The thunderous sound of boots echoed across the military training grounds. Gunfire from the cadets rang out, merging with the tense air of this so-called battlefield — a place where spirit was tested, and life had long since lost its value.
From the grand corridor overlooking the training field, a tall blond man with striking violet eyes walked slowly. His steps were calm, but his gaze was razor-sharp — as if he were not just an observer, but the judge of who would live and who would fall below.
At his side stood his cousin, Louis Vein Merdaruiz — a renowned weapons designer whose brilliance in the art of war was known not only in France, but across the entire continent. Every creation from his hands had the power to tip the scale of war.
The Vein Milliaruiz family was one of the highest-ranking noble houses, their influence deeply rooted in both political and royal circles. They were distant relatives of the royal bloodline, and that connection remained strong to this day.
France had only recently emerged from war with Germany. While the country had found momentary peace, the shadow of conflict still lingered. Lately, more and more German nationals had begun operating in the country — discreetly, but with devastating consequence.
And then there was Spencer Vein Milliaruiz — Grand General of the Royal French Army, the highest-ranking figure in the nation's military structure. He was the sole heir of the Vein Milliaruiz bloodline — a nobleman held in reverence by France's elite, and trusted implicitly by the king himself.
But beneath his name and power, Spencer was a man who avoided the spotlight. He had no interest in politics or noble gossip. He preferred silence, solitude, and avoided unnecessary closeness with anyone.
His cold demeanor, the rare sight of a smile, and a presence that could freeze the air — all earned him the infamous title: The Cold Duke.
As usual, Louis was trying to lighten the mood. And as usual, Spencer said nothing — a silence Louis had grown used to. It meant he wasn't angry. Just… being himself.
Their bond ran deep, like brothers rather than cousins. With both of them holding tremendous influence, the aristocrats had given them a nickname of their own: The Twin Dukes.
"So… what happened to your little plan from last month?" Louis asked, wearing a slight smirk, eyes still scanning the field below. "You're really going through with that whole undercover dinner nonsense?"
Spencer didn't answer immediately. His expression was calm, unreadable — as if the question was too trivial to be given attention.
"Tonight. Come with me," he finally said, his voice low and emotionless.
Louis turned sharply. "Tonight? You're joking, right? We have the royal banquet. Did you forget?"
Spencer glanced at him then — a sharp, almost deadly look that sent a silent message: You dare question me?
Louis sighed and gave in with a short nod.
"Fine. I'm coming. Damn it."
. . . . .
That night, both men were dressed in worn, modest clothes — blending in with the common folk. They entered the newly opened tavern and ordered a round of beer, along with a few simple dishes.
Spencer's eyes were constantly scanning the room — every table, every corner, observing with practiced precision. But… nothing. No signs of anything unusual.
Their food arrived.
Louis, a lover of good beer, poured himself a full mug and drank like any other carefree commoner. Spencer, on the other hand, ordered only water and steak — eating in silence, offering no unnecessary words.
"Don't drink too much. I'm not carrying your drunk ass home," Spencer muttered, as flat as ever.
Louis let out a quiet laugh. He could handle more than most, and this particular brew was far from strong.
"Relax. I'm fine," he replied casually.
A few minutes passed before Louis brought up a topic, as he always did.
"Have you heard about that famous ballet dancer from Russia? The one always in the papers? Apparently, he vanished on his way to France. Just disappeared — though his assistants arrived safely and reported the whole thing."
Spencer gave no response. He didn't care for news that held no importance to him. He calmly cut into his steak and continued eating without pause.
Louis, feeling a bit ridiculous talking to a wall, scowled a little.
"Are you even listening?"
"I am."
Louis smiled, pleased that he wasn't being ignored entirely. He continued, this time more animated.
"Turns out… it's a man. I thought it was a woman at first. A male dancer. They say he's a legend — made it to the top at an insanely young age. Fifteen or sixteen, I think? But people say his dancing is… magnetic. Doesn't matter if you're male or female — he'll pull you in."
He took another sip of his beer, oblivious to how fate was already weaving their paths toward that very dancer.