The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

From the outside, Moonfrost Keep looked unchanged. The gray stone walls stood steady under their familiar cover of snow, holding the same quiet dignity Vencian had grown used to over the past months.

Inside, however, the mood was different. A gloom pressed into every hall and room, hard to miss even when the servants tried to act cheerful. The weight of their lord's death and the uncertainty over the heir left everyone tense, smiles slipping too easily into silence.

Vencian ignored it. He climbed the stairs toward his chambers, unwilling to absorb more of the atmosphere that had already worn thin on his patience. It wasn't that he lacked sympathy.

He could stomach grief, but he had no way to ease it. After long reflection, he had decided it wasn't his duty to fix what couldn't be fixed.

The thought of leaving for the academy filled him with both relief and unease.

Relief, because it would give him a reason to step outside this suffocating house and breathe somewhere else.

Unease, because he couldn't be certain of his safety once he went.

When he reached his room, he summoned his valet to prepare the bath and began to undress. Before heading to the water, he paused before the full-length mirror. He studied the body reflected there, its lines shaped with strength.

It was the kind of body people spent years training for, yet it came to him without effort.

The thought slipped through his mind before he let out a quiet breath. The mirror showed a body that wasn't his, stronger and steadier than the one he remembered leaving behind in another life.

It wasn't the first time he had stood there, looking. Shaking himself from the thought, he turned away and went to the bath.

Lowering himself into the hot water, he leaned against the stone edge. The warmth seeped into his skin but failed to loosen the tightness in his chest. Instead, the reality of what lay ahead only grew heavier.

The academy, huh.

In this world, Airantis Academy wasn't a place of sorcery or spells. Its walls held scholars, records, and politics more than rituals. It was an institution of learning, the best there was, where young minds trained to become scholars and masters of their chosen fields.

The original Vencian had fit well there. As the third son, he bore no responsibility to inherit. Though talented in war and strategy, he had chosen the path of study. His field had been archaic studies, something he had shown true promise in.

But the reasons he himself sought the academy differed entirely. For him, study was only a cover. What mattered was uncovering the unanswered questions surrounding the blood ritual—or whatever it had been—that tied him to this body.

How had Vencian gained such a thing in the first place? Did anyone else know? Or was he the only one carrying this strange secret?

He had exhausted every possible lead within this keep. Remaining here meant wasting time. If answers existed, they had to lie beyond these walls. The risk of exposing himself was real, but remaining ignorant carried a risk far greater.

With that decision firm in his mind, he rose from the water and washed away the last traces of soap. Wrapping a towel around himself, he returned to his chambers. The valet helped him dress, layering a long monochrome overcoat that settled neatly over his frame.

Once ready, he stepped out with a destination in mind.

The kitchen came first. He collected food onto a plate, careful not to draw attention as he did so. From there, he crossed the corridor until he reached the room opposite his own.

Balancing the plate in one hand, he pushed the door open with his shoulder and entered.

The room held little beyond a bed and a chair beside it. His mother sat there, her fingers clasped together, staring at the figure lying still on the bed. Jeriko's chest rose and fell, steady but without strength.

Lumea remained beside him each evening, staying close after her work was finished. She waited, always the same, hoping for even the smallest change.

Since their father's and Moses's deaths, she had taken control of the family's matters. The question of succession had been left unspoken, though they both knew the reality. If Jeriko remained like this, it would fall on Vencian.

Vencian placed the plate on the table and pulled the chair closer. His mother gave him a faint smile, one of those polite gestures she offered often these days, but her attention drifted back almost immediately to Jeriko's still face.

"I brought this for you," he said.

"You should have brought some for yourself too." Her tone was soft, almost distracted. "You've been skipping meals."

"I eat plenty."

Her head tilted slightly. "Your valet disagrees."

Vencian exhaled slowly. He hadn't skipped on purpose. Some days he just didn't feel like it. "He worries too much."

"He has reason to," she said, and then, after a pause, "So do I."

The quiet that followed felt natural. Jeriko lay with his eyes open, but his gaze was vacant, fixed on nothing. The medics had already spoken of their limits. For now, this was all Jeriko was—breathing, conscious, but he never answered or gave the smallest sign that he understood.

Vencian found himself staring too long before he spoke. "I'm leaving for Ralan tomorrow."

"I know." Her answer came easily, as if she had already rehearsed it in her mind. She turned toward him then. "Can't you just stay here?"

"I can't," he replied. "Remaining here won't change anything for me."

She smoothed her skirt, fingers tightening slightly. "You speak as though you're separate from this house."

"That's not what I mean." Their gazes met briefly, then away. "You'll manage even without me."

"Manage," she repeated, almost under her breath. "That's a poor word for it."

Vencian felt a sting at that. He hadn't meant it in the way it sounded, but correcting himself now seemed pointless.

She gave a quiet laugh, though it carried no amusement. "When you talk like this, you sound less like the child I brought up and more like someone I hardly recognize."