Fate's Forgotten Trickster

Chapter 1: A Death Without Meaning

The Forgotten Piece

The grand halls of House Umbrael were silent, save for the soft flicker of torches casting wavering shadows upon the cold marble floors. The air smelled of ink, aged parchment, and the faint metallic tang of blood—an omen of what was to come.

Margrave Noctis Umbrael stood near the towering arched windows of his family's ancestral estate, overlooking the sprawling city below. The distant glow of lanterns illuminated the noble district, but it was the darkness between those lights that interested him most. He had always felt more at home in the spaces where others dared not look.

Tonight, however, there was no comfort in the shadows.

A deep unease settled over him, a sensation of impending finality he couldn't shake. He ran a gloved hand over the silver embroidery of his coat, feeling the slight tremor in his fingers. It wasn't fear—Noctis had long since learned to silence such weaknesses. No, it was something else. A knowing.

He was going to die tonight.

~~~~~

The court had always been a battlefield, its weapons sharpened tongues and invisible daggers, its victories measured in ruined reputations and whispered betrayals. The Umbrael name, once whispered with reverence, had faded into something lesser. Not a great house, not a fallen one, just there—a piece on the board, easily overlooked and just as easily removed.

Noctis had spent his life trying to change that, but in the end, his efforts were nothing more than ink spilled on the wrong page of history.

A soft knock echoed through the chamber.

"My lord." The voice belonged to his steward, Valen. Loyal, efficient, and tragically incapable of changing what was about to unfold. "The Duke's summons have arrived."

Of course they had.

Noctis turned, adjusting his cuffs. "And the guards?"

"They are waiting, my lord."

He nodded. It would be foolish to refuse an invitation from Duke Calladris, the man who held dominion over this city and the noble families within it. A refusal would not be seen as defiance—it would be seen as irrelevance. And irrelevance in aristocratic society was the same as death.

And yet, Noctis knew that attending meant walking into a den of vipers. The real question was whether he would be bitten immediately… or bled dry over time.

He fastened the dark silver clasp on his cloak, the Umbrael crest—a black crescent entwined with a serpent—gleaming in the firelight. "Let's not keep the good Duke waiting."

~~~~~

The palace of House Calladris was a monument to excess, an insult to subtlety. Towering marble pillars lined the grand hall, their surfaces carved with depictions of legendary warriors and rulers. Gilded chandeliers bathed the room in golden light, illuminating the gathering of nobles draped in silks and adorned with jewels that cost more than most men's lives.

Noctis moved through the crowd like a ghost, exchanging polite nods, offering smiles that never reached his eyes. He was careful, measured. A misstep in this world could mean ruin.

The Duke sat upon his high seat, his silver hair slicked back, his expression one of practiced benevolence. But his eyes—those cold, assessing eyes—told a different story.

"Noctis Umbrael," the Duke greeted, voice smooth as oil. "You honor us with your presence."

A lie. The Duke had no need for pleasantries, and Noctis had no illusions about why he was summoned.

"I could hardly refuse such a generous invitation," Noctis replied, bowing with calculated precision.

A chuckle rippled through the gathered nobles, but there was no humor in it.

"You have been quite… ambitious as of late," the Duke mused, sipping from his ornate goblet. "Making alliances, moving pieces, attempting to carve a space for your family once more. Admirable."

The compliment was a blade hidden within velvet.

Noctis remained composed. "One must always seek to improve one's standing, Your Grace. The court is ever-shifting, and only those who adapt survive."

The Duke smiled. "Indeed. But tell me, Noctis—when a man who holds no power begins to act as though he does, what should be done?"

Silence fell.

A trap. A performance, with Noctis cast as the doomed character in a play already written.

Before he could respond, the Duke gestured, and armored guards stepped forward.

A hush spread through the hall.

"Noctis Umbrael," the Duke declared, voice steady, "you stand accused of treason against the crown."

Shock swept through the gathered nobles, murmurs like the rustling of dry leaves.

Noctis kept his face unreadable. He had expected treachery, but not this.

Treason. The word alone was enough to see him executed before the night ended.

He needed a way out.

The moment the guards moved, Noctis acted.

He feigned a stumble—just enough to throw them off—and twisted, grabbing the nearest noble's ceremonial dagger. A flash of silver, a sharp gasp, and blood bloomed across the stunned man's silks as Noctis drove the blade deep.

Chaos erupted.

Nobles shrieked and scrambled away as Noctis seized the moment, weaving through the confusion. The guards pursued, armor clanking, but Noctis had always been faster. Smarter. He needed an escape—an exit—

A sharp pain exploded in his side.

He staggered. Looked down.

A sword.

A royal sword, buried deep in his ribs.

He turned his gaze upward, meeting the Duke's impassive stare.

"Predictable," the Duke murmured. "But entertaining."

Blood filled Noctis's mouth as he sank to his knees, the strength leaving his body. He could hear the voices around him, some mocking, some pitying. None reaching for him.

He was alone.

He had always been alone.

As darkness crept into his vision, a final, bitter thought surfaced.

I was nothing more than a forgotten piece on their board. A pawn to be discarded.

And then, silence.

But the silence did not last.

A voice—soft, amused—echoed in the void.

Oh, little shadow… you fell too soon, didn't you?

Noctis drifted in the abyss, the weight of death pressing down upon him. And yet, there was something else. Something pulling him back.

Would you like to play again?

A pulse of warmth, a flicker of something ancient stirring within him. His veins burned with liquid fire, and the shadows in the abyss shifted, bending toward him.

Then—

A gasp.

Air flooded his lungs. His heart pounded.

His eyes snapped open.

He was alive.

But he was not the same.

Something had awakened.

Something old.

Something trickster-born.

And the game had only just begun.