Bloodline: Sovereign's Awakening - Chapter 28

Chapter 28: The Castle that Remembers

As Leon and Dasig stepped past the grand gates, the world shimmered. Twinkling silver threads unraveled from the very air, weaving themselves into an intricate pattern beneath their feet.

A brief sensation of weightlessness overtook them—like stepping into a lucid dream—before the threads coalesced and transported them to the heart of the castle.

The transition was seamless. One moment, they were outside the gates. Next, they stood within the grand chamber—an expanse untouched by time, suspended in an otherworldly glow.

The air was thick with smelling morning dew, crisp and untainted, reminiscent of forgotten springtimes. Beneath their feet, polished marble reflected the celestial glow above, as if the floor itself drank at the light of the stars. And the sky—it stretched beyond a vaulted dome, a vast night unmarred by moons, yet bathed in the gentle, silvery radiance of countless stars. It was not dark, nor cold. It was an eternal dawn, a liminal space between worlds, welcoming and soft.

Nostalgia clawed at them, an echo of childhood memories—warm laughter, steady hands guiding theirs, voices whispering old tales beneath this very sky. They both exhaled, shrugging off the weight of remembrance. The past had no place in the task ahead.

The walls glimmered faintly, shifting like whispers just beyond perception. A presence loomed—watchful, unseen, yet deeply felt. This castle was alive, breathing through its foundations, murmuring through the threads of existence itself.

Neither hesitated as they moved.

Their path took them westward, toward the Matriarch’s throne, beyond towering archways and along corridors draped in starlight. With each step, the castle responded—soft pulses of luminescence trailing their movement, shifting like sentient mist.

Then came the voice.

It was neither harsh nor gentle. Neither male nor female. It was a whisper woven from the threads of time itself, filling the space around them like a lullaby forgotten by the world.

“It has been long… too long, children of the brightest stars.”

They stopped. Before them, the glimmering threads curled into a spiraling formation, coalescing into a singular point of light. The shape grew, stretched, before condensing into the ethereal form of a wisp—a spirit of pure energy, its essence pulsating like a star born. It hovered at eye level, shifting between hues of silver and deep indigo, its presence both familiar and unknowable.

“You have returned.”

“We had no choice,” one of them murmured, voice neutral.

“There is always a choice.” The wisp’s glow intensified for a brief moment before softening. “And yet… you walk these halls again. This place remembers you.”

The whispers of the castle swelled in agreement, brushing against their skin like unseen hands.

“The Matriarch,” the other spoke, voice firm. “Where is she?”

The wisp tilted as if considering before drifting forward.

“Come. She waits.”

As they followed, the spirit continued to speak, its voice like wind threading through unseen tapestries.

“Your exile was not intended to be permanent.” The star threads were never meant to be used by others. And yet, twenty years of silence… How much have you forgotten?”

They didn’t answer.

“It matters not,” the wisp continued. “The castle recognizes you. The stars have not dimmed completely. And… it is prepared to name one of you as the rightful heir.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Then, a sigh.

“We did not return for that.”

The spirit pulsed, its glow dimming momentarily before it whispered once more.

“You may not have… but the brilliant star is patient. And it does not forget.”

And then, silence. The wisp led on, and they followed, the echoes of the past pressing against them like the weight of forgotten starlight.

The matriarch waited. And with her, the truths long buried beneath the cosmos.

The halls stretched endlessly before them, drenched in celestial light, each step weaving them deeper into the west wing where the Grand Matriarch resided. But as they moved, the air shifted.

Dasig felt it first—the weight of prying eyes, sharp as needles against his skin. Leon, too, tensed ever so slightly, his gait remaining steady but his awareness sharpening.

Whispers stirred in the distance. Faint, unsettled. The castle’s presence was alive, but now it buzzed with an undercurrent of unease. They were not welcome here.

And then—

Threads of gold wove themselves from the very air before them, intertwining in luminous strands that solidified into a barrier. The light shimmered, bending at its core, and from within the golden web, a figure emerged.

A slow clap echoed through the chamber.

“Ah, would you look at this?” The voice was rich with mockery, carrying an edge of aristocratic arrogance.

Stepping forward was Sionan, clad in a sleek, midnight blue ensemble that clung to him like woven stardust, embroidered with golden constellations that gleamed faintly with each movement. His features were sharp, framed by a cascade of platinum hair, and his eyes—a striking amber—held nothing but amusement.

“Two fallen sons of the Stats, crawling their way back to a place they abandoned.” He chuckled darkly, crossing his arms. “Oh, wait—wasn’t it the other way around? You didn’t leave. You were discarded.”

Leon’s jaw twitched, but his smirk remained in place. Dasig, however, remained silent, his fists clenching ever so slightly.

“And just look at you,” Sionan continued, sweeping his gaze over them with exaggerated disgust. “That stature, those rags. You look like… ah, what’s the word? Dull. Yes. Dull, like a dying star choking on its final embers.”

With a flourish, he raised his hand. Golden threads unfurled from his fingertips, weaving together in a dazzling arc. The shimmering strands spiraled into a formation—a floating glass of deep crimson wine, which gently settled into his grasp. He swirled it absentmindedly before raising it in mock celebration.

“Shall we toast, then? A drink in honor of your long-awaited return?” His lips curled into a smirk. “Oh, but I almost forgot…”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence as realization dawned. “You can’t, can you? Your threads… they’re still sealed.”

Dasig inhaled sharply, his grip tightening, but he did not rise to the bait. The castle walls pulsed ever so slightly, as if sensing the silent turmoil threading through his core.

Leon, however, let out a low chuckle.

“Sionan,” he mused, tilting his head, “don’t you know dying stars are deadly when they burst?”

The words slithered through the air like a quiet, creeping storm. Leon’s gaze remained laced with amusement, but the sharpness within them was undeniable. He turned slightly, clapping a hand against Dasig’s shoulder in an unspoken signal to move on.

Dasig let out a slow breath, then smiled. Not at Sionan, but at the sheer insignificance of the provocation.

Together, they stepped forward, brushing past the golden-threaded mockery without another word.

The effect was immediate.

Sionan’s smirk twitched. His fingers flexed over the stem of his glass. The wine inside rippled, a sign of the disturbance beneath his exterior.

A vein of irritation cracked through his composure. He had expected anger, retaliation—anything but this infuriating, nonchalant dismissal.

His golden threads flared.

The light twisted, curling into another formation before them, blocking their path once more. But this time, the glow darkened. The threads sharpened, reforming into jagged constellations—horned stars glinting with malice.

A clear sign that Sionan was not done with them.

The air stilled. The whispers of the castle held their breath.

Leon exhaled through his nose, his smirk deepening. Dasig, however, merely stared at the thorns before them, his once-calm expression shifting into something colder.

The castle pulsed once more.

The celestial glow of the castle’s halls pulsed faintly, as if responding to the rising tension. The air grew dense, electric.

Sionan’s laughter echoed through the chamber, sharp. His golden threads shimmered faintly around him, dancing like playful embers, yet their edges gleamed with something more sinister.

With a casual step forward, he extended a single finger, pressing it against Dasig’s chest. Then Leon’s. His touch was light—mocking, almost condescending—yet it carried the weight of his arrogance.

“Leaving before someone finishes speaking? How rude.”

His voice dripped with theatrical disappointment, shaking his head as if scolding unruly children. “Have you two gone senile from all those years in exile? You act like common peasants—no manners, no dignity.”

Leon’s eyes darkened. Dasig, though still silent, clenched his fists at his sides. A flicker of something colder passed between them, a quiet understanding that they both had long since outgrown the petty games of their so-called kin.

Sionan was nothing more than a relic of the family’s decay.

Dasig shoved Sionan’s hand away with little force, yet the motion was deliberate. Leon followed suit, brushing the man’s fingers off his chest as though wiping away dirt.

“A commoner has more wit than you ever will, Sionan,” Leon said, voice smooth yet razor-sharp. “So, who are you to mock a peasant?”

Sionan’s brows lifted in amusement before he let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “Ah, how bold.” His lips curled. “But a beggar remains a beggar, no matter how much they bark.”

His tone took a sharper edge as he took slow, deliberate steps around them. Like a predator savoring his prey’s discomfort.

“You must be enjoying all the rumors, aren’t you? The disgraceful kin who shamed our family, only for our elders to waste resources sponsoring your miserable existence.” His golden eyes gleamed with malice. “You two have single-handedly become the most pitiful stain on our name.”

Dasig’s jaw tightened. Leon’s fingers twitched.

Sionan tilted his head as if inspecting them. Then, with a hum, he mused, “Ah… or maybe it’s worse than that.” His voice lowered to a whisper, but it cut like a blade. “You two must be desperate. So poor that you had to beg Grandmother to fund your wretched little children—Amon and Nena, was it?”

The mention of their children made the room feel colder.

“You even named them after Amonario and Nenalia—the greatest figures in our history.” His smirk widened. “How laughable. As if two exiles could ever produce heirs worthy of such names.”

Silence.

Dasig’s fists trembled at his sides. Leon’s breath came slower, controlled—but only just. Their bodies tensed, shadows stretching beneath them as the celestial glow of the hall flickered, mirroring the shift in their temper.

Sionan stepped closer. “Perhaps it’s time you two accept the truth. Your bloodline is ruined. Your legacy, nothing but—”

Bang.

“You bastard!”

The words tore from Dasig and Leon’s throats in unison as their fists flew forward, cutting through the air with lethal speed.

The impact should have sent Sionan to the floor, but—

A burst of golden threads flared before him, forming a radiant, star-like barrier. Their blows struck the woven shield with a deafening crack, sending tremors through the chamber. The threads shimmered, absorbing the force, dispersing the impact like ripples through stardust.

Sionan barely flinched. Instead, he let out another mocking laugh. “Oh? Finally struck a nerve, have we?”

His laughter, his arrogance—it only fueled the storm already brewing inside Dasig and Leon.

Before Sionan could take another breath, they lunged again.

This time, their fists found flesh.

A sharp crack echoed as Dasig’s knuckles drove into Sionan’s chest while Leon’s fist slammed against his jaw. The impact sent Sionan staggering back, his elegant form momentarily thrown off balance.

His wine glass shattered against the ground.

He caught himself, one knee bending slightly before he straightened. A slow, measured breath. Then, his fingers ghosted over his lips, swiping away the thin trail of blood staining his skin.

The chamber stilled. The castle’s whispers grew silent.

Then—Sionan smiled.

“How dare you?”

Golden threads flared around him, no longer playful, no longer mocking. They twisted, pulsing with violent energy, forming constellations that gleamed like sharpened blades.

The air cracked as the golden threads shot forward, transforming into starry shards suspended in the space between them.

Sionan’s voice dropped to a whisper, yet the fury within it was undeniable.

“You deserve this.”

With a flick of his wrist, the shards rained down.

A storm of golden thorns, sharp as celestial blades, tore through the space where Dasig and Leon stood.

Sionan’s laughter echoed as his stardust meteors rained.