The Hidden in Myth

Vern stood before the gates of the Patriarch Hall, the very breath of the Wind Blossom Clan pulsing within its sacred stone.

The hall stood at the core of the clan's sacred ground — a timeless monolith carved from weather-worn stone and black sandalwood, its curved roof rising like the folded wings of a sleeping dragon. Crimson lanterns lined the pathway like a procession of spirits, their soft glow flickering gently, as if ancestral souls watched in silence, guarding the legacy contained within.

He exhaled, then stepped forward.

The entrance loomed — twin gates of ancient, crimson-stained wood, bound in blackened iron, their surface etched with the names of generations long buried. Each letter pulsed faintly, like whispers from the past. Protective seals shimmered beneath the iron binding, woven into the wood like veins of living fire.

As the gates creaked open, the wind stilled.

A hush descended.

Even the air seemed to hold its breath — recognizing, questioning, measuring.

Vern passed through the threshold.

Beyond lay a ceremonial corridor, vast and solemn, paved with dark jade tiles that shimmered faintly underfoot like starlight trapped in stone. The high walls on either side rose like cliffs, carved with reliefs and murals — the great battles of the clan, the rise of heroes, the taming of beasts older than language. Every step he took felt like moving through the arteries of history, the stories of blood and honor pulsing just beneath the surface.

Polished sandalwood and obsidian pillars flanked his path, towering and wise, engraved with flowing calligraphy — ancient martial maxims etched so deeply into the wood they seemed to breathe. The grains of the pillars were worn smooth in places, touched by reverent hands across generations.

Between them, braziers of hammered brass burned slowly, releasing ribbons of fragrant smoke — dragonroot and snow lotus — their mingled scent stirring the senses, grounding the soul.

Along the corridor stood twelve stone guardians, six on each side — fierce warriors carved in exquisite detail, armored in old-world style, their swords half-drawn, their eyes gleaming with qi-infused gems. Legends said they could judge a man's heart and repel malice with mere presence.

Vern walked between them with steady steps.

Not defiant. Not afraid.

Simply present.

His soul no longer burdened by the need to prove.

But awake.

The corridor narrowed, yet the ceiling lifted, revealing a golden arch — a lattice of mystic sigils and vines, woven into a tapestry of light and metal. As he passed beneath, the symbols pulsed faintly in resonance with something within him — something old, forgotten… watching.

Crossing under it was like stepping into another realm —

A place where no lie could hide,

And even silence carried the weight of generations.

The Assembly Chamber of the Patriarch Hall was not merely a room — it was a sanctum where time bowed its head, and even the wind whispered in reverence.

Vast and majestic, the chamber opened like the heart of a mountain, its high arched ceiling soaring above, supported by ancient pillars carved with swirling dragons and phoenixes, their forms etched in gold and jade, coiling skyward as if ready to rise and fly. Their eyes, set with glinting gems, seemed to follow each step taken in their shadow.

At the far end, raised upon a three-step dais of blackstone veined with silver, stood the Throne of the Patriarch — an imposing seat carved from spiritwood, its armrests wrapped in crimson silk, the clan's sigil pulsing faintly at its crown. That symbol, older than most written language, shimmered with residual essence — the soulprint of generations past.

Behind the throne hung a colossal tapestry, woven with impossible detail. It depicted the founding ancestor of the Wind Blossom Clan — clad in flowing robes, sword raised to the heavens — standing alone against ten thousand spectral foes, with a dragon coiling through the stormy sky above him. It rippled faintly, though no wind touched it.

Flanking the throne in a crescent formation were twelve ornate seats, each belonging to a clan Elder. No two were alike: one was adorned with tiger bone, another wrapped in cloud silk, another carved from star-ash wood. Each reflected the character and cultivation path of its master. Their presence exuded wisdom, danger, and ancient pride.

Beneath their feet, the marble floor was polished to a mirror sheen, inlaid with patterns of the Five Elements and Eight Trigrams, forming a formation that constantly pulsed with protective essence— subtle, but unbreakable.

The chamber was bathed in soft, golden light cast by floating crystal lanterns, suspended midair by silent formation arrays. Their glow shimmered like fireflies in starlight, casting elegant shadows across the lacquered walls. There, panels of wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl depicted martial duels atop clouds, celestial beasts sleeping under moonlight, and ancient peaks untouched by time.

Incense drifted like spectral ribbons, its scent both calming and sharp — a mixture of dragonroot bark, thunder orchid, and frost lily. In the hidden corners, wind chimes tuned to the clan's spirit formations whispered ever so faintly, harmonizing with the natural qi that flowed through the sacred grounds.

And at the center of it all —

Seated high upon his throne —

Was Patriarch Rakel Stromvale.

Clad in layers of deep silver and midnight blue, his presence was like a blade hidden in silk. His back was straight, his expression carved in stone. The sigil of the Wind Blossom Clan was embroidered in gold upon his chest, pulsing faintly with qi. His eyes — sharp, cold, unyielding — fell upon Vern the moment he entered, but they did not soften.

To his right, seated in quiet dignity, was his Advisor — Master Korin Thael, a thin man with a long beard and a face lined by both wisdom and old suspicion. His hands were folded within his sleeves, but one eye twitched ever so slightly the moment he saw Vern.

To his left, unmoving, sat his Head Bodyguard, Commander Yulen Drahm — broad-shouldered, face weathered by decades of battle, essence restrained but ready to strike like a coiled serpent. His armor, though ceremonial, hummed faintly with protection arrays.

The Twelve Elders observed silently from their seats, each with expressions that ranged from curious to skeptical. They, too, had heard the rumors:

The worthless son had returned.

The weak child had somehow survived.

The boy who held no light.

Vern stepped across the polished floor, each step echoing with quiet strength, his gaze steady, unreadable.

The chamber did not welcome.

It watched.

Measured.

Judged.

And as Vern approached the foot of the dais, beneath the throne carved by legacy, beneath the tapestry of immortal struggle —

The silence tightened,

Like a bowstring pulled taut.

Then, Patriarch Rakel spoke.

His voice was calm.

Cold

Heavy

Commanding.

"You live. Speak . How you survived ?"

The air within the Patriarch Hall felt heavier now —

Not with noise, but with silence sharpened by scrutiny.

Vern stood before the dais, his posture calm, yet measured —

Like a blade sheathed in cloth, unseen but felt.

Patriarch Rakel's voice echoed across the marble floor:

"Speak, Vern. Where were you when our enemies came?"

His tone did not carry concern —

Only calculation.

Before Vern could respond, an Elder on the left — robed in deep bronze and draped in fox-fur — narrowed his eyes and added,

"And what of the attackers? Do you remember their faces? Their banners? Did they say who sent them?"

Another Elder spoke, voice like falling gravel:

"We've heard they were targeting your second brother, Raleth. That they failed in their main attempt and turned to the weakest of the bloodline as compensation."

The room grew colder with those words —

"The weakest of the bloodline."

Vern said nothing for a moment. He lifted his gaze toward his father, then slowly scanned the crescent of Elders, his voice low but steady when he finally spoke.

"I ran."

The bluntness silenced the small ripple of whispers.

"When the attack began, I was already outside the eastern wall — I had no guards. No one sent to protect me. I saw smoke, heard shouting… and I ran into the woods. They found me by nightfall."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"I ran deeper. For two days and two nights, they hunted me. I was wounded — I don't know how many times. At some point, I fell unconscious near a riverbank. I thought I had died."

One of the Elders leaned forward, voice clipped.

"You say 'fell unconscious'… yet you awoke. How?"

Vern's gaze sharpened faintly. He chose his words with precision.

"I don't know. Perhaps luck. Perhaps stubbornness. Or perhaps the will of something beyond our understanding."

Another voice — this one calm, almost amused — echoed from the right.

"And did you see their faces? Recognize their style? You were hunted for days, and you remember nothing of them?"

Vern looked at him — an Elder draped in sea-gray robes, silver embroidery swirling across his sleeves like waves.

"Their faces were masked. Their cultivation was strange — not clan-taught, not sectal. They didn't use techniques I recognized, but… their essence control was sharp. Refined. Cold."

The Advisor to the Patriarch, Master Korin, finally spoke — his tone quiet but piercing.

"You speak like someone who's felt essence before… but this body you carry holds no awakened core. No threads. Not even the faintest remnants of resonance."

A hush fell again.

Vern met the old man's eyes.

"Perhaps I was meant to awaken. Perhaps I'm not the same as I was before."

He didn't smile. He didn't flinch.

But something stirred beneath his words — not arrogance, but inevitability.

Patriarch Rakel raised a hand, and the voices fell silent.

He studied Vern long and hard — not as a father, but as the head of a clan who knew the scent of secrets.

"You speak carefully.."

'Because I've learned the price of speaking carelessly.'

"You are not dead. That alone is strange. The enemies came for Raleth — yet somehow it was you they cornered, and you who lived. A low-essence child evades skilled assassins for two days alone?"

Rakel's eyes narrowed.

"This is not a story I believe easily."

Vern bowed his head, just slightly.

"You asked how I survived. I gave my answer. If the clan chooses to doubt it… that is no longer my concern."

Gasps rippled through the Elder seats.

Such words, from Varn?

The silent child?

Patriarch Head bodyguard Yulen Drahm reacted but Rakel rise his hand to say not.

Rakel did not rise.

Nor did he punish the insolence.

He simply stared, long and cold.

Because deep down —

He, too, felt it.

This was not the same Vern who once walked these halls.

A long silence followed Vern's final words — bold, unbending, far from the boy they once knew.

And yet… Rakel Stromvale, Patriarch of the Wind Blossom Clan, did not rise from his throne.

He did not shout.

He did not strike the floor with his authority or silence the Elders with reprimand.

He simply said, his voice low and steady:

"You may leave."

The words cut through the air like a quiet sword.

Vern bowed just enough to satisfy formality, then turned and began walking away — his steps measured, his back straight, the tension of many gazes still clinging to his shoulders.

The great hall said nothing as he departed.

But Rakel watched.

And he did not blink.

As the boy — his son — disappeared through the golden archway, Rakel leaned back ever so slightly on the throne carved by his ancestors.

His fingers — unseen by the others — clenched around the carved lion's-head armrest. Just once. Just briefly.

No one noticed the shift in his breath.

No one heard the slight tremor that passed beneath the stoicism.

But deep within the Patriarch's iron-cased heart, something moved.

Beneath the mountain of his authority, behind the cold steel of his aura — there lived the memory of a woman he once loved. The only one who had softened him.

And the child she left behind.

Vern.

A boy who had never seen her smile.

A boy who grew up under shadows.

A boy he could never bring himself to hold.

And yet now… that boy had returned,

Wounded, strange, reborn, and impossibly changed.

Rakel's eyes remained fixed on the archway, even as the Elders resumed their hushed conversations.

To them, he was still the mountain — unmoved, unreadable.

But deep inside, the storm of a father's guilt churned quietly.

"You survived," he thought.

"Despite everything… you lived."

He did not speak it aloud.

He never would.

He could not.

Because a Patriarch was not a man.

He was a symbol. A shield. A spine of the clan.

To love openly was to show weakness.

And weakness… invited wolves.

And yet…

As the incense curled through the air and golden lanterns danced softly across the lacquered walls…

A slight smile appeared on his lips.

It was fleeting. Barely there.

But Advisor Korin, standing silently at his side, caught it.

His brow furrowed ever so slightly.

'Did… the Patriarch just smile?'

He said nothing aloud — only bowed his head deeper, unsure whether he'd imagined it or witnessed something far more terrifying:

A father, hidden inside a Patriarch.