Silas Thorne watches Elias leave the room, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind his eldest son with a soft sigh of finality. The lingering echo of Elias’s words hangs in the cool air of the study: “I will prove the reasons for my actions within a year. Until then, please turn a blind eye to what I wish to do on my own.” *How much can I truly trust him?* Elias’s eyes had been resolute, a flinty determination Silas hadn't seen in years. Yet, trust remains a brittle thing, shattered by too many past disappointments. Still, a strange compulsion settles in Silas's chest, urging him to acquiesce. It is the first genuine plea he has heard from Elias since 'that day' – the day the world shifted and left a permanent scar. Elias had never pleaded, not even during the years of his wild decadence, his reckless pursuit of pleasure and chaos. Silas's lips twist into a bitter smile, finding it grotesque how a simple, normal request between a father and son could feel so alien, so unnatural. But a year. If Elias fails to validate his audacious claims, if he cannot cleanse the stain he has brought upon their name… *A resolute decision must be made.* The thought is a shard of ice in Silas's mind. For the honor of the Thorne lineage, for the stability of their position within Veridia’s volatile societal strata, he is the head of the house first, a father second. The harsh truth is a burden he carries with every breath. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh, his hands, once strong and vibrant, now feel weak, burdened by the weight of unspoken grief and responsibility. They reach for a simple, unadorned pendant on his desk, clicking it open. Inside, a miniature portrait reveals the familiar face of a blue-haired beauty. Lyra. Her painted eyes, once so full of life, now seem to bore into him, accusing, painful. “Lyra… I am truly sorry,” he whispers, the words catching in his throat. “I cannot fathom what our son is thinking at all. Despite my promises to protect him, to raise him well…” His voice trails off, a fragile thread of sound. He stares at Lyra’s serene face, the lines of regret deepening around his own eyes. *Perhaps I’ve been too neglectful. Perhaps I failed him long before this.* The silent accusation in his heart stings, a father's profound self-reproach, far outweighing the pragmatic concerns of a family patriarch. *** The office door thuds shut behind Elias, the heavy vibration shaking his chest. The sharp, resonant sound is a physical manifestation of the mental barriers he has erected, the walls he maintains between his past, his present, and the perilous future he strains to alter. Yet, even a simple word, spoken minutes ago, has the power to breach those defenses. *Mother.* The very syllable conjures memories, vivid and raw, that he usually keeps locked away, distant and muted. Even with the temporal echoes of decades-past tragedies, the word `mother` holds an unparalleled power over him, anchoring him to a pain he cannot outrun. That power, that fragile connection, weighs heavily on his grim resolve. *I didn't expect him to mention her…* In the shadowed corridors of his previous life, even when he faced ignominious expulsion from the Thorne manor, Lyra’s name was never invoked, not until the bitter end. He hadn't thought it necessary now. Objectively, his current actions, though scandalous, aren't as outright destructive as the blood feud that once marked his younger years. His father's predictable response, therefore, confirms a chilling suspicion. *He still holds some expectations, doesn’t he?* A soft, mocking laugh, devoid of humor, escapes Elias’s lips before he can suppress it. The thought, an ugly scab on his already wounded spirit, chafes. Expectations were a luxury he could no longer afford, a burden he could not carry. His mind a tempest of memory and calculated risk, Elias strides down the grand corridor, the polished Aetherium-infused floor reflecting the gaslight's glow. A familiar voice cuts through the melancholic silence, hailing him from the opposite end. His younger brother, Caelen, appears, an uncomfortable flush painting his face, two hulking Estate Guards trailing him like loyal hounds. “Elias! Are you alright?” Caelen pants, his breath coming in ragged gasps, indicating he’d run flat-out from the training grounds. It's a familiar sight, his brother’s youthful earnestness, a constant in Elias’s fractured world. And now, surprisingly, a welcome one. “Of course, I’m fine, Caelen. It’s been too long, little brother.” Elias offers a rare, fleeting smile. It feels foreign on his lips. “Huff, I’m relieved. The rumors… they were quite bad, so I was worried.” Caelen sighs, a genuine release of tension, his usual bright smile returning. That smile, that ever-constant, unchanging demeanor… *Huh? Something’s different.* Elias's internal alarm bells, usually reserved for impending temporal echoes or Aetherium instability, jingle subtly. Caelen’s concern, his relief, it’s all undeniably authentic. But beneath it, a subtle glint of excitement, a strange anticipation, dances in his younger brother’s eyes. He seems more lively, almost incandescent, than Elias remembers. *Oh ho? Could it be?* A flicker of curiosity, a rare warmth, sparks within Elias. He focuses his senses, pushing his temporal echo awareness deeper, beyond the surface of Caelen’s youthful energy. He senses it immediately: faint, yet undeniable, traces of raw Aetherium coursing through Caelen’s physical form, actively surging, coalescing. A nascent power. Elias’s eyes widen, his grim composure momentarily cracking. “You! It’s not just a greeting, Caelen, you’ve already… you’ve already *attuned*?!” Caelen beams, his face practically radiating pride, a clear desire to showcase his newfound achievement. “As expected! I knew you’d notice, Elias!” And just as Caelen intended, Elias is genuinely filled with wonder, a cold knot in his chest loosening. “At merely fourteen years old… Remarkable.” In Elias’s previous, fragmented timeline, Caelen had only awakened his Aetherium channeling during the brutal urban skirmishes that scarred Veridia’s outer districts. Elias had carried a silent dread that his own regression, his temporal interference, might have somehow delayed his younger brother’s nascent abilities. Instead, they’ve accelerated, a curious and profoundly hopeful twist of fate. *The butterfly effect, perhaps? My presence is already shaping things, even in this small way.* The thought sparks a flicker of satisfaction, a small victory against the looming tragedy. “It’s because of your influence, Elias,” Caelen explains, gesturing vaguely. “When I heard you’d returned, and the rumors started spreading, I… I rushed out to see you. But these Wardens tried to stop me…” It’s then Elias truly notices the two Estate Guards. Their standard-issue Veridian Warden armor is not just scuffed, but visibly dented, one guard nursing a bruised jaw, the other clutching a rib. The circumstances surrounding Caelen's attunement are absurd, almost comical, but the implications are far from it. *Escaping two fully-trained Wardens immediately after a raw attunement?* This suggests not just nascent talent, but exceptional potential, a profound affinity for Aetherium, even in its raw, untrained form. The news is a potent tonic, enough to genuinely lift Elias’s spirits, a rare lightness piercing his habitual gloom. Hah, hahaha, ahahaha! Well done, Caelen!” Elias laughs, a deep, genuine sound that echoes in the corridor, startling the Wardens. He claps his brother heartily on the shoulder, the gesture of pride feeling both new and deeply familiar. Caelen’s early achievement, especially under these unexpected circumstances, shines even brighter in Elias’s mind. *Once Caelen’s Aetherium control stabilizes, should I also teach him the more intricate, dangerous forms of energy manipulation, the secrets I've learned in the echoes?* It’s a clear path forward. Not only could Elias repay the emotional debt he carries for Caelen’s unwitting role in his past failures, but he could also lay the most solid foundation for overcoming the future crises that still haunt his temporal echoes. This unexpected turn of events, Caelen’s innate talent, brings Elias an unavoidable, vital joy. Caelen’s success, of course, isn’t a source of joy for Elias alone. That very day, the news of Caelen’s Aetherium attunement ripples through the entire Thorne family, shaking the ancestral manor to its foundations. Early attunement, while not guaranteeing mastery, significantly elevates the likelihood of becoming a powerful Aetherium conduit. The Thorne lineage, established by a formidable Aetherium master in Veridia’s founding days, now sees Caelen as the genius who could restore their fading prestige, stirring a fervent excitement throughout the family. He is the beacon of hope, the promise of renewed greatness. Elias, in stark contrast, finds himself harshly judged. Compared to his recent past, his scandalous activities and his grim, uncommunicative demeanor, he is a shadow, a disappointment, an unsettling enigma. His family's disdain, the whispers of his ruined reputation, they are like faint, irritating static. Elias, however, remains utterly unbothered by their opinions, too consumed by his own desperate affairs. “There certainly are more C-rank mercenaries capable of riding than I thought, Thane. With long-term contracts and horses on offer, it seems the mercenaries from across the city, even the outer districts, nearly flocked here.” Elias speaks to his subordinate, Thane, his voice crisp, devoid of any discernible emotion, as they review the logistical reports. Thane, a man whose weathered face speaks of countless negotiations in Veridia’s grittier underbelly, runs a hand through his thinning hair. “Is that so? Good grief, Elias, selecting just 350 reputable individuals from among them was no easy task. Don’t look at me like that, it took considerable effort to cut off the flood at that point.” Thane grumbles, a hint of exhaustion in his tone. “More should have been accepted, you say? This madness… Ahahaha. My apologies, Thane. It appears my limited insight was indeed lacking.” Elias offers another humorless laugh, a dry, rasping sound. Thane, a pragmatist, has done his job too well. A considerable force of 350 C-rank mercenaries, several company-sized military units, now stand assembled and armed within the Thorne estate's southern grounds. They are not enough to challenge the powerful Veridian Wardens, but they are more than enough to sow widespread disorder. To manage them, they are housed in a nearly dilapidated villa on the estate’s fringes, kept under the constant, watchful eyes of Thorne Estate Guards. They provide their own food and lodging, a temporary, uneasy arrangement set to last anywhere between five to ten days. As the days of waiting stretch, dissatisfaction, naturally, begins to fester among the ranks of the mercenaries. Whispers, like a creeping urban blight, spread through the makeshift camp. “Surely they didn’t trick us?” “A mere noble estate wouldn’t be foolish enough to offend the Veridian Mercenary Collective, would they?” “Who knows? Maybe they’ve gone mad, especially that eldest Thorne son with the bad reputation.” “Ah, I’ve heard about that. He might really be crazy.” “Damn it, are we just wasting our time?” “Think before you speak. Considering their relationship with the Collective, the Thornes will surely compensate us well.” As Elias’s reputation worsens with each passing day, exaggerated and twisted by rumor, the accumulated stress weighs heavily on the mercenaries. They hover on the precipice, their volatile patience threatening to explode. And then, the subject of the rumors himself, Elias Thorne, grim and imposing, stands before them, observing the chaotic scene. “Mounted crossbowmen… you say?” Valerius, a seasoned mercenary captain Elias has brought in to oversee the training, reiterates Elias’s seemingly outlandish directive, a skeptical frown etched onto his weather-beaten face. “You’re not confusing them with bowmen, are you, Elias?” Valerius presses, his voice tight with incredulity. “No, Valerius. Actual crossbowmen. Mounted.” Elias’s response is flat, unwavering. “Sir… Elias.” Valerius pauses, struggling for tact. “A crossbow is not an efficient weapon for cavalry. Not even in the more traditional conflicts. An untrained man takes over a minute to load one on the ground. Mounted, the complication doubles.” He gestures, exasperated. “With such a force, even if they carried several loaded crossbows, they’d run out of firepower after engaging for more than a minute. It would be an embarrassingly ineffective unit.” Valerius’s disbelief is palpable, his professional pride clearly wounded by the sheer impracticality of the order. “But regardless of what you might think if you consider it a waste of coin, Valerius, just train them thoroughly.” Elias’s gaze is unblinking, his voice cutting through the other man’s protests. “There’s a reason for this, and you’ll find out eventually.” Valerius offers an awkward, forced smile and a curt nod. Elias, a sliver of dark amusement escaping his grim demeanor, allows himself a brief, internal chuckle. He’s half-joking, but he knows with certainty that Valerius’s initial thought is precisely that: a profound waste of precious Aetherium-infused coin. Yet, Elias has no time for fussing, no energy for lengthy explanations. What matters now is ensuring these volatile mercenaries are brought under firm control, ready to undergo the unconventional training he demands. Elias’s gaze sweeps across the training ground near the villa. It’s a discordant, bustling mass of bodies. They wear various mismatched garb, typical of their independent, rootless lives, and are not the types to let any perceived slight, any perceived weakness, pass them by. Even a brief observation suggests organizing them into a single, cohesive unit for training won’t be easy, or perhaps even possible through conventional means. *First, I need to establish discipline.* A deadly smile, devoid of mirth, spreads across Elias’s face, a grim harbinger of what is to come. His jaw tightens, a silent rage, cold and controlled, simmering beneath his calm exterior. Sensing Elias’s silent command, Valerius steps forward, a flicker of obligation in his eyes. “If you’d trust me with it, Elias. I can attempt to bring some order.” “No, Valerius. You might bring some calm, at least on the surface,” Elias counters, his voice low, edged with a chilling resolve. “I’ll handle it myself; you just observe.” Mercenaries, Elias knows from his temporal echoes, are not swayed by endless handouts or polite requests. Such generosity merely makes them view their benefactor as a fool, ripe for exploitation. It is an unfortunate, brutal reality for those whose lives are hewn by the blade and the volatile Aetherium. A veteran warrior, tempered by the brutal truths of a past life, knows exactly how to dominate such individuals, how to bend their will to his own. As Elias approaches the makeshift training field, whispers, like static on an Aetherium conduit, follow him, growing louder as he steps into the large, dusty yard. “Oh? A Thorne sigil, prominently displayed. Is he some young noble playing at soldier?” “Shh, you fool, he must be that eldest son. Elias Thorne.” The whispers grow into open murmurs, a ripple of defiance and curiosity. “Look at those peach fuzz.” One mercenary snorts, gesturing dismissively towards Elias’s unlined face. “I’ll bet my own hand he’s not who they say he is. Just a pompous boy.” “Where do you intend to use my hand, you idiot?” Some of them, thick-headed and emboldened by their numbers, can scarcely make sense of the grim figure now standing before them, a lone sentinel amidst the cacophony. Elias simply stares back, his gaze cold, unwavering, and utterly deadly.

A Legacy's Weight, A Brother's Spark