Fate's Forgotten Trickster

Chapter 4: The Extra in the Noble World

A House of Masks

The grand estate of House Umbrael loomed before Noctis like a specter of his past. Its towering spires and shadowed balconies were untouched by time, as imposing as the aristocracy that resided within. The cold air of the capital carried whispers of noble intrigues, reminding him of the fate he had suffered in his previous life.

Yet this time, he wasn't an ignorant extra fated for irrelevance.

This time, he was a hidden piece on the board, one that even the gods had forgotten.

He adjusted his posture, straightening the fine tunic he had been given upon arrival. His boots clicked against the marble steps as he approached the towering double doors. Noctis forced a serene mask over his face—his first real test began the moment he stepped inside.

The doors swung open, revealing the gilded halls of House Umbrael. Lined with towering portraits of his ancestors, their eyes seemed to bore into him, as if challenging his worth.

A familiar face greeted him at the entrance.

"Brother."

Caelum Umbrael. His elder sibling, dressed in deep indigo and silver, exuded the quiet arrogance of a noble who had never known powerlessness. His expression was unreadable, but his silver-gray eyes flickered with a hint of calculation.

"Caelum." Noctis dipped his head respectfully, masking his own scrutiny.

"You've returned." Caelum's voice was smooth, but the words held no warmth. "And here I thought the war might've done us all a favor."

Noctis let out a quiet chuckle. "You wound me, dear brother. Is this how you welcome a man from battle?"

"A man?" Caelum raised an eyebrow. "You were a footnote in the campaign at best. I would hardly call that battle."

Ah, of course. The noble houses only acknowledged greatness. And as far as House Umbrael was concerned, Noctis had been nothing but a disposable extra.

Perfect.

"Perhaps." Noctis allowed a self-deprecating smile. "Then again, being underestimated has its advantages."

Caelum's eyes narrowed slightly. For a moment, Noctis could tell his brother was re-evaluating him. Good. Even a trickle of doubt could work in his favor later.

"Father is waiting." Caelum finally turned away. "Do try not to embarrass the family."

The grand hall of House Umbrael was bathed in the cold glow of moonlight filtering through stained glass windows. At the center of the room sat Duke Alistair Umbrael, his silver-gray eyes appraising Noctis with the same detached scrutiny he would give an unremarkable document.

Noctis stood before him, his posture straight but unassuming. His hands, still wrapped in ceremonial gloves, hid the faint tremble of tension he refused to show.

To his left, Lady Selene, his mother, sipped her tea gracefully, though her violet eyes held little interest in the proceedings. To his right, Caelum Umbrael, his older brother, leaned against a pillar, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Pathetic."

The word rang through the chamber like a blade being drawn.

"You return from the battlefield with nothing to your name—no power, no victories, no recognition." Duke Alistair's voice was sharp and unforgiving. "A noble without strength is less than a commoner. You have shamed this house."

Noctis did not respond immediately. Instead, he let the weight of silence stretch, meeting his father's gaze with unreadable calm.

"I understand, Father." His voice was even, without defiance or submission.

"Do you?" The Duke's fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair. "The Royal Academy is for heirs worthy of the title. You, Noctis, are not worthy."

Caelum let out a quiet chuckle. "Finally, some sense."

Noctis flicked his gaze toward his brother. Caelum Umbrael—the golden son. The future Duke. The one whose shadow he had lived in his entire life.

Noctis smiled, just slightly. "Then what do you command of me, Father?"

The Duke studied him for a moment before speaking. "You will train in the outer grounds, among the knights and retainers. If you fail, you will be cast aside."

A test. But not one meant to help him grow.

A final chance before being discarded.

Noctis bowed his head. "I will not disappoint."

Caelum scoffed. "You already have."

The outer training grounds were not meant for noble heirs. It was where House Umbrael's knights, guards, and retainers honed their craft. No golden embellishments, no silk-lined halls—only the scent of sweat, steel, and earth.

As Noctis walked through the barracks, he could feel the eyes on him. The whispers.

"So this is the Duke's second son?"

"He doesn't belong here."

"A weakling among warriors."

A towering knight stepped forward—Sir Aldric Vayne, a hardened warrior who had served House Umbrael for decades. His piercing gaze held no reverence, only cold amusement.

"Your father sent you here to train," Aldric said, crossing his arms. "I wonder if he meant it as punishment."

Noctis met his stare, unfazed. "Then I hope to make this punishment worth your time, Sir Aldric."

The knight smirked. "We'll see."

What followed was humiliation.

Noctis was beaten in sparring matches, his movements slow compared to trained warriors.

He was given no preferential treatment, forced to wake at dawn and train until exhaustion.

He was mocked by the knights, dismissed as a noble playing soldier.

Yet through it all, he endured.

Because Noctis was not simply training.

He was studying.

Late at night, when the warriors retired, Noctis sat beneath the moon's pale light, his hand tracing patterns in the air.

Trickster's Veil.

The air shimmered. His reflection wavered before vanishing, only for the illusion to break moments later.

Still too unstable.

Unlike physical combat, his bloodline's power did not rely on strength—it relied on deception. Precision. Misdirection.

And so he practiced.

He altered his footsteps, making his presence seem farther than it was.

He redirected sounds, causing voices to echo where they shouldn't.

He obscured his movements, making himself seem slower or faster than reality.

By the second week, the knights began noticing strange occurrences.

"I swore I saw him move left, but he was right in front of me…"

"Did you hear that? A whisper—behind us?"

Sir Aldric narrowed his eyes.

Noctis merely smiled.

Caelum visited the training grounds unannounced, clad in elegant combat attire. His presence alone commanded respect, knights bowing as he passed.

"Ah, little brother," he called out, voice dripping with condescension. "Still crawling in the dirt?"

Noctis wiped sweat from his brow. "And you, brother? Still afraid of soiling your boots?"

Caelum's smirk faltered.

The knights stiffened. Noctis had never spoken back before.

Caelum drew a practice sword from the rack. "Let's see if your time here has been worth anything."

Noctis took a blade as well, its weight familiar yet still foreign.

The duel began.

Caelum's attacks were fast, controlled, brutal. He moved like a swordsman honed through years of discipline.

Noctis was slower. His defense was solid but reactive, barely able to deflect the onslaught.

A slash came toward his ribs—too fast to dodge.

Trickster's Veil.

At the last moment, Caelum's vision blurred. His strike veered off course as if Noctis had moved a fraction of an inch—but Noctis had never moved.

Caelum stumbled.

The mistake was imperceptible to the audience, but Noctis saw the flicker of confusion in his brother's eyes.

He's never doubted himself before.

Noctis pressed forward, shifting his stance to counterattack. His movements appeared slower, making Caelum overcommit.

A feint.

Caelum lunged—only to find Noctis was never there.

The flat of Noctis's blade touched his chest.

A killing blow.

Silence.

Caelum's expression darkened.

The knights murmured, uncertain of what they had seen.

Sir Aldric, watching from the sidelines, muttered, "Interesting."

Caelum stepped back, sheathing his blade with forced composure. "A trick. That wasn't skill."

Noctis smiled, bowing his head. "If that's what you believe, brother."

Let him doubt. Let him question.

Because this was only the beginning.

As Noctis stood in the training grounds, he felt the pieces shifting. His father's cold dismissal was not rejection—it was an opportunity.

Caelum now saw him as a threat, even if he refused to acknowledge it.

The knights no longer viewed him as a noble playing warrior—but something more.

Sir Aldric had taken interest, though he said nothing yet.

The aristocracy believed he was an extra. A forgotten piece on the board.

Good.

Let them turn their backs. Let them believe he was nothing.

Because the moment they realized their mistake…

It would already be too late.