"Lady Talia?"
She paused for a moment, exhaled quietly, then turned slowly. She began walking toward the table with steady steps, though she had already heard the faint whispers and muffled laughter before reaching them…
The speaker was Lady Isabel Windsword, eldest daughter of Earl Yukron Windsword, also in her twenties. She had long black hair laced with a dark bluish sheen, and deep blue eyes. Her black dress was luxurious, gleaming as though chosen to be seen before she herself was. Its edges were adorned with delicate golden and silver embroidery, glittering with each movement as if she feared her presence might be forgotten for even a moment. Around her waist, a dark blue sash studded with tiny sparkling stones circled—not to highlight her beauty, but to proclaim it. She completed her adornment with a glowing necklace and long dangling earrings that fell with confidence, as though declaring herself part of a scene that could not be ignored. Behind her gentle smile, however, lurked something more cunning.
Isabel, with a pleasant smile: "Please, Lady Talia, join us for tea. It would be our pleasure to have your company."
Talia smiled softly, then pulled out a chair and sat down without a word. She remained silent for a few moments, her eyes calmly surveying the room, until Isabel broke the silence with a question.
Isabel: "Are you still studying politics?"
Talia, gazing away without changing her expression: "Yes."
At that, another young woman seated to Isabel's right interjected with a mocking tone. She was Katerina Rosefield, not yet twenty, with hair in the shades of autumn leaves, as if nature itself had gifted her its seasonal crown. Her short hair was adorned with brown braids. Her eyes resembled the depths of the ocean—calm on the surface, yet concealing hidden currents and unspoken secrets, as though each glance carried the weight of the deep. She wore a white dress trimmed with gray details.
Katerina, with a smirk: "Heh… and why?"
Talia did not reply at once. She looked at her as though she were not even worthy of a response. But Isabel, who seemed to relish the scene, cut in with an amused smile.
Isabel: "Oh, Kate… don't you know that Viscountess Talia is considered the foremost expert in politics among the ladies? She is very well-read. Ahem… even if not many ladies have ventured into this field. Still, it is quite an achievement for her, in any case."
A small laugh escaped Katerina, followed by a hesitant giggle from another girl beside her, as if forced to participate. The girl seated at Talia's right remained silent, sipping her tea quietly.
Isabel, in a tone of false apology: "Ah… forgive me, Lady Talia, if my words offended you."
Talia closed her eyes briefly, then replied with cold composure: "There is no need to apologize, Lady Isabel… it is quite all right. I can answer Lady Katerina's question, if she wishes to hear my reply."
Katerina looked at her with interest, and Talia continued with the same glacial calm.
Talia, with a serene smile and a gaze carrying a hidden sharpness: "Simply… because I chose to. I am not a portrait hanging in a palace, waiting for someone to claim ownership. Nor am I a commodity to be displayed and bargained over.
I shape my destiny with my own hands, just as my father wished… for I am not merely a daughter, but a person of worth, capable of being of use—to him, and to others as well."
The room fell silent, as though her words had cast a cold shadow across the table. Some exchanged glances, caught between quiet astonishment and muted mockery, while the girl beside Talia raised an eyebrow in admiration. Katerina bit her lip, suppressing an objection not yet formed. The rest remained silent for a while, as though Talia's words had touched something they dared not admit.
Then, Katerina burst out in a scoffing laugh, wrapped in feigned indifference.
Katerina, with a mocking smile: "Really? And how exactly will you be of use to him? Does he have strange ambitions we don't know of? Or is it that he—"
But her words stopped abruptly, as if the air froze in her chest. She met Isabel's eyes, which cut into her with a look that allowed no defiance. In that gaze was a frigid sharpness, like a blade pressed against her throat. Katerina felt a faint sting of unease, yet composed herself, forcing a cold smile as though nothing had happened. She then turned back to Talia, who had not changed her expression, but whose calm stillness awakened in Katerina a primal warning… a sense that the girl before her was not someone to be trifled with.
At that moment, another young woman hastily spoke up, eager to break the rising tension. She was Renalis Varonet, in her twenties, with dark blond hair and hazel eyes. She wore a black hat and a gray dress embroidered with golden and white patterns.
Renalis, her voice betraying nervousness: "Ah… ladies! Have you seen Dame Barbara?"
All eyes turned toward her in curiosity, to which Katerina responded with biting mockery.
Katerina: "Heh… that arrogant one?! The only thing she has is her conceit, just because she was awarded a knight's insignia!"
Isabel gave a feigned laugh as she stirred her tea, then added with open derision.
Isabel: "Is she truly proud of that? Hah… a false royal decoration will not change the fact that she is merely a spoiled girl. I see no reason for her selection other than being the daughter of Marchioness Artis…"
Soft laughter rippled among the ladies, but Talia remained silent, stirring her tea slowly and with poise, as though lost in another world.
Then, in a steady, quiet voice, Talia said: "Perhaps because she's in the war."
A heavy silence descended over the table, stilling every movement as all eyes turned toward her in astonishment. Isabel frowned slightly before replying with sharp coldness.
Isabel: "What do you mean?"
Talia opened her eyes slowly, staring directly at her with a gaze that brimmed with quiet confidence.
Talia: "Perhaps because she is the only noble lady from a high family who agreed to take up arms—fighting bravely for her kingdom."
Katerina raised an eyebrow in defiance and mockery, whispering in a cutting tone.
Katerina: "Heh… I doubt her presence there is limited to just fighting."
Talia did not turn toward her. Instead, she replied with a simple question, sharp as an arrow that pierced straight into Katerina's heart.
Talia: "Tell me, what have you done with your life that gives you the right to criticize a knight honored by the king himself?"
Katerina froze, speechless. Her eyes darted to Isabel, who sipped her tea calmly as if the matter concerned her not, attempting to slip away from the moment. But before she could, another arrow struck.
Talia: "And I mean you as well… Lady Isabel."
Isabel stopped drinking. Her eyes widened, then she slowly placed her cup on the table, as though weighing her words.
Isabel: "What?… How dare you?!… My father currently leads the Second Battalion in the Battle of Draxul! He has brought victory to the kingdom countless times, and he will do so again today."
Talia inclined her head slightly, then spoke in a voice as cold as frost.
Talia: "I did not mean your father, Isabel..."
Isabel's eyes widened in shock, as if she had lost her balance for a heartbeat, before quickly composing herself. She raised her voice, attempting to smother her unease.
Isabel: "Really? And you?! What have you ever done in your life to look down on us with such arrogance? Has your title and being first in politics among the ladies made you this conceited?!"
Before Talia could respond, another voice interjected. It belonged to Lady Rosaline Castro. Despite the simplicity of her adornments, Rosaline was the embodiment of quiet beauty and irresistible grace. She set her cup down gently, her voice calm and steady as she spoke. Her long emerald-green hair flowed like a silken curtain, styled with such care that it reflected her high status, glistening under the candlelight as though alive.
She wore a sky-blue silk gown embroidered with silver threads that traced delicate flowers across the sleeves and bodice. A golden sash wrapped around her waist, accentuating her elegance. Her wide blue eyes carried a deep wisdom and unshakable confidence, radiating intelligence and dignity that would not bend.
Rosaline: "Viscountess Talia is not only the foremost among the ladies… she holds the second rank in the entire kingdom."
A deadly silence gripped the table. Shock was etched on Isabel and Katerina's faces, while Renalis remained expressionless, turning her gaze away from everyone.
The air grew heavier, the weight of revelation pressing down on every breath. Isabel, who had not known this truth until now, felt a sting that wounded her pride more deeply than words could convey. In her eyes flickered a flash of concealed fury as she quickly turned her glare upon Katerina—sharp and merciless.
Katerina felt that gaze strike her, and her body shivered. Her voice wavered, trembling as if she spoke more to herself than to explain.
Katerina: "I-I didn't want to spoil your mood back then…"
But as the words stumbled out, it was clear she realized the enormity of her mistake. Yet the admission and unease had come far too late.
Talia, with a faint smile: "Thank you, Lady Rosaline. It was never my intent to speak of that before everyone, nor to boast of it… For parading around with titles is not in my nature."
Talia then turned toward Isabel, continuing with the same calm smile and steady, confident eyes.
Talia: "If I have reached that rank, it was never for the sake of talking about it… but because I forced myself to keep my eyes fixed always on the one who surpassed me. A man who never once yielded the first rank… Duke Lucas Nightover. It was an honor to contend against such a genius. Merely striving to chase his brilliance was enough to push me beyond many limits."
Isabel clenched her teeth, then turned her gaze aside, struggling to preserve her pride. Yet her tension was unmistakable, and the air itself seemed to grow heavier. The table was no longer a space for refined conversation, but a silent battlefield—where words were weapons, and silence deadlier than any direct assault.
Amid this suffocating tension, Katerina sought to seize a chance to prove her loyalty to Isabel, hoping to win back a shred of her favor. She lifted her head slightly and spoke with an affected sweetness, concealing a poisonous smile beneath.
Katerina, in a soft yet sly tone: "Lady Talia… is there any news of your elder brother…?"
Her question was followed by a moment of silence. It was unexpected, and it heightened the tension in the air. Isabel turned quickly, a glimmer of vengeance in her eyes, but she froze when she saw Talia still calm… as though nothing had happened.
Talia: "He's fine… if that's what you're asking."
Katerina hesitated for a moment, but then decided to press on, attempting to unsettle Talia:
Katerina: "I've heard so many rumors about him… They say he's a disgrace to House Vanheim, loitering in the taverns of Dunmer and Saveros… Some even whisper he's nothing but a beggar chasing pleasures…"
A victorious smile spread across Isabel's face, while Talia closed her eyes. Then, after a brief silence, she opened them and spoke in a low voice.
Talia: "Of course, Lady Katerina… rumors remain rumors."
Katerina kept her mocking smile, but glanced at Isabel, who nodded back at her reassuringly.
And in that moment, Talia's thoughts drifted to the past year… to the betrothal celebration between House Windsword and House Sparov, where everything seemed destined—yet beneath those memories… a secret still lay unrevealed.
Nerossia – The cold breeze carried with it the scent of wild herbs and the dampness of the air, while tall green hills stretched far and wide, crowned on the horizon by the ancient castle of House Windsword.
Behind Skyrock Palace, the towering mountain peaks stood like eternal guardians, scattered with stone watchtowers that had endured for decades, silently recounting tales of wars and faded glory.
Inside a luxurious carriage steeped in tension sat Viscountess Talia Vanheim, beside her father, Duke Blatir, and her younger brother, Viscount Deon. She stared out the window at the vast pastures, her eyes absorbing the charm of a land she had not set foot on for years. She knew this evening was not merely a betrothal celebration, but a cornerstone in a web of political arrangements, where interests intertwined long before hands would clasp in courtly dances.
At the grand gate, the procession halted, and it was King Irvin Luskarth who descended first.
Despite his ailment, he did not lean on his cane, nor did he reveal weakness. He advanced with steady steps, bearing the dignity of a king who carried on his shoulders the legacy of the land and its people.
At his side walked Duke Lucas Nightover, with his usual composure, followed by Ser Variss Sathray, cloaked in solemn silence.
As the noble families' carriages rattled along the gravel road leading to the Windsword estate, their horses plodding patiently behind a procession of royal colors and fragrances… there was another silence—one unseen by the nobles—lurking in the shadow of a weathered wooden fence, by the edge of a golden field.
There stood Aqua Nightover, leaning against the old wooden wall, arms folded across his chest. He seemed unfazed by the heat of the sun or the tolling bells that announced the guests' arrival. His blue eyes were fixed on the castle from afar, yet it seemed as though he saw something far beyond it.
Aqua, with his usual smile, never turning his gaze: "Are you sure you want to stay here?… Don't you even want to take a glance at your family? Come on, man, how many years has it been since you last saw them?"
Before him, Raymond Vanheim lay stretched out among the golden stalks of wheat glowing in the sunlight, as though the earth itself had chosen to embrace him in a fleeting moment of peace. His body rested against the grass, head leaning against the wall from the opposite side, a straw hat covering his face—a thin barrier between him and the light of the world.
Raymond did not answer. He remained silent, as if every question in the world had grown too heavy for words.
Aqua, tilting his head slightly, with a teasing mix of sarcasm and feigned curiosity: "Seriously… have you ever had a woman in your life, you scoundrel?… I doubt it. Who in her right mind would want a vagrant like you… a woman-chaser, a drunk wandering between taverns that reek of damp and filth—"
But before he could finish, Raymond's hand shot up sharply, pushing the hat off his face. He shouted, his voice blazing with enough intensity to shatter every trace of Aqua's mockery.
Raymond, eyes ablaze: "Stop repeating those stupid rumors! I usually don't care, but when they come from your mouth, I feel like smashing that noble face of yours!"
Aqua chuckled lightly, unfazed, then slowly lowered himself to the ground, lying beside him against the wall, as if those curses were nothing more than a familiar tune between two friends weathered by time.
Aqua, in a near-genuine whisper: "Alright… but in truth… I honestly wish you would."
Raymond exhaled slowly, his gaze vague upon the sky, then spoke with a chill as though his words were drawn from a dry well.
Raymond: "Hah… what? Smashing your face?"
Aqua rested his head against the wood, his eyes following the small birds dancing on the branches above, singing in a language that required no understanding. His voice came low, tinged with a tone Raymond had never heard from him before… a blend of concern, fear, and pity.
Aqua: "I mean… having someone by your side would do you good. I fear you'll lose yourself down this path. You have no aim but running away, pretending you're 'living free'… but that's not freedom, it's just loneliness dressed in many masks. If you're going to keep walking this road… at least you'll need someone. Someone who could be a beacon to you, who reminds you when you forget, holds you when you fall, shouts at you when you begin to fade. And who knows? Maybe that black heart of yours… might shine one day."
Raymond stayed silent, but his eyes narrowed slowly, as though something inside him responded against his will. He looked at the sky, then the treetops, then the little birds… until finally, he closed his eyes and sighed deeply, as if every breath carried countless untold stories.
Raymond, in a hushed tone: "Quit your stupid preaching… I'm nothing like you, the perfect man."
He said it quietly, pulling the straw hat back over his face, as though letting the world vanish behind it once more. Aqua, however, kept staring forward, his faint smile fading, his shimmering eyes reflecting a haunting blue, like a sea hiding secrets beneath its waves.
Aqua, murmuring: "perfect… huh?"
He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the birds were gone.
Aqua: "I wish I were… even though I… hate them."
There was in his voice a shadow of old longing… and of regret whose story had never been told.
Raymond, despite his feigned surrender to sleep, sensed something strange creeping into the air. He tilted the edge of his hat slightly, watching Aqua with a serious gaze.
In that moment, Aqua seemed not to be here at all, but speaking to ghosts unseen. His eyes were lost in the sky, his lips unmoving, but inside, he was boiling.
That was when Raymond decided to rise. He stretched his body as if shaking off a long numbness, placed his hand on his sword's hilt, and spoke with steady tone, carrying the warmth of friendship and an attempt to break the heavy mood.
Raymond: "Get up, come on, let's spar. I know how much you love swinging that sword as much as you love breathing. It's been far too long since our last match, and I'd wager you miss it more than you admit."
Aqua looked at him for a moment. Then, as if his pupils regained the clarity of reality, he smiled faintly, gave a short laugh, and spoke with a voice half-sarcasm, half-truth.
Aqua: "Heh… I'm not a machine, you know. I'm human too, despite everything. And I've no intention of dueling now…"
He said it aloud, more like an act than conviction, as though trying to convince himself as well. He reclined on the grass, hands behind his head, eyes on the sky.
Raymond watched him in surprise, trying to understand what had changed. He sighed.
Raymond: "Hm?… Never thought I'd hear that from someone like you…"
But Aqua remained still, gazing upward, where no birds lingered and little light remained. His faint smile waned, and the glimmer in his eyes turned into something deeper… something like an old desire that had never been fulfilled, still clutched despite the dust.
And in that moment… there was nothing but the silence of the fields, and a light breeze carrying the breath of the past.
At the entrance of the castle.
Everyone was waiting for the formal greeting of Earl Yukron Windsword, who stood tall at the gates of his castle. His presence radiated strength and authority, with his jet-black hair tinged faintly with blue, falling smoothly over his forehead and brushing against his shoulders. His deep blue eyes were like an ocean swallowed by mystery, their sharp gaze carrying a resolve that seemed capable of reading those before him without a single word.
Upon his face, life had carved its marks… a deep scar cut across his right eye, a hollow groove that did nothing to diminish the sharpness of his stare; another scar crossed his nose at the bridge, a strict horizontal line that seemed to divide it in two. Both marks spoke of a bygone era, yet they did not weaken his presence—they only added to its severity.
Completing his features was a short, thick beard of the same dark hue as his hair, running from beneath his ears and locking tightly over his mouth like a seal, adding to his dignity a touch of mystery and deliberate silence. Though he was in his forties, his features bore the weight of life's experiences, making him appear older, his tall, lean frame and upright posture proclaiming the authority of old lineage—as though he had sprung from the soil of this castle, only to return to it fiercer than ever before.
Behind him, the Marquess Atris Starkov alighted, walking with slow steps, her eyes wandering as if breathing a world that did not belong to this place. She barely lifted her gaze from the ground—until a familiar voice broke through her reverie.
"Thank you for coming, Atris."
Earl Nicholas Sparoff stood before her with calmness and elegance. His pale blond hair, short and carefully tousled, glowed faintly under the sunlight, like living strands of gold. His sharp blue eyes carried the spark of a hidden wit, their shade reminiscent of the summer sky. Though nearing his late thirties, his features still retained a youthful air, as if time itself had failed to leave a mark on him. His gentle smile held warmth and quiet confidence, while his lithe frame suggested the agility of a man accustomed to movement and maneuver.
Atris paused briefly. She did not approach him; instead, she turned her face slightly, as though the sight of him weighed heavily upon her chest. Then she answered in a cold voice, without stopping her stride:
Atheris: "I did not come for you… but for my son. Remember that well."
Nicholas exhaled deeply, his eyes following her until she disappeared among the crowd. Then he released a silent sigh, as though words had lost their worth.
Inside the palace – Isabele's chamber
In her lavish chamber, Isabele Windsword sat before her mirror while maids surrounded her, arranging her hair and adding the finishing touches to her carefully tailored gown, making her appear like a princess out of a tale. Beside her stood Katerina Rosefield, gazing at her with open admiration.
Katerina: "Wow! Lady Isabelle, you look like a true angel!"
Isabelle smiled faintly, her eyes calm, though their glow betrayed the confidence within.
Isabelle: "Heh… I truly am, Kate."
Katerina laughed, followed by Isabelle's delicate giggle—unaware that this night would bear secrets soon to be revealed, leaving behind fragments too sharp to piece together.
The corridors of the palace – Night had cast its solemn veil, from which a gentle breeze seeped through, heralding the beginning of an extraordinary evening.
Throughout the palace, melodies began to rise in soft preludes, preparing for the engagement banquet of Felix Sparoff and Isabele Windsword that would soon commence. The light from chandeliers above shimmered and swayed, reflected in the ornamental pools, creating a scene that seemed plucked from a misty dream—something closer to memory than to reality.
In a secluded corner of the grand hall, Barbara Starkov leaned against the cold marble balustrade, staring in silence at a garden drowning in swaying white blossoms, as though she were witnessing a secret ball unknown to all others.
No one was there… until she felt the soundless approach of soft footsteps behind her.
She did not turn. Yet she felt the presence—the aura. Familiar. Heavy.
Felix had stopped behind her, uttering no sound. His hands were in his pockets, his head tilted toward the sky unbroken by clouds. His eyes fixed on a lone star, one that seemed to belong to another time.
Barbara glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then turned her gaze back to the flowers… though in truth, she saw nothing at all.
Then, the silence was broken by his voice—soft, as though he feared to disturb a moment greater than himself.
Felix: "You know…
sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I had carried my mother's name instead of my father's…"
Barbara's hand clenched tighter around the marble railing, as though she were holding on to something slipping away inside her. Her eyes narrowed, and in her heart a faint tremor stirred—one she did not let show.
He continued, his voice steadier now.
Felix: "But I chose to be a Sparoff. Do you know why…?"
She turned her face slightly toward him. A bitter curiosity, tinged with emotion, flickered in her gaze… She wasn't expecting an answer, but she needed one—now more than ever.
Felix: "Not out of love for the name, nor because I favored my father over my mother, as you once thought… but because I didn't want him to be forgotten."
Her body trembled. Those words carved into something within her she hadn't known existed. She did not yet understand everything, but a strange light began to seep in.
Felix: "My father's family… the Sparoff. Yes, they were the weakest, the least significant, the most forgotten. When the great house fractured and scattered into shards, my father's share was nothing more than scraps of a faded glory. His parents had never imagined the family could fall, let alone splinter completely. He had nothing left to inherit—no vast lands, no networks, no allies. And yet… he never complained. He never demanded. He never broke. He stayed where he was, silent… but never idle. He built himself, piece by piece, his entire life."
"People believed it was only my mother who tried to protect us, that she alone was the stronger hand… and perhaps she was. But my father did not fight only for us—he fought for an idea. The idea that what was shattered… could be gathered again. Not under the same name, but under a banner broader, deeper, and more honest."
He spoke as though every word was being drawn from the depths of his soul, as though a war that had lived inside him for years was only now being fought.
Felix: "He believed that faint stars cannot remain in the sky after the moon has set, unless they learn to shine on their own. And so… he never sought to restore the past as it was, but to create from its fragments something new, stronger, purer."
Silence spread between them—not empty silence, but one pulsing with unspoken truths, with questions unanswered, and memories grown heavy between them.
Felix: "That's why… he wanted us to become stars that did not vanish with the moon's absence, but shone even in broad daylight…"
He paused. The weight of his words seemed to fall slowly upon his sister's heart.
Felix: "And I… I chose to bear his name. Not out of loyalty to him alone, but because I realized someone had to continue the path. If I left him stranded in the middle of his dream—after he had lost the one he loved most, after his every step was surrounded by doubt and ridicule—then nothing of Sparoff would remain. The remnants of that great house would scatter into ashes, without memory, without legacy, without shadow."
"I… I don't want to be a star that shines for a moment, then fades. I want to be a beacon, as he wished. That is why… I chose to be a Sparoff."
He fell silent, as though something within him wavered between concealment and confession, between wound and word. His eyes settled for a moment—not on the ground, not on her, but upon some unseen distance, as though he gazed at something invisible.
Barbara remained still, watching him with eyes filled with bewilderment and awe, as though his features had suddenly transformed before her. This was not the brother who had grown up beside her, but a man carrying layers of buried stories, a man whose face bore an unspoken legacy, and a pain he had never shared.
Felix: "He wanted us to become something unforgettable—something not dismissed, something that would never be spoken of only in the past tense."
Barbara's fingers trembled upon the marble, her gaze clouded—part reproach, part sorrow, part wonder she could not name. Her breath quickened softly, as though afraid to shatter the depth of silence between them—a silence filled not with emptiness, but with years of words unsaid.
Then Felix lifted his eyes to her, his gaze unguarded, clear, warm. His voice was calm, as though laying the final stone of a monument only he could see.
Felix: "I will rebuild the family… under the name Sparoff, because it is what I have. I will fulfill his dream, and the dream of our ancestors. I will gather the scattered shards, until they return to what they once were… a single, greater star."
"That… is my purpose."
When he finished, the night was deeper, the stillness heavier.
Barbara could no longer restrain herself…
The tears she had held back for years slipped forth in silence. It was not weeping… but an unveiling, a laying bare of the soul. As though she had hidden behind anger her whole life, only to crumble in the face of a moment of truth.
She looked at him with a gaze carrying both apology and the ache of belated discovery. She no longer saw the brother of her childhood, but a man trying to shoulder alone the burden of a family scattered like the ashes of an ancient star.
Hurriedly, she brushed her tears away and turned, lest he see them.
In a hoarse, unsteady whisper, she spoke as she walked away.
Barbara: "I never knew… that you carried all this alone."
Her voice shook, her tone quivered, as though her heart stumbled before her tongue. She fell silent for a moment, giving her tears a chance to retreat, then drew a slow breath, and spoke with more resolve—the tone of someone who finally wished to be heard.
Barbara: "I… I don't know if I understand you fully yet. But I know this now…
I wish you happiness, brother. A happiness like the one you dreamed for all of us."
Her eyes glistened with tears that refused to fall, hardened by pride—and by love. Her gaze said more than her words, and the moment swelled with unspoken truths.
Felix remained still, staring into the horizon, as though the road ahead was no longer empty. Her words had, at least a little, pressed against his solitude.
But Barbara was not finished. She lifted her eyes toward him, as though something new had been born inside her—a warmth, a sincerity, like the tenderness of a sister breaking for the one she loved.
Barbara: "If this is your path… then walk it. And I will be behind you—not as a shadow, but as a sister… who still believes in you, even if it took me too long to say it.
And also… congratulations on your engagement… brother."
Then, slowly, as though walking out of a dream, she stepped once, then again… but her feet halted when a quiet voice followed her. It was no mere word, no passing thanks. It was reconciliation, confession, a gentle farewell to a long pain.
Felix: "… Thank you… sister."
In that single word, something was born. And perhaps, something else ended.
She froze. That simple word restored to her what she had thought lost.
She walked on, but her steps were heavy. Not fleeing… but laden with all that could not be spoken.
And as she went, her tears flowed softly—not to extinguish a fire, but to announce the birth of something new.
Felix remained where he was, alone.
His eyes fixed upon a garden he could not truly see.
A quiet smile traced his face… and in his eyes… there was a promise.
On the other side of the palace
Talia Vanheim walked alone through the outer corridors, where the torchlit gardens shone through the stone windows. Guests of the grand hall were beginning to arrive, their voices drifting faintly from afar.
She sighed quietly, about to take the left path, when a familiar mocking voice stopped her in her tracks. Instinctively, she crouched slightly behind a massive marble column.
"Ah… that arrogant fool, she doesn't even feel ashamed of herself!"
The voice was unmistakable—Katerina Rosefield, speaking with clear derision as she walked alongside Renalis Varonet, who seemed reluctant, dragging herself unwillingly into the conversation.
Katerina: "How can a noble lady be so shameless and indecent? Isn't that right, Ren?"
Renalis hesitated, then quickly nodded, trying to keep up with her: "Ah?… Oh… yes, yes… of course."
Katerina frowned impatiently, then suddenly turned toward her: "You're an idiot. You're not even listening to me!"
She paused for a moment, then leaned closer, whispering with a tone laced with hidden malice: "I told you… Viscount Felix Sparoff, who's announcing his engagement to Isabel tonight… once loved Ariana."
Renalis's eyes widened in shock, her voice trembling as she asked: "But… how do you know that?"
Katerina smiled, stopping at the threshold of the hall. She turned back to her with a voice low and secretive.
Katerina: "I overheard the maids gossiping… they said she went mad that night when Felix asked Ariana to dance at the mirror palace seven years ago."
Renalis shivered slightly, as if something within her refused to believe it, yet she lacked the courage to deny her.
Before stepping inside, Katerina turned once more with a slow, sly smile.
Katerina: "Oh… I almost forgot. No one knows this secret now… except you."
Renalis stared at her in confusion, suddenly realizing she had been dragged into a game she wasn't prepared for.
Katerina: "I intend to use this as my trump card if she dares make a move against me. So… I won't forgive anyone who ruins it for me. Do you understand?"
Renalis couldn't answer at once; she stammered, her voice weak.
Renalis: "Y-yes! Of course, you can trust me."
Katerina seemed satisfied and strode inside, followed a moment later by Renalis, who forced herself to appear steady though her balance within had already been shaken.
Behind them, in a shadowed corner nearby, Talia stood in silence. Her gray eyes shimmered under the chandelier's light, sinking into the secrets of the hall as they unfolded before her like a finely wrought masterpiece.
Inside the Grand Hall
Rows of tables stretched beneath the chandeliers, the mingling of conversations clashing with the clinking of cups and plates.
The air was thick with the aroma of aged wine and rare spices, while a gentle melody flowed from one corner, as though it tried to mask the tension hiding behind polite smiles.
The hall itself was a relic of a forgotten age. Its ceiling soared thirty cubits high, adorned with carved domes wrought by unknown sculptors, whose breath still lingered in every curve and gilded rose. From above hung five massive chandeliers—like glass planets, each heavy enough to crush a marble roof if it fell, yet they hung with unshaken confidence, as though unaware of gravity.
Black onyx pillars framed the hall, each one engraved with the history of a noble house, written in symbols and archaic names decipherable only to those versed in old lore—every corner whispering a silent tale to those who knew how to listen.
On one wall hung a vast oil painting, so vivid it seemed almost alive. It depicted a legendary moment—the birth of history from the ashes of battle. The rise of the first king of Arcadia: Aces Redhorse, astride his bloodstained steed.
He resembled men before him, yet he was unlike any of them. His thick brown hair, a carefully crafted chaos, was tied loosely at the back, leaving strands to fall rebelliously across his brow—as if refusing to be tamed. He was not arranged like a king, but like a warrior who had never known the luxury of a mirror.
His beard was heavy, trimmed just enough to show severity without pretense. It did not conceal his face; rather, it declared it openly. The long scar across his left cheek was not a wound but a signature, a silent witness to a battle no one asked him about, nor did he need to recount.
And his eyes… they could not be described. Lit with something unexplainable, they seemed to gaze beyond time—or inward, deeper than any surface could reveal.
Beneath his left eye, a small scar—neither threatening nor frightening, but telling. Not intimidating, but testifying. As if left there to remind him that clarity of sight always comes at a price.
His body, bare of armor yet covered in blood that was not his own, did not appear as if he had committed a massacre, but as though he had survived one—alone. Each stain on his chest, each smear upon his hands, was not pride, but debt.
And his horse, once born gray, was said to have turned red the moment Isis mounted it in his first battle—not from paint, but from the endless blood spilled around it. From that day, it was called Redhorse, not as a surname, but as an oath carried in the bloodline.
It was said that Redhorse never dismounted in battle except to declare its end. And if he did… it meant no one remained to fight.
Aces, the Red Seal—that was his name among those who lived in that age. Not because he signed battles with blood, but because he sealed them. As letters are sealed with hot wax, he sealed wars with blood.
Every battle he fought became a royal document, stamped with his red mark—either crushing victory… or absolute ruin.
They said of him: "He does not end wars… he burns them behind him, like a messenger who destroys his letters after reading."
His seal could not be opened… nor denied. After him, no word was spoken, no sword was raised.
"And when Isis mounted his steed, all knew that the Red Seal had been set… and what would follow was not peace, but eternal silence."
So it was written in the annals of the Battle of Symbol of Hell—the Valley of Fallen Nobles—a battle from which only history survived.
…And at the end of the sequence, a painting unlike the others.
No battle. No coronation. No cry of triumph.
But a still, silent scene, heavy enough to weigh down the air around it.
It showed a thin man sitting in a dark corner of a city half ash, half pale ruin.
Behind him—rotting loaves locked inside a golden cage. Before him—people fighting over a handful of dirt.
His eyes were not on them, but raised upward, as though asking for something… that never came.
Beneath the painting, one phrase was inscribed:
"He who does not rule with wisdom… will be devoured by his own bread."
It read like a testament.
Or a curse.
Or both.
The hall's floor was marble, polished to such brilliance that the guests' feet seemed to walk over the surface of still water. Interlaced veins of agate and gold traced across it, forming an ancient emblem of the Kingdom of Arcadia: a sun encircled by eleven stars—one of them crossed out.
On the side opposite the royal table, small balconies were adorned with silk banners bearing the sigils of the great houses. Some of these balconies hosted soft performances of violin and flute, played by musicians whose faces were barely visible, seated in shadow like phantoms. Their music was not for celebration… it was more like a backdrop, an attempt to veil the silence no one dared to speak aloud.
At the center of the hall, beneath the chandeliers, a muted crimson carpet stretched across the floor. At its heart stood a small circular marble basin, where a silent fountain trickled gently—its faint murmur like the pulse of a heart that persisted in beating, despite all else.
Everything in the hall balanced delicately between grandeur and menace, between safety and isolation. It was as though the entire place had been designed to make one feel at the core of civilization… yet poised on the brink of an abyss.
The hall extended in great length, embraced by marble columns crowned with ornate capitals that reflected the glow of the chandeliers hanging above. The tables within were arranged as power was divided among the kingdom's many tiers.
At the heart of the hall stood three long, massive tables, stretching in a straight line from the grand entrance to its far end: one to the right, another to the left, and a third in the middle—three pillars parting the sea toward the king's table.
Upon them sat hundreds of guests—generals, merchants, lesser nobles, and figures of the semi-ruling class—those who must be seen, though rarely heard.
And at the farthest end of the hall stood a smaller table, yet one that carried a weight of authority. Eleven meters in length, it was seamlessly affixed to the rear wall, as though it were an extension of the hall itself rather than a mere piece of furniture. This table was reserved for those above whom no word was raised, whose very presence was the state's seal upon the evening.
At its center sat King Irvin, on a chair distinguished by its tall, finely carved back—more a miniature throne than a seat. To his right sat Duke Lucas, clad in his usual elegance and composure. His attire was as dark as his words, his silence heavier than the chatter of those beside him. Next to him was Countess Abigail Windsword, enigmatic in her presence, her eyes closed as she sipped her drink with measured poise. Her black-blue hair was lifted in a regal coiffure that exuded majesty, and when she opened her azure eyes, it was as though the world itself had to earn the privilege of her gaze.
Beside her sat Marchioness Atris Starkov, upright and dignified, her gaze steady, bearing the composure of a military commander and the wisdom of nobility. Her confidence was palpable, needing no justification, yet her cold expression and reserved eyes revealed something else—she seemed compelled to attend, waiting patiently for the discourse to end, not out of respect for those around her, but to avoid confrontation.
Barbara Starkov, however, was a different picture altogether. Her features were innocent, yet vacant, as though her mind wandered far from the feast. She stared at the silver fork between her fingers, twirling it with idle playfulness, like one seeking distraction at a gathering that did not suit her.
To the king's left sat Earl Yukron Windsword, a man who seemed out of place in the festive atmosphere, with stern features and deep forehead lines that spoke of the weight of his years. Beside him sat Earl Nicholas Sparoff, no less reserved, though his eyes carried a sharper vigilance.
Next to Nicholas, Felix leaned back quietly, as though oblivious to the world around him. His fingertips brushed the rim of his glass in a repetitive, gentle motion—not out of thirst, but as though his thoughts were adrift, lost far away. His pale blue eyes—like dim water under a clouded sky—followed the swaying liquid within the glass, without any outward sign of interest, as if he saw in it something unrelated to drink.
His short blond hair, inherited from his mother, caught strands of gold beneath the chandelier's glow, though it appeared somewhat disheveled. Loose locks fell across his brow, obscuring part of his face, without the slightest effort to push them aside. It was as if this deliberate untidiness, this quiet neglect, was part of his very identity… a man unconcerned with being clearly seen, because he had never intended to be easily understood.
His features were calm, detached, yet there was something strange within his stillness—as though his mind were elsewhere, far from the hall's noise and its guests. Despite his languid demeanor, Felix was not a man to be judged by appearances. Behind the mask of indolence, his gaze concealed a cold intelligence, a mind observing everything without betraying the slightest interest.
He was tall, yet sat without posture, reclining with his legs crossed, as though the entire world meant nothing to him in that moment. His attire, though clearly of fine quality, lacked careful arrangement, as though rank and presentation were not worth his attention. His lips bore a faint smile—not a clear smirk, yet not without meaning.
Felix had inherited both his hair and eyes from his mother, yet while her gaze carried the chill of ice, his were more fluid, like water—reflecting everything, absorbing nothing. Just like his father.
Felix was not an easy man to understand, yet he was certainly no fool. Rather, he seemed like one who possessed more than he revealed, and knew more than he ever said. Beside him, Isabel sat listening to a conversation she appeared not truly invested in.
Across the table, the seats seemed reserved for the relatives of both families—those whose houses had been written into the heart of this occasion.
But the chairs were not equal… nor were the souls that filled them.
Directly before the king's table stood a majestic, singular table, stretching from the right wall to the left, cutting across the alignment of all other tables like a barrier between the king and the rest.
That table was not for just anyone.
It was reserved for those who were not invited unless silence itself needed to be watched, and words weighed before being spoken. The seats were not mere places to sit, but platforms bearing witness to a fragile balance between dignity and restraint.
Here sat the lords of noble families, the heads of the great houses… those who never showed emotions openly, but concealed them beneath layers of elegance, political sternness, and sometimes, hidden danger.
Duke Blatir Vanheim, known for his sharp temper, sat leaning back in his chair with a coldness that unsettled the servants nearby. Everything around him seemed nothing more than a play unworthy of his full attention. A man in his late forties, his features carved by time with the chisel of experience. His long red hair fell over his shoulders like a restless flame that would not die, while his gray eyes gleamed with a stare like a blade being sharpened in silence. He spoke little, but his presence alone was enough to shatter the warmth of the gathering.
At his side sat his two children, Talia and Deon.
Talia sat with a calmness resembling the silence before a storm. Elegant in posture, yet her eyes carried a piercing gaze, as if she were reading the future of everyone present. She did not laugh, nor speak, but simply watched in silence, as though her mind were recording every detail for the night.
Deon, however, was the most distinct presence at the table. A young man of nineteen, not yet fully grown into his strength, but surpassing in intellect and perception those far older and higher in station. He sat with confidence that did not cross into arrogance, but rather with the composure of a man who knew his exact weight in the balance of the world. His features were youthful, sharp in a subtle way, elegant without affectation. His short, fiery hair flickered across his forehead as if refusing to stay in place—just as he refused to conform to balances that could not be balanced.
Though he was never known for mastery in horsemanship or the sword, he had taught himself what blades could not: training not for battle, but for survival… for silent dominance in a world overflowing with noise.
He was conversing with one of the knights seated beside him, speaking as a skilled merchant handles his scales—no excess, no shortage. His voice was rich, measured, never raised without cause, never lowered in submission. His words carried the vitality of youth, but his eyes told another story: that of a young man accustomed to giving orders to men twice his age, and expecting them to be obeyed without question.
He was not merely Blatir's son, but the name whispered behind aristocratic doors and murmured by commoners in the markets. Deon—the merchant who dealt not only in goods, but in information, distributing it where he wished, withholding it where he chose. His web of intelligence stretched across much of the kingdom, especially the vital regions where trade passed or tensions simmered. From certain ports to central markets, from noble salons to alleys nobles never visited… his name was not carved everywhere, but those who knew it knew he had ears in places they should never reach, and that news reached him often before it was even declared.
Boys, servants, brokers, even some negligent guards… they were his threads, carrying enough to give him leverage, bargaining chips, or a winning deal. Some said he held only half the truth, but he knew how to speak it as though it were whole.
Despite his youth, his authority came not from the sword, but from an enviable intelligence—and a cunning others feared.
He continued speaking with the knight at his left, though he never looked at him. His gaze remained fixed on the center of the table, where pleasantries were exchanged and false laughter rang out. His eyes glimmered quietly, a faint smile resting on his lips as though it had been born with him.
Deon, without turning: "Have you completed the preparations?"
The One-Eyed Knight, Aetherod Yukine. bald, his left eye gleaming like the edge of a blade while a black patch covered the right. A dark tattoo crept from his left temple, and old scars, carved by years, crossed his cheek. He half-turned his head, sipping briefly from his cup.
Aetherod: "Ah… yes. They are ready. Fifty men from my unit… they will be at the gates of that little land you own, a full day before sunrise."
Then he fell silent for a moment, leaned in slightly, and lowered his voice to a whisper, as if his words carried blades that none else should hear.
Aetherod, softer: "But… as you know, my men are not moved by loyalty alone, but… gold. And plenty of it.
We know who you are. We know the scale of your trade, your network, your cunning… But men like me do not listen to words. We believe what we can weigh, what we can see shine."
He straightened again, drank from his cup once more, and with a casual movement, cast a sidelong glance at another guest, a crooked, mocking smile curling on his lips.
Aetherod, in a voice tinged with both confidence and threat: "And… your father, that crimson serpent… he has taken an interest in us, young prodigy. Do not think we are stirred only by the lure of your influence.
We are… free men, bound by no master's chains, untouched by those who grew fat on golden milk."
For a moment the air fell silent, as though the surrounding noise had dimmed by accident, as though the table itself bent to listen to what would come next.
Deon, finally turning to him, his glance brief, his smile slanted with veiled mockery: "If my father has taken an interest in you, bald man…
Then rest assured—you will not be able to refuse him when the time comes."*
Aetherod's composure wavered at those words. His eyes narrowed with instinctive caution, as if Deon's words had lodged like a blade in his certainty. Yet Deon continued, his voice calm, betraying nothing, as though nothing had happened…
Then he added, same steady tone, placing the final stone on his game board.
Deon: "Of course… unless you choose to follow me instead."
Aetherod stared at him. He did not reply, did not smile, did not frown—only looked. Then, after moments that stretched like an eternity, a dry but genuine chuckle escaped him. He bit his lower lip lightly, leaned forward, and set his heavy hand on Deon's shoulder with a firm squeeze.
Aetherod, rising to his feet: "You… are more than just a merchant. We shall meet again… young spider."
Then he walked away slowly… while Deon remained in his seat, sipping again from his cup, as if nothing had ever happened.
At only a few seats' distance, a heated yet hushed discussion was taking place among men from other houses. Among them sat Thian Blackmirth, the youngest son of Duke Sathiron Blackmirth, in a silence that cut through the noise of the gathering around him. His wide, silvery eyes were fixed upon King Irvin, who was engaged in deep conversation with Duke Lucas. The light of the chandelier reflected on Theon's short black hair, revealing contemplative features and a gaze heavy with questions not meant to be asked at the table.
Thian looked like someone thrown into the middle of a chessboard without being told a single move that had come before. He was not afraid, yet he was far from comfortable. In his hands rested a cup he never lifted, as though his very presence was a test of silence.
He leaned slightly toward his elder brother, Cyril Blackmirth, seated beside him, and lowered his voice in question.
Thian: "Cyril… do you know anything about the king?"
Cyril did not reply at once. He turned his cup slowly between his fingers before answering in a languid tone.
Cyril: "Hm?… And why do you ask?"
Thian's curiosity only grew. He leaned in further and whispered.
Thian: "It's just… I don't understand how he became king at such a young age. He's almost the same age as my sister, isn't he?"
Cyril lifted his gaze slowly, studying the king for a moment before letting out a soft, mocking laugh.
Cyril: "That arrogant boy did not take the throne by his own effort… but through the backing of the great houses— and perhaps even our father to some degree.
I suppose Father knelt to him because he thought he was the man he'd been looking for… or something of the sort…"
Thian did not answer right away. He leaned back slightly in his chair, as if Cyril's response had not been the one he sought. He bit his lip faintly, then cast a sidelong glance toward his mother, Duchess Ronissa Blackmirth, who had been watching him in silence.
A woman in her forties, with long black hair and silvery eyes, she bore the same coldness that defined their house. She noticed the faint glimmer of disappointment in her son's face, and gave him a subtle smile before lifting her cup to her lips.
Then she leaned ever so slightly toward her husband seated across from her, whispering in a voice barely audible amid the din.
Ronissa: "My dear… would you care to explain to your son about the man you call king?"
At that moment, nearby conversations fell quiet as the sound of a wine cup striking the table was heard. The source was Duke Sathiron himself, staring at his wife with a cold gaze laced with buried displeasure. Then he turned his eyes to his son, who now watched him with clear anticipation, waiting for his words.
Sathiron exhaled slowly, as though drawing up heavy memories, then leaned back in his chair, resting against it before speaking in a deep voice.
Sathiron: "Irvin? Hah…"
A short, rough laugh followed, as if he were speaking of a man who needed no tale to be told.
He shifted slightly in his chair, crossed his legs, and studied the cup in his hand. For a moment, it seemed he was weighing his words—or perhaps recalling an image long distant, hidden from others but vivid in his mind. Then he sighed, as though pulling up a buried weight, and spoke in a calm yet burdened tone.
Sathiron: "What is it you wish to know of him?... His titles? His sword? That look in his eyes, as if the whole world were laid at his feet?… Or do you wish to hear how he became 'A Swordmaster' at only nineteen?"
Theon's eyes widened with renewed curiosity, and he leaned forward slightly, as though drawing nearer to his father might bring him closer to the answer he sought…