Chapter 37 – 37: House of Masks

The sheets were colder than he remembered.

Not cold from weather—cold from silence, from familiarity without warmth.

Noel’s eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the dim morning light that filtered through the heavy curtains of his childhood room.

The same four-poster bed.

The same high ceilings and carved wooden furniture.

The same sterile scent of incense and old money.

He sat up with a slow breath, muscles stiff from the ride. A faint ache lingered in his back, the kind that came not from combat—but from trying too hard to look composed for too long.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and let his feet touch the polished stone floor.

‘Three months gone, and it’s like I never left.’

He padded barefoot to the bathroom—marble tiles and a basin that gleamed with polished silver. The water ran warm, a rare comfort in this house, and he stood under it longer than he meant to.

Steam filled the room.

It didn’t chase the weight from his shoulders, but it gave him time to breathe.

Once clean and dried, he pulled on the clothes that had been left out for him:

A dark grey noble coat with black trim, high collar. A fresh white shirt beneath. Slim black trousers, and his boots—polished until they reflected the light.

He fastened his belt, then took Revenant Fang from where it leaned against the wardrobe. The sword clicked softly into its sheath at his hip, the weight familiar.

He walked over to the mirror and paused.

Hair combed. Clothes sharp. Posture straight.

The reflection looking back at him was exactly what House Thorne expected.

And yet—

‘I don’t know what he really thinks of Noel Thorne.’

‘Not me. Him. The original. The one I replaced.’

‘I wasn’t the protagonist of this world. I wasn’t supposed to see what came next.’

He gave his reflection a faint, humorless smirk.

Then turned.

The butler would be arriving any second now.

And the Patriarch didn’t like to be kept waiting.

A soft knock came at the door.

Noel turned just as the butler stepped in, bowing with practiced precision.

“The Lord Patriarch will see you now.”

Noel gave a quiet nod and followed him through the manor’s halls — long corridors of cold stone, lined with family portraits that seemed to glare down from their gilded frames.

The further they walked, the quieter everything became.

Noel’s boots echoed faintly against the marble floors until they reached the doors of the study — dark oak, carved with the Thorne crest: a lion’s head wrapped in thorns.

The butler opened one side with a soft creak.

Noel stepped inside.

The study was vast and old, filled with books that reeked of age and knowledge. A single high window let in a beam of light that struck the polished desk in the center of the room like a spotlight.

Behind it sat Lord Albrecht Thorne.

The man did not stand. He didn’t need to.

He was seated, yet somehow taller than the room around him.

His build was imposing — broad-shouldered and straight-backed, with the kind of posture that made men feel smaller without a word.

His hair, once jet black, had silvered at the temples but was slicked back without a strand out of place. His angular face was carved in severity: high cheekbones, a sharp nose, a mouth that had forgotten how to smile.

He wore a dark military-style noble coat — black with blood-red accents and silver lion clasps. No jewelry. No rings. Only a signet on his left hand, gleaming faintly under the beam of light.

But more than his appearance—

It was the aura he gave off.

Not magical.

Just… weight.

Like standing before a stone statue that might come alive if you said the wrong thing.

Noel approached the center of the room and bowed, low but controlled.

“Father.”

Lord Albrecht didn’t gesture for him to rise.

His eyes — cold, pale grey — studied him in silence for a long moment. Not like a father seeing his son.

Like a man evaluating an asset.

Finally, his voice rumbled low and even:

“You’ve returned.”

Noel stood upright again, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Albrecht’s eyes flicked to the sword at his side.

Then back up.

“You’re different.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

It wasn’t an accusation either.

Just an observation.

‘Let’s see where this goes.’

Lord Albrecht didn’t offer a seat.

He never did.

Noel stood before the desk, arms at his sides, posture straight, every movement measured.

The study was silent, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace in the corner — a sound more ceremonial than comforting.

“You sent a letter,” Albrecht said finally. “A curious one.”

Noel didn’t respond. He waited.

“I assume its content was true,” the man continued. “That your injuries during your return were the result of an… unfortunate coincidence.”

His tone made it clear he didn’t believe in coincidences.

But he also wasn’t going to press it.

Noel nodded once.

“Yes. I took care of it.”

Albrecht leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him.

“You returned with more than just a pulse. Your name was mentioned during the post-event report sent by the academy. Several times.”

Noel said nothing.

“You were seen during the chaos. Participating. Intervening. You earned recognition—though you avoided the ceremony.”

“I was unconscious.”

Albrecht raised a brow.

“A convenient excuse. But one I won’t contest.”

He reached into a drawer and withdrew a sealed parchment. The imperial crest was pressed into the wax.

“A commendation from the academy. The first issued to a Thorne in over a decade.”

He set it on the table between them but made no motion to hand it over.

“It’s not fame I value,” he said. “But prestige is a currency. And you’ve just deposited something we were short on.”

Noel’s eyes flicked to the seal, then back to his father.

‘So this is what approval looks like.’

“I expected little of you,” Albrecht added. “You gave more. That is… acceptable.”

Noel gave a short breath of dry amusement.

“High praise. I’ll have it engraved.”

The older man didn’t flinch.

He stood, finally — slow and deliberate.

Even at his age, the man’s presence didn’t waver. His height, posture, and stillness carried the same weight they always had.

Noel remained standing, eyes level.

Albrecht walked past the desk and toward the wide windows, looking out over the estate’s northern gardens.

“You’ll remain here during the academy’s closure,” he said. “We’ll see if your usefulness was an anomaly—or the beginning of something more.”

He turned back.

“For now, you’re dismissed.”

Noel gave a precise nod.

Then turned and walked out, the sealed parchment still on the desk behind him.

The doors closed behind him with a muted thud, muffled by age and silence.

Noel stepped back into the corridor of polished stone and cold light, flanked by portraits of ancestors with names he barely cared to remember.

He walked slowly.

Not because he was tired.

But because every step forward felt like walking through someone else’s life.

Servants passed him in silence — eyes low, steps quiet. They didn’t greet him. They didn’t need to. They’d been trained not to.

Noel ran a hand lightly along the carved railing of the staircase as he descended to the eastern wing.

It was all the same.

The same scent of cedar and wax.

The same heavy windows.

The same chilling calm that hung in the halls like a fog that never lifted.

‘Everything here remembers a Noel that isn’t me.’

‘And everyone expects me to keep playing his part.’

He stepped through one of the side corridors and emerged into the rear courtyard — empty now, the gardens maintained but unloved. Statues of faceless warriors lined the edges. A dry fountain stood at the center like a forgotten relic.

He remembered — faintly — a moment from the novel:

A future scandal.

A disgrace that would tarnish House Thorne’s name.

Its fall.

But the details were vague. One scene. One page. The house became a cautionary tale. Background noise. Nothing more.

Back then, it hadn’t mattered.

Now?

It did.

‘I’m standing in a house with a future I don’t fully understand.’

‘And I don’t know what pieces are already in motion to bring it down.’

Noel pushed the door open and stepped back into his room.

Dim light filtered through the drawn curtains. The fire in the hearth had gone out.

He didn’t bother relighting it.

He sat down at the edge of his bed, undoing the buttons on his coat slowly, one by one, until the stiffness of formality peeled away and he could just breathe.

His sword was placed against the wall. His boots set aside.

Everything quiet again.

But his mind wasn’t.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced.

‘In the novel, House Thorne had a name.’

‘And that name became a warning.’

The book hadn’t spent many pages on it.

Just a line or two.

Mentions of scandal, of betrayal, of disgrace that unfolded offscreen — behind the scenes, away from the story’s center.

The protagonist hadn’t been involved.

Noel had barely paid attention to it back then.

But now?

Now he was living in the place that was destined to fall.

Sleeping in its halls.

Carrying its name.

And worst of all?

‘I don’t know when it begins. I don’t know who starts it. I don’t even know if I already did.’

He leaned back, letting his shoulders sink into the mattress.

Eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He thought of Lord Albrecht.

The man’s presence.

His poise.

His control.

There had been no overt display of magic — but Noel could feel it.

The raw mana buried under the man’s skin. Still. Quiet. Lethal.

‘He’s an Archmage-tier combatant.’

‘One of the strongest in the continent of Valor.’

‘And yet… the house still burns in the end.’

How does a man like that let his family rot?

How does a warrior of that level stand still while the walls collapse around him?

Unless—

‘Unless he doesn’t care.’

‘Or maybe… he’s the one who starts the fire.’

That thought chilled him more than the estate ever could.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep