Mind Over Magic-Chapter 15 - 14: A Family of Monsters

Alaric didn’t return to the Academy right away.

Instead, he stayed in the Veyron manor.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he had to.

The Royal Decree had already been delivered. His name was now written into law—Acting Head of House Veyron.

The estate was his.

The servants bowed when he passed. The guards watched him with uneasy eyes. And the halls he used to walk as a silent child were now his to command.

It didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like cleaning up a battlefield that hadn’t stopped bleeding.

---

The manor was quiet now.

Most of the guests had gone. The nobles who once called themselves family had vanished like smoke. Only a few remained, tucked away in back rooms, waiting to see what kind of leader Alaric would be.

He didn’t care about ceremony.

He walked the halls without escort, without fanfare.

Every step echoed a little too loud.

Every corridor remembered what happened.

---

He paused outside the chamber that used to belong to Vestra.

The door was open.

Inside, two servants were quietly removing personal belongings. One of them—a boy no older than fourteen—looked up and froze when he saw Alaric.

Alaric raised a hand.

"Leave it."

The boy dropped the folded robe in his hands and bolted.

The other servant bowed low and backed out silently.

Now he stood alone in Vestra’s chambers.

Gold-trimmed furniture. Polished floors. Walls lined with old maps and spell scrolls. A life carefully curated to look powerful.

But the desk drawer told the truth.

He opened it.

Inside were three letters.

None addressed.

But one had his name on the back—just a small note, written in fine handwriting.

> You were always going to break this house.

> I only hoped you’d wait until I was gone.

He tore it in half.

Not out of anger.

Out of closure.

---

Later that evening, Gaelin arrived from the Academy with Seraphine.

Alaric met them in the front hall.

His sister looked tired, but steady. Her eyes searched his face the moment she stepped through the door.

"You didn’t die," she said softly.

"You didn’t either."

They stood in silence for a moment, then she hugged him.

It wasn’t long.

It didn’t need to be.

---

Kaelion arrived not long after.

He walked the manor like he’d lived there once. Casually. Like nothing surprised him.

Alaric met him in the study.

Kaelion raised an eyebrow when he saw the room cleaned out and reorganized.

"You move fast," he said.

"I don’t like dust."

"I meant power," Kaelion said. "But sure."

---

They sat across from each other at the long table.

Kaelion placed a sealed scroll on the desk between them.

"The Church is quiet for now," he said. "But they’re watching you."

"I know."

"They’ll come back. And next time, they won’t bring questions. Just fire."

Alaric didn’t blink.

Kaelion tapped the scroll.

"This is a list of Veyron loyalists still active across the kingdom. People who weren’t in the manor when it fell. Some are still using the name to make deals. Others have gone underground."

Alaric unsealed it and read the top name.

His eyes narrowed.

"I know this one," he said.

Kaelion nodded. "He left before the duel. Said he was ’on business.’ We’ve tracked him to a border village."

"Is he a mage?"

"No."

"Then I won’t need a sword."

---

Seraphine appeared in the doorway.

"You’re leaving again?"

Alaric stood.

"This won’t take long."

She crossed her arms. "It never does. Until it does."

Alaric looked at her—really looked. Her hair was tied back. She wore a practical coat instead of robes. Her boots were scuffed from travel.

"I need someone to run the house while I’m gone."

She blinked. "You’re serious."

"You’re the only one I trust."

Kaelion raised a brow. "I should protest, but honestly, she might run it better."

Seraphine frowned. "That’s not a compliment."

"Sure it is," Kaelion said, standing. "You haven’t tried to kill anyone all week. That’s rare for a Veyron."

---

Alaric stepped toward her.

"I won’t be gone long," he said again. "But if I am..."

Seraphine didn’t let him finish.

"I’ll protect what you gave me."

---

He left that night.

No guards.

No banners.

Just one man walking into the dark—again.

The village of Branton sat near the border of the empire, tucked between two lazy hills and a patch of old forest no one had named in over a century. It wasn’t the kind of place you visited unless you were lost—or hiding.

Alaric wasn’t lost.

He followed the trail with a steady pace, hood drawn low, coat dusted from travel. The roads here weren’t patrolled. No carriages passed him. Even the trees leaned in as if trying to listen.

By the time he reached the edge of the village, the sun had disappeared behind clouds that refused to move.

The houses were plain. Doors shut. Curtains pulled tight. Even the dogs didn’t bark.

That wasn’t fear.

That was instruction.

Someone had told the villagers not to interfere.

Someone with power.

Or at least the illusion of it.

---

Alaric stopped in front of the inn.

It wasn’t marked. No sign. No lantern. Just a cracked window and a crooked door.

Inside, the fire was low.

The air stale.

Only one man sat at the center table, back to the door, drinking from a metal cup.

Alaric walked in and closed the door behind him.

The barkeep looked up, then quickly looked down again.

Smart.

---

"Darian Veyron," Alaric said.

The man at the table didn’t turn.

He just chuckled.

"You sound taller than I remember."

"You sound dumber," Alaric replied.

That made Darian turn.

He looked older than Alaric remembered. Heavier, slower. Beard too neat. Eyes too confident for someone who’d fled while the family crumbled.

"I figured they’d send someone," Darian said. "Didn’t expect you."

"I wasn’t sent," Alaric said. "I’m not a message. I’m a decision."

Darian raised a brow. "Still dramatic."

"No. Just done with patience."

---

Darian leaned back in his chair, placing both boots on the table.

"So what now? You kill me? Burn the village? Drag me back to your new shiny throne?"

Alaric stepped closer.

"No. I’m going to ask you one question."

"And if I answer?"

"You leave. Quietly. Forever."

"And if I don’t?"

"You’ll leave anyway."

Darian’s smile faded just a little.

"What’s the question?"

Alaric held up a small pendant. It was silver, engraved with an old sigil—one of the few House Veyron crests that predated their demon dealings.

"Where did you get this?" Alaric asked.

Darian’s face changed.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

And something worse.

Guilt.

He looked at the pendant for a long time.

Then said, "You shouldn’t have found that."

"Why?"

"Because it doesn’t belong in your hands."

Alaric took another step forward.

"Then whose does it belong to?"

Darian didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached under the table.

Alaric’s hand moved faster.

Shatter Pulse

— A thin crack of force snapped through the air and blew the chair out from under Darian’s feet.

He hit the ground hard, coughing.

The innkeeper ran.

Smart again.

Darian rolled to his side, groaning.

"You’ve gotten better," he muttered.

"No," Alaric said. "I just stopped holding back."

---

He knelt beside Darian and reached into the man’s mind—not deep. Not to harm.

Just to read.

Mental Rewind

— Played the last few days like a film.

A carriage arriving at night.

A letter written in black ink and sealed with wax shaped like a sword.

A meeting in a cellar.

Not demons.

Knights.

And not any knights.

Knights wearing the mark of the Church.

Not clergy.

Not priests.

Just soldiers.

Silent.

Clean.

Efficient.

---

Alaric pulled back.

Darian coughed and wiped blood from his mouth.

"You think it’s over," he said.

"It is for you."

"No," Darian said. "It’s only just starting."

He sat up slowly.

"They were never working for us. We were working for them."

Alaric frowned. "The Church?"

"Not the Church."

Then he smiled.

"They call themselves the Order of the Silent Veil."

---

Alaric’s eyes narrowed.

He’d never heard of them.

Which meant they were either a myth—

Or real enough to be dangerous.

---

He stood.

"You’re going to write them a letter."

Darian blinked. "What?"

"You’re going to tell them I’m coming."

"Why would I do that?"

Alaric walked to the door and opened it.

"I’m giving them the same warning I gave you."

---

Behind him, Darian asked one final question.

"Why are you even doing this, Alaric?"

Alaric paused in the doorway.

Then said, "Because you all keep treating power like a game."

And stepped out into the night.

Alaric returned to the manor at dawn.

The halls were quiet. The guards didn’t speak. Even the wind through the broken garden windows had gone still.

He dropped his travel coat at the door, dusted his boots off in the entryway, and headed straight for the study.

He expected silence.

He didn’t expect a letter.

It was waiting on the desk.

No seal.

No crest.

Just black paper, folded once, placed exactly in the center.

He didn’t touch it.

Not right away.

Instead, he scanned the room.

No wards had been triggered.

No doors forced.

Whoever left the letter had come and gone without leaving a trace.

That was impossible.

---

Seraphine appeared in the doorway.

"You look like you found a ghost."

"Not yet," Alaric said.

She walked in, rubbing her arms against the chill in the air.

"Anything important?"

He pointed to the letter.

"Did you see who brought that?"

"No."

"Anyone come to the gates?"

"No. And I’ve been up since before sunrise."

He frowned.

Then opened the letter.

---

The paper felt cold. Not chilled. Cold like it hadn’t been meant to exist in this world.

Inside, there were no long explanations. No titles. Just six lines.

Written in steady, perfect handwriting:

> We remember the shape you carry.

We remember the Crown.

You are not the last.

You are not the first.

When the veil breaks, follow the signal.

Do not trust the voice that calls itself light.

---

Alaric read it twice.

Then a third time.

By the end, his hand was shaking—but only slightly.

He passed the letter to Seraphine.

She read it with a furrowed brow, then looked up at him.

"Do you know what this means?"

"Yes."

"Who sent it?"

"I don’t know."

That wasn’t entirely true.

He had an idea.

---

He crossed the room and pulled open the drawer where the sealed psychic book now rested.

Still locked in chain.

Still sleeping.

But the eye on the clasp was open.

And watching him.

---

Seraphine stepped back.

"Did it always do that?"

"No," Alaric said.

"Should we be worried?"

"Very."

---

He lifted the book gently, holding it in both hands.

It wasn’t heavy.

But it felt like it was trying not to shake.

Like it was bracing.

He took it to the large table near the window, set it down, and sat.

Seraphine stood across from him, arms folded.

"What does ’do not trust the voice that calls itself light’ mean?"

Alaric looked out the window, toward the southern horizon.

Where the Cathedral of Radiant Mercy stood—white towers, golden spires, and bells that hadn’t stopped ringing since he arrived at the Academy.

---

"It means," he said slowly,

> "we’re already being lied to."

---

Then the book began to open.

No hands.

No wind.

Just pages flipping slowly on their own.

Stopping on a symbol.

A crown turned upside down.

And below it—

Another message.

Written in the same precise script as the letter.

> You were not born.

You were placed.

Phase II begins now.