CAIUS: Crown of Threads and Shadows

High above the subterranean training grounds, in the dimly lit sanctuary of the main estate, Patriarch Vane sat behind his massive obsidian desk. The deep crimson light from the hearth painted harsh shadows across his sharp, aristocratic features as he listened to Orven’s report.

Orven stood before him, his velvet robes slightly disheveled and his hands still bearing the faint, stinging aftereffects of Caius’s thread lock.

When Orven finished describing how the fourteen-year-old boy had not only inverted an inner-sanctum domain seal in seconds, but had infused his threads with a horrifying, mana-devouring property that rendered spatial counter-magic completely useless, silence fell over the room.

Then, Patriarch Vane began to laugh.

It started as a low, rumbling chuckle in his chest, expanding into a rich, echoing laugh that filled the vast stone hall. He leaned back in his high-backed chair, his dark eyes gleaming with ruthless amusement.

”He inverted the sanctum seal without a rune matrix?” Vane asked, wiping a tear of amusement from the corner of his eye. ”And he turned your own spatial flow into his personal feast?”

”Yes, My Lord,” Orven replied grimly, his raspy voice tight. ”The boy didn’t just master the theory. He fundamentally altered it. His spatial threads do not merely lock coordinates—they smother and digest the target’s activation mana. Had he been an enemy, I would have been completely helpless within three breaths.”

Vane’s laughter slowly subsided, replaced by a cold, calculating grin. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers, staring thoughtfully into the hearth fire.

”Sereth certainly chose a monster when he swore that ward oath to Cullum Macrae,” Vane murmured softly, a sharp glint touching his eyes at the thought of his son. Sereth was currently locked away in the Moon Palace dungeons, waiting for Caius to face the Veng’khal-Tuk trial in two years to earn his absolute freedom. ”My son bound his life and freedom to that boy’s survival. I intended to give the human whatever resources he needed to beat the court’s chosen Shadowblade, but he is turning out to be an incomparable treasure.”

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”My Lord,” Orven ventured cautiously, ”the inner-sanctum scrolls are nearly exhausted. At his current rate of comprehension, he will digest every high-tier spatial formula we possess before the month is out. How should we proceed with his curriculum?”

Vane leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting with a pragmatic, bloodthirsty brilliance.

”Teach him everything, Orven,” Vane commanded smoothly. ”Not just the forbidden spatial scrolls. Give him the simple magic tomes as well. Hand him our basic barrier theories, our entry-level shadow steps, even our fundamental mana-refinement guides.”

Orven blinked, momentarily taken aback. ”The... simple tomes, My Lord? But he has already far surpassed standard elemental and structural fundamentals.”

”That is precisely why,” Vane replied, a chilling smile spreading across his face. ”The boy possesses a mind that naturally dismantles, refines, and perfects every magical framework he touches. If we feed him our standard, foundational texts, he will inevitably spot the flaws, modify them, and elevate them into something extraordinary.”

Vane raised a single finger, his tone turning dangerously cold and pragmatic.

”We live in a world of monsters and war, Orven. Two years from now, when the Great Hunt begins after his trial, every noble house and mercenary clan in the Underdark will pursue him. If the boy perishes on the battlefield... is it not best that House Vel’drin inherits the perfected, god-tier arts he leaves behind?”

Orven’s shoulders slumped.

A profound, bone-deep exhaustion washed over the elder spatial mage. He stared at the Patriarch, his lips parting, but no words came out. There was no arguing with that logic—cold, ruthless, and entirely characteristic of the mind of the Patriarch. To Vane, even the ward bound to his son’s freedom was ultimately an asset to be harvested and recorded for the house’s eternal legacy.

”I understand, Patriarch,” Orven muttered, bowing his head in total submission to his master’s cold ambition. ”I shall open the lower vaults to him tomorrow.”