The Veritas Heir

2. THE HOUSE OF SECRETS

The heavy doors creaked open like a sigh from something ancient. Zane Veil stepped inside, his breath catching in his throat. 

The air inside smelled of old books, cedarwood, and something else, like cold metal and forgotten promises.

The silver-haired woman who welcomed him stood tall and still. “This way, Mr. Veil.” Her voice was smooth, but without warmth.

Zane glanced behind him. The convoy was gone. The night air swallowed it. He was alone now.

He followed her through the front hall, his shoes echoing on the black stone floor. Every step made him feel smaller.

The walls were lined with portraits. Men and women, all dressed in dark suits, gazing forward with cold, thoughtful eyes. “Are those?”

“Past heirs,” the woman said. “Some ruled quietly. Some ruled loud. All were dangerous.”

Zane frowned. “Dangerous how?”

The woman paused at the base of a grand staircase. “They were powerful,” she said. “And power, true power, always has a price.”

…

They led him to a round chamber with high glass windows and golden light pouring from chandeliers above. 

A fireplace crackled at the far end. On a long table sat papers, folders, and a single silver box.

Three people waited. The woman stepped aside. “They’ll handle the rest. My role was only to bring you here.”

She turned and vanished down a hall without another word. Zane stood still.

One of the people at the table stood, a man in a dark green suit, older, face like stone. “I am Mr. Aldren,” the man said. “Head of the House of Inheritance.”

A woman with dark braids and sharp eyes gave a tight nod. “Dr. Kemi Vale. Genetic proof.”

And the last, a thin man with round glasses and a trembling smile, waved nervously. “Mr. Bell. Estate and legal.”

Zane crossed his arms. “What do you want from me?”

Aldren’s eyes didn’t blink. “It’s not what we want. It’s what is already yours.”

He pointed to the silver box. “Your father left instructions. Only you can open that box. If the pendant on your neck is real, if you are who we believe, then the Protocol will recognize you.”

Zane’s hand moved to the chain around his neck. The pendant was warm, always had been. A strange warmth. Like a heartbeat.

He stepped forward and placed it into the small round slot in the center of the box. Click. The box opened.

Inside was a card. Black. Matte. One word printed in silver foil. “PROTOCOL”

Below it was a code. Then a letter, folded neatly. Zane picked it up with shaking hands. The handwriting was smooth. Old-fashioned. Each word burned. 

“Zane, if you’re reading this, then I am dead. I do not expect your forgiveness. I gave you nothing as a child, but everything now as a man. You are my blood. And my legacy. What you choose to do with that... is up to you.”

“If you accept the inheritance, you will inherit not just wealth, but enemies. You will have power, yes, but also a target on your back. The first trial begins at dawn. You have twenty-four hours to accept or walk away.” C.G. Veil.

Zane dropped the letter. His heart thudded. Trial? Enemies? This wasn’t just about money. He looked up. “What kind of trial?”

Dr. Kemi Vale answered first. “To rule the Consortium, you must pass what your father passed. What all true heirs pass. Tests of wit, instinct, and will.”

Mr. Bell added, “Should you decline, the Consortium dissolves. Billions lost. Countries collapse. It’s all been waiting for you.”

Zane laughed once, dry. “What kind of madman leaves the world’s future to someone he abandoned?”

Mr. Aldren answered softly, “A man who believed that only fire forges steel.”

…

They gave Zane a room at the top of the manor. Tower-like. Cold stone walls, but with a view that stretched far across distant hills and cities below.

He didn’t sleep. How could he? The letter lay on the desk. The Protocol card beside it.

He stared out the window for hours, trying to remember anything, anything, about his father.

Nothing came. Only his mother’s voice. She used to say: “You weren’t made to serve. You were made to lead, even if you don’t see it yet.”

He had always thought it was just comfort. Maybe it had been prophecy. Then, he heard something. A whisper. He turned fast. His door was cracked open. Someone had entered.

…

Zane moved slowly. Quiet as breath. He slid open the nightstand drawer. Inside was a pen. Sharp enough.

He crept into the hallway. Shadows stretched long. “Hello?” he whispered.

No answer. Then, a hand grabbed him. He slammed his elbow back. Heard a grunt. Turned. Faced a hooded figure in black.

A fight broke out in the hallway. Fists. Slams. The intruder was fast, but Zane was desperate. He fought like someone who’d never had safety, never had backup.

The intruder fell against a wall. Zane ripped the hood down. A girl. No older than him. Pale eyes. Blonde. Angry. “Who are you?” he demanded, panting.

She glared. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Then she threw something at his feet. Smoke. Zane coughed and stumbled. By the time the air cleared, she was gone.

…

Zane returned to his room. The silver box was open. But something was different. The Protocol card was gone.

In its place was a note, written in jagged red ink: “The trials have already begun. Survive the night, Heir.”

Zane stared at it, his mind racing. No one told him the test started now. No one told him people would try to kill him before morning.

He picked up the pen again. His jaw clenched. If this was the beginning then he wasn’t going to run. He was going to pass. Or die trying.