Bastard Child

"You took quite some time to arrive, son."

Aamon's father, Javen's voice came, smooth but cold, like a blade slipping from its sheath. Aamon stood at the threshold, the tension in the room thick as smoke.

His half-brother, Teran, lounged on the couch like a lion surveying his domain, his smirk barely concealed beneath a veneer of civility.

The room was dimly lit, and the heavy drapes did little to alleviate the oppressive atmosphere. The elders around Teran, a few with sharp, watchful eyes, seemed like statues in a mausoleum.

His father stood at the far end of the room, back turned, facing the grand window overlooking the sprawling estate. The silence was suffocating, like the heavy weight of a storm looming just beyond the horizon.

Aamon swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat. Son. The word, when it came from his father, felt more like a reminder of his place… a reminder that he was a shadow lingering at the edges of this family, never truly part of it.

His gaze flickered briefly to Teran, whose lips curled into a condescending smile.

"A bastard shouldn't keep the Master waiting," Teran said, his tone dripping with mock politeness. "Even when called 'son,' you'd think he'd be more grateful."

Aamon clenched his fists. Bastard. The word hit him like a dull hammer, an old wound reopened. He fought to keep his expression neutral, though his jaw tightened. He'd heard it all before. Too many times.

His father's back remained turned, as though Aamon's presence in the room was barely recognised.

Why father…

"You'll be accompanying Teran to Mt. Vesuvedus," the elder man stated, voice unwavering, his silhouette rigid against the window. "There's been talk of something significant found there. Something that could change…everything."

Aamon blinked, his mind racing. Well, I needed to go there anyway. It wasn't a bad deal. But, why do I feel so weird?

Teran leaned forward, his smile widening. "Oh, but Father… I can handle it on my own. Why bring him along?" His eyes gleamed with barely concealed malice. "He's never been much of a team player, after all."

One of the elders, a man with a voice as dry as autumn leaves, chimed in, "The boy needs to prove himself, Teran. He is still of your blood, illegitimate or not."

"Ah," Teran mused, pretending to ponder the elder's words. "Of course. Prove himself. Right."

Aamon's blood boiled. He wanted to shout, to lash out at Teran and the room of elders who watched him like a bug under a magnifying glass.

But what good would it do? He was trapped, a marionette dancing on strings they controlled.

"I understand," Aamon said finally, his voice low, simmering beneath the surface. He turned his attention to his father, still facing the window. "What exactly are we looking for in Mt. Vesuvedus?"

I should act dumb for the time being.

His father was silent for a beat, his broad shoulders shifting slightly as if weighed down by some unseen burden. "A dungeon," he said, voice as steady as the earth itself. "One that's been hidden for centuries. Our contacts in the army will give you more information."

Before Aamon could respond, a knock at the door interrupted the tension. A soldier entered, stiff and formal, his boots clacking sharply against the marble floor. "Master," the soldier addressed his father, bowing slightly. "The army representatives are here."

"Bring them in," his father said without turning, still gazing out the window like a man watching the collapse of his empire in slow motion.

The soldier disappeared, and moments later, three men entered. Two were clad in army fatigues, the third in a formal suit, his expression cold and calculating. The air seemed to grow heavier with their presence, like a storm rolling in.

The man in the suit spoke first, his voice crisp. "Good evening. We've been informed of the Desmond's interest in the dungeon found in Mt. Vesuvedus. My name is Captain Jareth."

Teran, ever the actor, rose from the couch, feigning interest.

"Ah, the army's finest. I hope the expedition to this… dungeon… proves fruitful. My father and I have great plans for whatever lies within." His eyes flicked to Aamon, making bugs crawl up Aamon's skin.

Captain Jareth's gaze shifted to Aamon, lingering briefly before he turned back to Teran.

"The dungeon is unlike anything we've encountered before," he said slowly, as if choosing his words with caution. "Our initial reports suggest that the architecture doesn't match any known civilization. But, of the game The Battle Of Righteous.There's also a… certain anomaly within. We tried to find the Rank One Player : Isis. But, we couldn't."

Obviously… I'm good at hiding my traces.

"Anomaly?" Aamon found himself asking before he could stop.

Jareth's eyes hardened. "Yes. We detected strong energy signatures emanating from deep within the dungeon. It's unlike anything we've seen."

Could it be Rezus clan? Those rat monsters…

Aamon's pulse quickened. This was real. It's dangerous. Did something go wrong with the game? His father must have known.

Teran chuckled softly, a patronizing sound. "An energy signature, huh? Games? I'm sure my brother here will find that fascinating. He's always been drawn to… video games, haven't you, Aamon?"

Aamon's teeth ground together. "I'm just interested in doing what's required. No more, no less."

"Oh, no need to be so modest," Teran continued, his voice syrupy with condescension. "You'll have your chance to shine, brother. Just try not to embarrass yourself."

The jab was sharp, like a knife between his ribs, but Aamon refused to flinch. He'd grown used to Teran's insults, though they never ceased to sting.

His mother's words echoed in his mind… her bitterness, her anger at the life they were forced to live as outsiders. The illegitimate child and the woman who bore him.

Well, she's dead now.

His father finally turned, his eyes heavy with something unspoken as he looked at Aamon. "You're dismissed. Prepare yourself for the journey. We leave at dawn."

Aamon met his father's gaze, hoping for a sign… something, anything to suggest that he wasn't just a pawn in this twisted game. But there was nothing.

Only cold indifference.

With a curt nod, he turned to leave, the sting of his brother's laughter following him out of the room like a shadow.

Maybe, with information I have as Isis will help me figure things out.

Will you love me then, father?