Second Choice Noble Son: Apparently I’m Stronger Than the Summoned Heroes

Seris POV

The Revingale manor stood tall in the capital’s western district, its banners fluttering proudly with the sigil of a crimson sword and silver lion.

But to Seris Revingale, the halls felt colder than any battlefield.

She had returned home the day before—

And word of her defeat had already spread faster than her carriage wheels could turn.

At breakfast, the long dining table was quiet except for the clinking of silverware.

Her father sat at the head, his eyes sharp as a drawn blade. Lord Revingale, the man who once claimed the title Sword of the Empire, now stared at her with silent fury.

“So,” he said at last, his voice low but slicing through the air, “my daughter—heir of Revingale blood—kneels before the child of exiles.”

Seris didn’t look away. “I lost. But I lost with my sword clean.”

The room froze. Even the servants looked away, sensing the danger in her words.

Her father’s hand tightened around his cup until it cracked.

“Clean?” His tone turned venomous. “You dare use that word in this house? Do you forget what our family sacrificed to claim the title of Sword?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Sacrifice? You mean the curse you used to win a duel you didn’t deserve?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Her mother gasped. A servant dropped a dish that shattered on the marble floor.

Lord Revingale rose from his chair, his shadow falling over her like a storm.

“You speak treason in your own home.”

Seris stood as well, shoulders straight, heart pounding but voice steady.

“Maybe I do. But I’d rather speak treason than live as a coward.”

For the first time, her father didn’t answer. He just stared—long enough for Seris to see the flicker of shame behind his anger.

A scar of guilt buried too deep to heal.

“Leave,” he said finally. “Before I forget you’re my daughter.”

She bowed stiffly, every part of her body trembling but her pride unbroken.

“Yes, Father.”

Later that evening, she stood alone in her room. The walls around her were filled with trophies, medals, and empty praise — proof of a family obsessed with power.

She let out a long breath, removing her gauntlets and laying her sword across the table.

Through the window, the moon shone faintly over the city.

Her reflection in the glass looked tired but free.

“You wanted me to steal Edmond,” she whispered, voice barely audible.

“But I won’t. He already belongs to someone who deserves him.”

Her gaze softened, memories of a small boy with bright eyes and a strange calm flooding her mind.

A boy who stood beside a divine tree, surrounded by shimmering water and light.

“I have someone else now,” she said quietly.

“Someone I’ll fight for, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

Seris turned toward her sword, her fingers brushing against the blade.

“Rooga Valemont,” she murmured with a small smile.

The moonlight framed her silhouette as she raised her sword, not in defiance—

but in promise.

Next day ,

Cassian POV

The grand hall of House Revingale blazed with light and laughter that night.

Crystal chandeliers spilled gold across polished marble, and every noble in the capital seemed eager to toast to one man — Lord Cassian Revingale, the Sword of the Empire.

Cassian stood tall at the head of the banquet, wine in hand, his smile refined and practiced.

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He wore the empire’s crimson mantle, its embroidery glinting like blood in the candlelight.

Around him, the vultures gathered, wearing the faces of friends.

“To Lord Cassian, the undefeated Sword!”

“To the man who humbled Valemont’s pride!”

“May his blade protect the Empire for generations!”

Their voices blended into one, a wave of praise that filled the hall.

Cassian lifted his cup in silence, letting their flattery wash over him.

He had learned long ago that power was not held by strength alone—

but by how loudly others shouted your name.

When the cheers died down, he gave a polite nod, his words smooth and venomous.

“Your kindness honors me. House Revingale merely serves the will of the Emperor. The duel with Valemont was… unfortunate, but necessary.”

A portly noble leaned closer, drunk and loud.

“Unfortunate? Don’t be so humble, Lord Cassian! The man was a relic. His family grew soft with peace! It’s good that his bloodline was thinned before it poisoned the Empire.”

Laughter erupted.

Another noblewoman, dripping in pearls, smirked.

“I heard his wife—Selene, was it?—was once a mage of renown. What a waste, turning her into a housewife of an exile.”

Cassian’s jaw twitched for a moment, but he hid it behind a sip of wine.

He knew better than to defend his old rival’s name.

There was no profit in sympathy. Only in silence.

“Valemont…” he murmured, almost to himself.

“They were too proud to survive. The world only remembers those who bow to it.”

More gifts arrived as the night deepened—boxes of enchanted trinkets, scrolls from foreign merchants, fine wines from Asterion’s royal cellar.

Each one offered with the same empty congratulations.

None of them knew the truth.

That Cassian’s victory had not been born of strength—

but of a curse, a forbidden mark woven into his veins by a desperate pact.

And though the laughter echoed around him, Cassian could still feel it burning beneath his skin—

the whisper of the curse that had never truly left.

Later, when the guests had gone and the torches dimmed, he stood before the family mirror in silence.

His reflection looked back with eyes that were not entirely his own—dark veins pulsing faintly beneath the surface.

He touched his chest, feeling the slow, crawling pain that came with every heartbeat.

“You all cheer for a corpse,” he muttered.

“But I’m the one who buried myself the day I won.”

Behind him, the door creaked. A maid entered quietly.

“My lord, Lady Seris has locked herself in her room again. Shall I fetch her?”

Cassian’s lips curved in a bitter smirk.

“No. Let her sulk. One day she’ll understand… in this empire, victory is all that matters.”

But even as he said it, his hand trembled—

and for a fleeting moment, he saw Darius Valemont’s eyes staring back from the mirror.

Eyes that once looked at him not with hatred, but with pity.

At the same time during the feast,

Seris POV

Laughter.

That was the first thing Seris heard when she woke.

It seeped through the cracks in her chamber door—rich, ugly laughter from the grand hall below.

The Revingale estate always held feasts when her father returned from the palace, but tonight’s sounded different.

Louder. Crueler.

She pushed herself up, still in her training tunic, and crept toward the balcony above the hall.

Below her, the nobles shimmered in gold and jewels, their goblets raised, their smiles sharp as daggers.

At the center of it all stood Lord Cassian Revingale, her father—his smile perfectly composed, his laughter perfectly hollow.

“To House Revingale!” one noble shouted.

“To the family that humbled Valemont!”

Applause. Toasts. False reverence.

Each word a dagger twisting deeper.

Seris gripped the marble railing so hard her knuckles turned white.

“The exile deserved it!”

“Even the emperor grows tired of their sanctimonious pride!”

“Good riddance to the old Sword and his witch of a wife!”

The words clawed at her chest. She wanted to scream, to throw her sword down from above and shatter their goblets.

But her father just laughed with them—

the same man who once told her that honor was heavier than any blade.

Now, he bowed to empty praise like a jester to his master.

She could see it clearly even from above—the faint pulse of black under his collar, a hint of the curse still eating away at him.

And yet he smiled, raising his glass high.

“The Empire stands strong,” he declared. “For as long as Revingale draws its sword in its name.”

Another round of applause.

Another lie to bury truth beneath the noise.

Seris backed away from the railing, the laughter below echoing like a taunt.

When she reached her room, she shut the door quietly and leaned her back against it.

Her hands were trembling. Not with fear, but rage.

“You once told me to never let the Empire corrupt my heart,” she whispered.

“But look at you now, Father. You traded your soul for applause.”

Her gaze drifted to her sword resting by the wall.

She had polished it earlier that evening—a habit she learned from him.

It glimmered in the candlelight, the edge cold and pure.

She sheathed it slowly, whispering to herself,

“I’ll never let them make me like you.

I’ll carry the name Revingale—but I’ll rewrite what it means.”

She stepped toward the window and looked out at the moon.

Somewhere far from the capital, beyond the reach of lies and feasts, there was a small boy and a goddess’ tree that shone like dawn.

Her lips curved into a faint smile.

“Wait for me, Rooga Valemont. One day, I’ll stand where I belong… beside you.”

And below, the sound of laughter went on— Fınd the newest release on NoveI[F]ire.net

but it no longer reached her heart.