notice."
Selene's smile twitched.
"Oh, no need to be so defensive, dear sister," she purred, eyes gleaming with false sympathy. "I only wondered how you've been managing with… well, limited resources."
Sylvara smirked, tilting her head. "Still the same insufferable fool, I see. It's truly impressive how you manage to prattle on with such filth and still call yourself a lady of this house."
Selene's jaw tightened, but she kept her smile intact.
Meanwhile, Zephiron's attention had strayed. His gaze landed on Kitsaro, the son he hadn't seen in years.
The boy stood eerily still, golden eyes a haunting mirror of Sylvara's. There was no trace of childish curiosity or uncertainty in his expression. Only quiet observation.
He looks just like her, Zephiron thought, feeling something twist in his chest.
Guilt? Regret? He wasn't sure.
Kitsaro did not acknowledge him. He merely met his father's gaze for a fleeting second before looking away, as if Zephiron was of no consequence.
A sharp contrast to the boy at his side.
Zachary had noticed his father's gaze lingering on Kitsaro, and fury twisted his young features. His small hands clenched into fists as jealousy flared within him.
"Who are you?" Zachary demanded, his voice sharp.
Kitsaro said nothing, offering him not even a glance.
The silence enraged Zachary.
"How dare you ignore me?!" he shouted, stepping forward. "You will answer me! I am Zachary Vaelthyr, second son of Duke Zephiron Vaelthyr! It is my right to be acknowledged!"
Slowly, Kitsaro turned his head. His golden eyes locked onto Zachary, calm yet unyielding.
"Kitsaro Azrael Vaelthyr," he said, voice steady. "Third son of Duke Zephiron Vaelthyr."
Zachary flinched.
The declaration sent a ripple of unease through the air.
Zephiron's lips parted slightly in surprise, his hands clenching at his sides. Even Selene's smug expression faltered, her grip tightening on Zachary's shoulder.
Kitsaro's gaze did not waver. "Whether I answer you or not is of no importance. For that is also my right as the son of the Duke."
Silence fell over them.
Zephiron found himself studying the boy again, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. He had not expected such a response from a child so young.
Zachary, however, seethed. His pride had never been challenged before, let alone by someone he considered beneath him.
Zephiron exhaled, regaining his composure.
"I see," he murmured, intrigued. "You are quite—"
"Who are you?" Kitsaro suddenly asked, tilting his head.
Zephiron's breath hitched.
The simple question carried an unsettling weight.
Who was he to Kitsaro?
A father? A stranger? An enemy?
Before Zephiron could formulate a response, Sylvara stepped forward, placing a hand on Kitsaro's shoulder.
"I believe we've wasted enough time here," she said coolly. "Come, Kitsaro. There is no need to linger with pests."
Selene's head snapped toward her. "Who are you calling a pest?!"
Sylvara smirked. "You, of course. Or have you already forgotten how you could barely stand in my presence all those years ago?"
Selene paled.
A long time ago, before their positions were solidified, there had been a time when Sylvara had nearly shattered her in a single display of power. A reminder that still haunted her to this day.
Sylvara leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a whisper only Selene could hear. "You should be grateful your husband is standing here, else I'd remind you once more."
Selene stiffened, gripping Zachary's hand tightly.
Sylvara straightened and turned away, her voice smooth. "Come, Kitsaro. We shouldn't interrupt such an important moment for the main family."
With that, she walked past them without another glance.
Kitsaro followed, offering nothing more than a fleeting glance at his father before stepping past him, his small form radiating quiet defiance.
Zephiron stood motionless, watching them leave.
A strange feeling weighed heavily in his chest.
For the first time in years, he had come face to face with the son he had abandoned.
And Kitsaro had not asked for him. Had not pleaded, nor sought affection.
He had merely looked at him and asked a single, damning question.
Who are you?
Zephiron clenched his jaw.
He wanted to say something. To call out.
But the words never came.