Fragments of Time

The fire crackled in the grand yet lifeless parlour of Gaunt Manor, its glow casting restless shadows against the cold stone walls. Despite the flames roaring in the hearth, Ominis felt no warmth. This house—his so-called home—had never known warmth, not in its ancient history nor in the hearts of those who resided within it. He needed no light to navigate its halls; he had been born into darkness, both literally and figuratively. But even without sight, he knew the manor remained as it always had—bleak, oppressive, and utterly devoid of comfort, just as generations of heirs of Slytherin had preferred.

Leaning against the fireplace, arms crossed, Ominis kept his ever-watchful wand in one hand. The cursed serpent bracelet coiled tightly around his wrist, stubbornly refusing to unbind itself, its presence an eerie reminder of the day’s revelations. He suspected now that this artifact—this thing—was the reason he had been able to detect the potion in his food. Remarkable, he mused, though he doubted Marvolo had ever intended for him to wield such an object. His brother was the heir to the Gaunt fortune, the sole one with access to their family vault. Ominis had broken that unspoken rule, taken a risk that could cost him dearly. And now, he was about to face the consequences.

A sheen of sweat formed on his palms as he braced himself for the encounter to come. He had prepared for this—expected it—but anticipation did little to calm the steady thrumming of his heart. Then, he heard it. The slow, deliberate rhythm of footsteps accompanied by the sharp tap of a cane against the cold floor. The sound grew closer, heavier, until at last, the great doors swung open. Ominis straightened, his fingers tightening around his wand.

Lucian Gaunt had arrived.

The weight of his father’s gaze settled on him before the man even spoke, followed by a quiet, amused huff. With measured grace, Lucian made his way toward one of the two grand chairs before the fireplace, lowering himself into its embrace like a king settling onto his throne. A single tap of his cane against the floor summoned a presence from the shadows. A moment later, a small figure appeared—a house-elf draped in tattered cloth, its bat-like ears twitching as it awaited command.

“Arkin,” Lucian drawled, his voice smooth as aged scotch.

Without further instruction, the elf gave a deep bow before summoning a crystal glass and pouring its master’s preferred drink—scotch, neat. The faint clink of ice against glass punctuated the silence.

Ominis remained still, waiting. He knew better than to speak first.

This was a game of patience.

And his father had never been one to lose.

Lucian Gaunt was never a man of haste.

With deliberate ease, he took a slow sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch unbearably long. Ominis remained still, his every muscle taut with restraint, though he could feel the smirk curling on his father’s lips. Lucian was drawing this out for his own amusement—of course he was.

Another sip. A slow exhale. The glass clicked softly against the table as it was set down. Then, the inevitable huff of condescending amusement.

“This is the first time you have sought me out,” Lucian mused, his voice low and smooth like a blade against stone. “Usually, you skulk about this house like a roach.”

Ominis flinched, but he refused to let his father’s words bite. He had spent a lifetime enduring far worse. He kept his mouth shut, knowing anything he said would only fuel Lucian’s cruelty.

A heavy pause followed before Lucian leaned back in his chair, his fingers entwined in casual dominance, legs crossed as if he had all the time in the world.

“Well?” he drawled. “Speak, boy.”

The command cracked through the air like a whip.

Ominis could feel fear clawing up his spine, cold and relentless—the same fear that had once rendered him helpless, small, insignificant in the looming presence of his father. It was the same suffocating dread that had held him captive in this house for years, but this time, he refused to yield to it. Not now. Not when everything hinged on what he was about to say. He steeled himself, forcing his voice to remain steady.

"Father, I have something to report," Ominis said, carefully measured, revealing nothing of the storm within.

Lucian cocked a brow, an amused scoff leaving his lips. "Report? Have you taken up a new hobby, boy? Spying, perhaps?"

Ominis bit back his distaste, unwilling to let his father steer the conversation into mockery. "Nothing of the sort," he cut in sharply. "This is regarding my engagement."

The reaction was instant.

"No," Lucian stated, the word cutting through the air like a blade.

Ominis stiffened. "What do you mean, no?"

"No," Lucian repeated coolly, taking his time as he settled back in his chair, fingers idly tapping against the armrest. "If you think you can break your engagement so wantonly just to chase after that Muggle-born—"

Ominis clenched his jaw. "But what if there's a good reason, Father?" He took a step forward, knowing he was treading dangerous ground but refusing to back down. "Something that concerns our family's honour."

That, at least, gave Lucian pause. The air shifted.

Slowly, his father leaned forward, fingers coming to rest against his lips in quiet contemplation. When he spoke again, his voice was low, sharp, deliberate.

"Go on."

Ominis suppressed the urge to exhale in relief. It wasn’t a victory—not yet—but he had earned his father’s attention, and that was the first step.

Straightening his posture, he tightened his grip on his wand, steadying himself. "I was attending an invitation, and I’m certain that the Blacks attempted to... poison me."

The word felt heavy on his tongue, not quite right, but the best he could muster. ‘Poison’ wasn’t entirely accurate—at least, not in the traditional sense. But the intent behind it? That was unmistakable.

Lucian arched a brow, unimpressed. "You’re certain?" His tone was flat, unreadable, but Ominis knew better than to mistake it for indifference. There was warning beneath the words, a caution laced with quiet menace. "Do you have any idea what it would mean to falsely accuse a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight? Being the subject of mere gossip would be the least of our concerns."

"I understand, Father," Ominis replied, keeping his voice firm. "But I have irrefutable proof regarding this matter."

Lucian let out a sharp, humourless laugh, the sound cutting through the thick silence of the room. "Proof?" he echoed, amusement dripping from his voice. "And how, pray tell, did you—a mere boy—manage to detect something that not even the Unspeakables have mastered? You expect me to believe that you, alone, uncovered a method of identifying potions within food without so much as a drop passing your lips?"

Ominis inhaled deeply, steadying himself. He had expected scepticism. Anticipated it. "This is also another pressing matter I wish to discuss with you," he said, his fingers deftly unbuttoning the cuff of his sleeve.

The moment the bracelet was revealed, the temperature in the room plummeted. Ominis could feel the shift in the air—Lucian’s immediate stillness, the way the crackling fire seemed to dim under the weight of his sudden, palpable fury. The silence was deafening, suffocating.

But before his father could speak, Ominis cut in quickly, "I found this in Borgin & Burkes, Father."

Lucian remained frozen, unreadable, giving Ominis just enough time to press on.

"It called to me," he admitted, his voice quieter now, though no less urgent. "Spoke to me in Parseltongue. Before I could react, it just—coiled itself around me. Begging to be returned to its rightful place."

The weight of his father’s presence grew heavier, suffocating. The room felt smaller, the very air pressing against him, and for a brief moment, Ominis was a boy again—helpless, drowning in fear. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he forced himself to stand his ground.

Lucian finally broke the silence, his voice a blade slicing through the air. "How did it end up there?"

Ominis swallowed hard. His father’s anger wasn’t just simmering beneath the surface—it was rising, threatening to spill over. The words felt thick in his throat as he forced them out.

"I questioned Mr. Borgin," he said carefully, his grip tightening around his wand. "And after checking his ledger... it was Marvolo, Father."

The explosion came before Ominis could prepare himself.

Lucian shot to his feet, his wand aimed at the fireplace as he unleashed his fury. The flames roared, an inferno bursting to life, licking hungrily at the stone walls as if seeking something—someone—to consume. The heat was unbearable, scorching, forcing Ominis to stumble back as he instinctively raised an arm to shield himself.

His father had yet to say a word, but he didn’t need to. The rage in the fire spoke for him.

Lucian exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound laced with disdain. His grip on his cane tightened, knuckles whitening as his fury simmered beneath a thin veneer of control. "That imbecile," he seethed, his voice like the crack of a whip. "Selling off our family’s artifacts like a common peddler." He scoffed, shaking his head. "And this—this is no ordinary trinket."

Ominis felt a prickle of unease creep up his spine. His father was many things—cruel, calculating, and unyielding—but rarely did he sound rattled. And yet, there was something in his tone now, something that made Ominis hesitate before daring to ask, "Then what is it?"

Lucian turned his gaze toward him, and though Ominis could not see his father’s expression, he could feel the weight of it—the heavy silence stretching between them, the unspoken truths teetering on the edge of revelation. For a long, agonizing moment, Lucian said nothing, his breath slow and measured.

Then, at last, he spoke. His voice, quieter now, carried something far more unsettling than anger.

"This bracelet belongs to Salazar Slytherin himself."

Ominis froze. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the crackling fire behind him. A sudden chill, colder than the manor’s stone walls, settled over his skin. He had suspected the artifact was significant, but this—this was beyond anything he had imagined.

"S-Salazar Slytherin?" The name left his lips in a whisper, as if speaking it too loudly might awaken something lurking within the cursed metal. Panic surged through him as he clawed at the bracelet, fingernails scraping against the smooth, ancient silver. It was useless—no matter how hard he pulled, it remained fastened around his wrist, unyielding, unmoving.

Desperation laced his voice as he gasped, "H-how do I remove it?"

Because if it had truly belonged to him, to the very founder of his House… then Ominis feared the answer might be one he did not want to hear.

Lucian’s head snapped toward him, his expression one of pure distaste. "Remove it?" he repeated, his voice sharp as a blade. "This is not something you can simply ‘remove.’"

Ominis swallowed hard, his throat dry. His fingers continued to claw desperately at the cold, unyielding metal, but it was as if the bracelet had fused with his very skin. The more he tugged, the more it seemed to constrict, as though it knew—as though it refused to be cast aside. His pulse hammered in his ears, his breath coming quicker now, but before he could voice his rising panic, Lucian’s voice cut through the room like a lash.

"That ingrate!" his father snarled, slamming his cane against the floor with a thunderous crack. "Does he not realize what he has done?!"

Ominis flinched at the sheer venom in his father’s tone, but before he could ask, Lucian turned his piercing gaze back to him, his next words sinking into Ominis like ice.

"You cannot remove it, not unless you intend to lay down your life this instant."

A suffocating silence fell between them.

Ominis felt his stomach plummet, his breath catching in his throat. "W-what?" The word barely escaped his lips, barely a whisper, yet it felt like a scream inside his own mind.

Lucian exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. "That artifact is no mere piece of jewellery—it has chosen you, boy."

Ominis stiffened. The room seemed to shrink around him, the fire’s glow casting eerie shadows against the walls. A chill settled deep in his bones, colder than fear itself.

"Chosen?" he echoed, his voice hoarse. "For what purpose?"

His father did not answer immediately. And that—that was what terrified Ominis the most.

The air in the room thickened, the flickering firelight casting jagged shadows against the cold stone walls.

"Heir of Slytherin," Lucian scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "I cannot believe that trinket picked you."

Ominis stood frozen, his mind reeling. The words didn’t seem real—didn’t seem possible. Heir?

He had fought so hard, endured so much, always cast aside in favour of Marvolo. And yet, now, the very thing he had once longed for was being handed to him without warning, placed so easily at his feet.

It was too easy.

His fingers, once frantically clawing at the metal, now hesitated. Instead, he ran them over the artifact’s smooth, cold surface. The serpent coiled around his wrist felt alive—as if it were waiting for something.

He inhaled sharply, his voice unsteady. "What's the catch?"

Lucian narrowed his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

"The catch!" Ominis snapped, his control slipping as the sheer weight of this revelation crushed down on him. His breathing turned shallow, his mind spiralling between elation and dread. "There's always a catch!"

Lucian let out a scoff of irritation. "That sister of mine has put far too many silly notions in your head. Don't you see? It is her... influence that makes you hesitate. She is the reason you constantly waver."

Ominis inhaled sharply. A storm of emotions surged through him, his stomach twisting into knots. His grip on his wand tightened, his knuckles turning white.

Then, his anger boiled over.

"Do not speak to me about Aunt Noctua in that way!" he snarled, his voice raw, shaking with fury. "You left her to die!"

Lucian rose abruptly from his seat, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over Ominis. The crackling fire roared in response, heat pressing against the side of his face, but Ominis stood his ground.

"She made her choice!" Lucian bellowed, his voice sharp enough to cut stone. "A foolish one at that—one that nearly dragged you into her suicidal ideals!"

Ominis’ breath hitched. His chest tightened, his vision blurred behind unshed tears. "She did not commit such things! You left her to die!"

Lucian scoffed, his voice carrying an eerie calmness beneath his cruelty. "I have been inside the Scriptorium before. Long ago." He leaned in slightly, his voice lower now, but no less harsh. "I warned her. I told her that what she sought was folly. She did not listen. And so, she made peace with her fate—just as I have made peace with her stupidity."

A sharp pang shot through Ominis’ chest, his breath stuttering. He had heard cruelty from his father before—too many times to count—but this... this was different.

This was final.

His hands trembled at his sides, rage warring with grief. His voice, hoarse and barely controlled, broke through the tense silence.

"You knew what was needed to open the Scriptorium..." He swallowed, his throat burning. "And you didn’t think to warn her!?"

Lucian let out a sharp, derisive breath as he turned his back on Ominis, dismissing him with nothing more than a flick of his wrist.

"There was no point in telling her such things when her mind was already set," he said, voice laced with cruel indifference. "She was stubborn until the very end—shameful at that."

Ominis felt his fingers twitch around his wand, his pulse pounding in his ears. The rage was suffocating, pressing against his ribs, his chest heaving as the weight of his father’s words crushed down on him.

"You...," his voice trembled—not with fear, but with barely contained fury. "You just unequivocally murdered your own sister."

Lucian turned, his expression unreadable. And then, to Ominis' disgust, his father smirked.

"And so?" Lucian taunted, stepping forward. His presence loomed over Ominis, his voice smooth, calculated. "What do you intend to do about it? Charge into the Ministry, demand that they punish me? Risk dragging your entire family into scandal? Have us all thrown into Azkaban? No—" he chuckled darkly, "I highly doubt you'll do any of that."

Ominis' grip on his wand tightened so much that his hand began to tremble. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he stared into the void of his father’s presence, his breath coming out in short, furious bursts.

"What makes you so sure?" he bit out, his voice low, dangerous.

Lucian’s smirk widened, cruel and knowing. "Have you forgotten what will happen if we lose our family's standing?" His voice slithered through the air, a quiet taunt wrapped in a razor-sharp warning.

Ominis felt the words strike him like a curse. His fingers twitched around his wand before he realized—this was what his father wanted. To watch him hesitate, to watch the fight drain from him before it could even begin. He inhaled sharply, loosening his grip, but the damage had been done. He could feel his father basking in his momentary falter, savouring it like a victory.

The room stretched into silence, the fire crackling between them the only sound in the suffocating space. Ominis let the moment settle before he finally spoke. "So what happens then?" His voice was steady, despite the tightness in his chest. "Are you going to name me heir?"

Lucian's laughter rang through the parlour, rich with amusement and scorn. "You?" he mocked, barely containing his mirth. "Heir? Have you lost your mind?"

Ominis didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head, his voice calm, deliberate. "And you're going to ignore the fact that Salazar's artifact chose me?"

The laughter died.

For the first time in his life, Ominis had rendered his father speechless. And he wasn't about to squander the opportunity. He pressed forward, voice gaining quiet momentum. "Are you truly certain you want Marvolo as your heir? The same Marvolo who tossed away a priceless relic of our bloodline like some worthless trinket?" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, then added, "If anyone outside this house were to learn of this…"

He could feel Lucian’s fury, palpable and seething. The room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with something volatile.

Then came the venom. "You expect me to name you heir?" Lucian hissed, his voice a blade poised to strike. "A mere cripple?"

Ominis’s stomach twisted, but he stood firm. He had expected the insult—welcomed it. Because now, Lucian was grasping for control. And for the first time, it was slipping through his fingers. Lucian’s fingers curled tightly around his cane, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure. Though Ominis could not see his father’s expression, he could feel the shift in his posture, the weight of his silence. He had struck a nerve.

Ominis inhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay composed. Do not waver now.

"And yet," he repeated, his tone steady, measured, unshaken, "this mere cripple was the one chosen by Salazar's own artifact."

The fire crackled, filling the suffocating silence. He could hear the slight hitch in Lucian’s breath, the way the tension in the room coiled like a snake ready to strike. But Ominis knew better than to back down. Not now. Not when he finally had the advantage.

He took another step forward. "There have been rumours, Father. I may be blind, but I am not deaf. I have noticed things over the years—how you’ve brought me out to functions, how you’ve made me stand in for Marvolo time and time again." He tilted his head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. "At first, I thought it was because of my title—the Hero of Hogwarts—a convenient excuse to parade me around. But that's not just it, is it?"

Ominis could feel his father’s glare, sharp as a dagger, slicing through the air between them. But he refused to be cowed.

He had always wondered—why the sudden attention? Why did his father, who had once dismissed him as nothing more than a burden, begin to push him into the public eye? At first, he had convinced himself it was fleeting, that Lucian would soon tire of him as he always did. But that day never came. And as time passed, Ominis began to see the pattern, the deliberate alienation of Marvolo.

At first, it had been subtle, almost imperceptible. But whispers had begun to creep through high society, rumours of Marvolo’s reckless indulgences. His lecherous habits were hardly a secret anymore, nor were the whispers of a mistress—perhaps even a child. And then there was the debt, a stain that, if exposed, would ruin them all.

"I do not care for my brother or his misdeeds," Ominis stated, his voice like sharpened steel, unwavering, cutting through the charged air between them. "But the manner in which I found Salazar's bracelet—"our" bracelet—is proof that he has committed something unforgivable."

Lucian let out a derisive scoff, his amusement barely veiling his scorn. "You think far too highly of yourself, boy."

Ominis tilted his chin slightly, refusing to shrink beneath his father’s gaze. "Do I?" He took a step forward, pressing on before Lucian could swat him down. "Then tell me, why do you still bring me to those functions? Why do you parade me around like a prized possession, standing in for him?" He could feel the shift in the air, the unspoken truth crackling between them. "It is unlike you, Father, to persist in a lie when your cards have already been revealed."

Silence fell between them, thick and suffocating. Ominis’s heart pounded against his ribs, each second stretching into eternity. He could not see his father’s face, but he could feel the flicker of hesitation, the way the atmosphere in the room wavered ever so slightly. He had struck a nerve.

Then, the quiet clink of glass as Lucian took another measured sip of his drink.

Ominis tensed. This wasn't the reaction he expected. No fury, no threats, no curses hurled in his direction—just a slow exhale as Lucian leaned back into his seat, settling into a relaxed position.

And then, with a tone dripping in amusement, he mused, "That girl has made you quite entertaining."

Ominis stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. His fingers twitched at his sides.

What?

It was as if all the tension, all the gravity of the conversation had been dismissed with a flick of the wrist. Ominis felt as if he had been yanked from a battlefield into a twisted game of amusement for Lucian’s pleasure.

"I always assumed you were a weak, useless boy. Especially under my sister’s guidance," Lucian continued, his voice light, casual—like he was commenting on the weather.

Ominis clenched his jaw, the sharp retort on his tongue nearly escaping before Lucian cut him off.

"But," Lucian said smoothly, "you are correct in your deductions. Marvolo’s... antics have become disgraceful, unbefitting of someone of his station. And yes, I have considered you as an alternative."

For a fleeting moment, Ominis felt his chest tighten—not with fear, but with something dangerously close to hope.

But then—

"However," Lucian continued, voice cooling into something sharp and cutting, "I am still displeased."

Ominis’s stomach dropped.

"You conduct yourself with that Muggle girl as though you are some common fool, no better than Marvolo in your wanton disregard for appearances," Lucian sneered. "And then there is your curse—your incurable affliction." His words dripped with disdain. "An heir of Slytherin, blind?"

Ominis’s fingers curled into his palms, nails digging into his skin.

"Have I not proven myself to you more than once?" he demanded, his voice low and shaking with restraint. "How many times must I prove that I am more than my so-called flaws?"

Lucian said nothing.

No denial. No agreement. No acknowledgment of all that Ominis had fought to achieve, all that he had sacrificed.

Ominis clenched his fists tighter, his breath coming in short, controlled exhales. Even after all these years, after all his efforts, Lucian still refused to see him as anything but an imperfection, a blemish upon their bloodline.

It had never mattered how strong he was. How capable. How much he earned his place.

Because in his father’s eyes, Ominis would always be broken.

"What if there's a way to fix it?"

Ominis's words hung in the air like a curse, heavy with desperation and a dangerous kind of determination.

Lucian stilled. His amusement had not vanished entirely, but it had cooled, tempered into something more calculating. He leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees, eyes locked onto his son. "Go on," he urged, his voice laced with intrigue.

Ominis swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. "What if someone could cure my... affliction?" The words felt wrong, like poison on his tongue.

For years, he had fought to accept himself—to build confidence in his abilities despite his blindness. His aunt had taught him how to navigate the world without sight, how to wield magic with precision that others with perfect vision could not even dream of. And yet, in this moment, he felt as though he were betraying all of it. Betraying her.

Lucian exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "And who, pray tell, would accomplish what no Healer, no specialist, no so-called genius has been able to do since your birth?"

Ominis tightened his grip on his wand. "Theowen."

Silence.

And then—laughter. Cold, sharp, condescending.

Lucian leaned back, shaking his head. "You think me a fool?" he scoffed. "This is a ploy. You would use this as an excuse to cut ties with the Blacks, wouldn't you?"

Ominis clenched his jaw, his pulse hammering beneath his skin. "You have seen what she is capable of. You know very well she can break even the unbreakable curses."

But even as he spoke, doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. Could Theowen truly cure his blindness? Did he even want that? The answer had always been no. He had never seen himself as broken. But now—now he was grasping at straws, hurling out half-formed plans in a desperate bid to secure what he had always longed for.

Lucian hummed, considering. "I have seen her capabilities, yes..."

For a fleeting second, hope flickered in Ominis’s chest—

"But I am not convinced it is worth risking your engagement to the Blacks."

Ominis inhaled sharply, fighting the curse that threatened to slip from his lips. He bowed his head, biting down on his frustration. He had almost had him. He had come so close to convincing his father, to tipping the scales in his favour—

But then—

Power.

His father craved it. Hoarded it. Would sacrifice anything for it. And Ominis had foolishly overlooked that fact in his desperation.

His fingers twitched, and when he lifted his chin, his expression was no longer desperate—it was composed, confident.

"You will end my engagement, Father," he declared. Not a plea. A command.

The air in the room tightened, charged with sudden tension. Even without sight, Ominis felt his father flinch—whether from amusement or fury, he wasn’t sure.

Lucian’s voice was laced with dangerous curiosity. "And why, exactly, would I do that?"

Ominis didn’t hesitate. "Not only did the Blacks attempt to poison me at the last dinner," he said coolly, "but you would be a fool to let a source of power like Theowen slip into another family’s grasp."

Lucian scoffed. "You’re talking nonsense, boy. Ancient Magic has never been proven to be hereditary."

"Perhaps," Ominis conceded, "but can you truly afford to take that risk?" He tilted his head ever so slightly, voice calm, composed, and undeniably lethal. "If Theowen’s bloodline holds even the possibility of passing down that magic, and another Pureblood family claims her first, their standing could rise to rival ours—or worse, surpass it."

A long silence stretched between them.

And then—

Lucian exhaled, slow and considering.

Ominis could feel it.

The scales were tipping.

Ominis squared his shoulders, forcing himself to remain composed. "You know the advantage I have in this situation," he pressed, his voice unwavering. "I'm closer to her than anyone else. No one—other than you—sees me as a mere cripple." His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the weight of his own words settling deep in his chest. "It would be foolhardy to let this opportunity slip by."

For the first time in his life, Ominis felt the thrill of outmanoeuvring his father. A trap, meticulously laid. The realization sent a shiver down his spine—so this is why he enjoys these games. The taste of control, of strategy, was intoxicating. And yet, beneath the exhilaration, a sliver of unease crept in. Was he becoming like Lucian?

Lucian exhaled through his nose, his silence stretching long enough to make Ominis question whether he had pushed too far.

Then, at last—

"I can admit that you have convinced me... somewhat," Lucian drawled, his voice infuriatingly calm, composed—always unreadable.

Ominis stilled. Did I actually win?

"Very well," his father continued, sounding almost bored.

Ominis didn’t move. He waited, barely daring to breathe.

"I shall make the necessary preparations to cancel your engagement."

Relief flooded his lungs. "Thank you, Father—"

"However," Lucian interrupted smoothly.

Ominis stiffened. Of course, there was a however. There always was.

"I wish to speak with her first."

Ominis’s heart plummeted. Anxiety coiled tight in his stomach. "Why do you think such a thing is necessary?" he asked, struggling to mask his unease.

He felt Lucian’s gaze on him—sharp, incredulous. "You beg me to make her part of our family, yet you would bar me from speaking to her?" Lucian’s scoff was laced with disdain. "Your foolishness seeps out the moment you think you’ve won, boy."

Ominis bit down hard on his lip. His father was right—he had been too eager, too hasty. He had nearly fumbled his victory in his desperation.

Swallowing his frustration, he forced himself to concede. "You are right, Father."

Lucian gave a small, amused huff. "I can somewhat see why that bracelet chose you."

Ominis tensed.

"Your ambition. Your greed for her. It is not unlike Salazar’s own greed for power."

Ominis’s breath hitched. Greed? No, that wasn’t it. He wasn’t like them. He refused to be like them. He would not become his father—he would not.

And yet... could he truly claim that after the tactics he had used? The schemes he had pulled just now?

Lucian seemed to sense his unease. He let out a low chuckle, then dismissed him as though their entire conversation had been nothing more than a casual game of chess. "Leave me. Our business has concluded."

Ominis sucked in a breath, steadying himself before giving a curt nod. He turned and made his way toward the door, gripping the handle tightly as he pulled it shut behind him.

And then—

Lucian laughed.

Not loudly, not mockingly—just a quiet, knowing chuckle that sent a cold shiver down Ominis’s spine.

A terrible realization crept in.

Had he been the one to set a trap… or had Lucian let him believe that he had?