The Valerian estate had never felt like home.
Not even now—especially not now.
Eliot stepped into the main hall of the western manor with the slow, measured grace of someone walking into a lion's den. The scent of rosewood and incense hit him first, then the sharp tension in the air.
The doors shut behind him with a soft thud.
He could already hear the raised voices.
"Find her! That disgraceful girl!" roared the Grand Duke from the parlor.
Eliot moved quietly.
"She ran off with a knight! A knight, of all people! This alliance was years in the making!"
He reached the threshold just as the door swung open.
A servant nearly collided with him and fled without bowing.
Eliot stepped inside.
The Grand Duke stood at the center of the room, red-faced, pacing. His golden robe was askew, his greying hair disheveled. Behind him, three women sat like painted dolls—his mistresses.
All three, beautiful in their own way. All three, trying very hard to look shocked and sorrowful.
His half-siblings were perched nearby like well-fed cats, whispering behind fans.
The room fell silent when Eliot entered.
The Duke turned.
And scowled.
"You."
Eliot bowed. "Father."
The Grand Duke didn't respond. He didn't even nod.
Instead, his hand snapped forward—grabbing a porcelain teacup from the side table—and hurled it.
Eliot didn't flinch.
The cup shattered against his forehead with a sharp crack.
Tea splashed. Blood followed.
He stood still as the pieces fell at his feet.
The mistresses gasped in unison. One raised a hand to her lips. "Your Grace—!"
"Silence!" the Duke roared. "This is your fault!"
Eliot lowered his head.
"I raised her better than this. Or so I thought." The Duke's voice cracked like a whip. "After all we sacrificed for that girl. Years of grooming. Manners. Education. And now she shames this family in front of the Empire!"
"She was just a child," Eliot said quietly.
The room froze.
The Duke turned slowly.
"What did you say?"
Eliot looked up, eyes steady despite the blood trailing down his temple.
"I said," he repeated calmly, "Caelia was just a child. You never should've—"
Another blow.
This time, the Duke's cane slammed against the armrest near Eliot's shoulder.
"You will not speak to me of what I should or should not do. You are not my heir. You are not even Awakened."
The half-siblings behind the sofa giggled softly.
"He speaks so noble," one murmured. "Maybe the teacup should've hit harder."
Eliot said nothing.
He had endured worse.
He always did.
The Duke sneered. "Do you know what this marriage was worth? The Emperor's goodwill. Trade routes. Protection for our southern border. Now ruined, because your sister decided to run off with a man like some tavern wench."
One of the mistresses stood, hand on her chest. "Darling, please calm down—"
"Not now, Cerise!"
Eliot inhaled slowly.
Then, softly: "I'll take her place."
Silence.
For one long second, it was as if the room had stopped breathing.
Then the Duke barked a laugh. "What nonsense is that?"
"I'll marry the prince in her stead," Eliot said. "You'll still have your alliance."
"You?" The Duke laughed again, louder. "You're a man."
"Yes," Eliot said simply. "Which makes it more absurd, doesn't it? Let's give the court something to talk about."
"You're out of your mind."
"Maybe," Eliot said. "But if we break this ceremony now, the Emperor will declare our House unstable. He may revoke our grants. Deny our titles. Refuse to marry into our bloodline again."
The Duke's face darkened.
"You really think anyone would accept you as compensation?"
"Then tell them no," Eliot said, voice flat. "And let the Empire's favor crumble."
The room buzzed with whispers.
The mistresses whispered behind their fans again, pretending to weep prettily.
The Duke's eyes narrowed. "You're bluffing."
"I'm offering," Eliot replied. "The only option you have left."
The Duke stared at him.
He hated Eliot. Always had. Too quiet. Too obedient. Too much like his dead wife.
But now…
He was useful.
And Eliot knew it.
"…Fine," the Duke spat. "Marry the damned prince. Embarrass us all. At least the Empire will shut up."
The mistresses rushed to his side with sighs and dramatic handkerchiefs.
Eliot bowed again.
Blood dripped onto the polished floor.
Later, in his room, Eliot stood in front of the mirror.
He removed his coat. His gloves. His ruined shirt.
He cleaned the blood from his forehead, wincing slightly as he touched the split skin.
"Not bad," he muttered.
With a flick of his fingers, golden magic pulsed from his palm, sealing the wound clean.
A knock came at the door.
His personal aide, Thorne, entered with a stack of documents and a long-suffering expression.
"Shall I schedule fittings for tomorrow?"
"No."
Thorne paused. "You are getting married."
"Apparently," Eliot said dryly. He poured himself a glass of wine.
Thorne didn't react.
Eliot sipped slowly.
"I want something instead," Eliot said.
Thorne raised a brow. "Do I dare ask?"
"Hunt," Eliot said. "Tonight."
Thorne blinked. "You're going hunting. Tonight."
"Yes."
"You're bleeding. You're getting married in—"
"I healed it."
"Emotionally, I meant."
Eliot rolled his eyes.
Thorne sighed. "Do you even know who you're marrying?"
"Nope."
"Shouldn't that bother you?"
Eliot drank again. "I already know it won't be love."
Thorne muttered something about wine and bad decisions.
Eliot turned to the window, gazing at the moonlight.
"Find a target," he said. "One of the syndicate's leftovers. Something satisfying."
Thorne made a note. "Anything specific?"
"Something I can stab repeatedly without getting sued."
"Ah. Emotional therapy, then."
"Exactly."
Thorne bowed. "Very well. I'll prepare your coat. And a discreet escape route."
"You're the best."
"I know."
As the door shut behind him, Eliot leaned against the window.
The wine was bitter.
The moon was bright.
He would get married tomorrow.
To someone he didn't know.
To protect a family that didn't want him.
And tonight, he would hunt.
Because that was the only thing that made sense anymore.
*****
Snow crunched beneath his boots.
The rift crackled overhead—purple veins stretching through the night sky like broken glass.
Eliot sighed, brushing his silver hair from his eyes.
"Not again," he muttered.
He wasn't even supposed to be here.
Technically, this was the northern border.
Technically, he needed permission.
Technically, he was going to get yelled at for this.
But the demon trail led here, and honestly?
He didn't care.
Tonight was supposed to be his night off. A glass of wine. Maybe a bath. Instead, his sister had run off with a knight, his father had tried to bash his skull in with porcelain, and now he was playing cleanup.
Again.
Eliot glanced at his empty belt.
"Oh, great," he said flatly. "I forgot my wand."
A demon shrieked in the trees ahead.
He rolled his eyes. "Of course I did."
Drawing a small charm from his coat, he whispered a short incantation. A shimmer of light spread over his shoulders—the golden aura of the East.
A warning. A threat.
Sovereign present.
The demons didn't care.
One lunged from the shadows, fangs bared.
Eliot ducked. His hand flared with light and snapped upward, splitting the thing in half mid-air.
The body hit the snow and melted into smoke.
Another screamed from behind. He pivoted, flinging a dagger lined with silver glyphs.
It landed between its eyes.
"Sloppy," he muttered.
Another three demons burst from the trees.
Eliot spun, dodging claws and smoke, kicking one into a burning tree.
He was halfway through a curse when the ground trembled.
The shadows twisted.
A ripple of energy spread outward—slow, heavy, ancient.
Eliot's skin went cold.
That… was not normal.
A dark shape moved through the smoke. Massive. Armored. Its body towered above the trees, flesh fused with black steel. Six crimson eyes glowed from its head. Horns curled from its skull like a crown.
"...Oh," Eliot said flatly. "That's a Legion Commander."
The Commander growled low. Demonic glyphs burned along its blade.
They weren't supposed to show up here. Not in the shallow rift. Not this close to human land.
Eliot took one step back.
"Yeah," he muttered, "should've brought the wand."
The Commander raised its arm.
Eliot threw up a barrier spell, fast—but the impact shattered it instantly.
He flew back into a tree.
"Ow."
He slid down the trunk and coughed.
Still alive. Probably.
The Commander advanced.
Eliot wiped blood from his lip. "Alright. No more playing nice."
He stood—and another ripple of power burst across the field.
Frost crept over the ground.
A figure stepped into the clearing, coat fluttering in the wind, eyes like a frozen blade.
Lucien.
Eliot's shoulders stiffened.
Lucien took one look at the monster.
Then at Eliot.
Then cursed under his breath. "What the hell are you doing in my territory?"
Eliot threw his hands up. "Nice to see you too."
"You crossed the rift. Again."
"You're welcome."
"I didn't say thank you."
Eliot dodged a claw swipe.
Lucien raised his blade. It shimmered with northern sigils. "You're going to get someone killed."
"I'm trying to kill the demon."
"Illegally."
Eliot kicked a smaller demon aside. "You're really arguing about jurisdiction right now?!"
Lucien sliced through a charging beast without blinking. "Yes."
Another claw came for Eliot. He ducked and rolled.
"You're such a stick in the mud."
"You're reckless."
"You're cold."
"You're bleeding."
Eliot winced. "Shut up."
Lucien exhaled, pulling his sword back to back with Eliot.
"Fine. Five-minute truce?"
Eliot nodded. "Deal."
Together, they launched forward.
Lucien's sword met the Commander's blade with a crash, sparks flying. Eliot raised both palms, summoning a searing light that slammed into its chest.
It staggered.
Lucien's blade bit deeper, slicing through its arm.
Eliot darted underneath, sliding between the monster's legs and blasting its knee.
Lucien leapt, driving his sword down into its throat.
The Commander howled.
Black smoke erupted.
The ground split from the impact.
Eliot hit the snow hard, coughing. Lucien landed with a grunt.
The air shimmered.
Then—silence.
The Commander fell, its body evaporating into ash.
Eliot sat up, wheezing.
Lucien stood and dusted off his coat like he hadn't just fought a literal war beast.
"Remind me," Eliot panted, "why do I hate you again?"
Lucien glanced at him. "Because I follow the rules."
Eliot wiped his face. "You're unbearable."
Lucien crossed his arms. "You were in my territory. Again."
"You're welcome."
"You blew up a shrine last time."
"That was your shrine?"
Lucien blinked.
"…It had my crest."
Eliot shrugged. "Could've been anyone's."
Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why are you like this?"
Eliot flopped back in the snow. "Long story."
Lucien eyed him.
"...You're not even fully geared. You didn't bring your wand?"
"Nope."
"You're insane."
Eliot smiled. "Takes one to know one."
Lucien sighed.
For a moment, there was silence again. Smoke drifted. The corpses of smaller demons dissolved in the distance.
Eliot sat up.
"So," he said, brushing snow from his hair. "What brings you out here, Mister Rulebook?"
Lucien gave him a flat look. "Demonic surge alert."
"Lucky me."
"You always bring trouble."
Eliot yawned. "Don't worry. You won't have to see me after today."
Lucien frowned faintly. "Oh?"
Eliot stood slowly. "I've got something stupid tomorrow."
Lucien stared at him. "Me too."
"Huh."
They both blinked.
Then immediately looked away, like whatever they were talking about didn't matter.
Eliot rubbed his sore arm. "Anyway. I'll get out of your hair."
"See that you do."
"No need to be so cold."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "You're bleeding again."
"Am I?"
Lucien sighed and flicked a healing sigil toward him.
Eliot flinched. "Stop that."
"You're welcome."
"Ugh. Fine. Thanks."
Lucien didn't answer.
Eliot turned, brushing his hair back.
"I'll be gone by sunrise," he said casually. "You can stop having a moral crisis."
"Don't cross again."
"Try and stop me."
Lucien narrowed his eyes.
But Eliot just winked and vanished into the trees.
Lucien stood there for a long time, watching the shadows flicker.
He shook his head.
That man was chaos.