The kingdoms remain in disarray. War rages on across the fractured lands. Valestra, Caer-Luthen, Sylvarren—these are the three great kingdoms.
Sylvarren is famed for its valor in battle, but within its borders lie five noble houses—Vale, Belrose, Aldreb, Virel, and Arlow—each acting as a sovereign power, constantly at odds. Electing a Grand Lord is no longer a matter of politics—it is a necessity.
Valestra, with its thriving commerce, struggles to keep pace with Sylvarren's might. The weapons crafted by the Moren family—engineers and visionaries—have become crucial to national defense.
In the ancestral hall of House Moren, a soft voice broke the silence.
"Father, rest assured... I'll fulfill my duty as Moren heir. I'll protect both Valestra and our family."
Years ago, Teren Virel, head of House Virel in Sylvarren, was killed in battle—felled by a weapon crafted by the Moren heir. His son, Cassian, spent years in relentless pursuit of the truth. At last, he uncovered it: the Moren heir was Darian Moren, eldest son of the Moren family.
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Valestra City – Moren Estate, years later
Darian stepped out into the warm light of morning, clad in a fitted white robe, belted tightly at the waist. His dark hair, cut to the nape of his neck, framed his calm features. He made his way onto the wooden balcony, his bare feet pressing against a pressure board embedded in the floor. A soft click.
A deep mechanical groan followed as hidden gears stirred to life. The balcony began to descend smoothly, the rotating wheels lowering it like a platform lift.
Darian's brown eyes scanned the vast Moren estate as it slowly unfolded before him—rows of windmills turning on the hills, smoke rising from forge chimneys, the glint of sunlight on glass domes.
When the platform touched down, he stepped off, opened the small wooden door attached to it, and walked toward a large steel-paneled entrance. He pressed three round buttons in a familiar pattern. A faint click. The door unlocked.
Inside, wheels spun overhead, echoing faintly through the underground workshop. Darian descended a narrow iron staircase, his steps quick, deliberate. A smile tugged at his lips. He folded his hands behind his back.
"Father…" he called out, approaching a man hunched over a half-assembled crossbow.
The older man didn't look up. His hands moved swiftly, tightening a coil, adjusting a bolt. Sparks briefly flickered as metal ground against metal.
"Have you found the white iron crystal?" Darian asked, his voice calm, his fingers absently flipping through the weapon blueprints strewn across the worktable.
A frown crept onto his father's face. He tilted his head slightly, still focused on the weapon. "We've searched every corner of Valestra. Still no news," he muttered. He moved to the table's edge, carefully setting the crossbow down before beginning to sort the scattered blueprints with practiced precision.
"Tomorrow, our trade caravan heads to Caer-Luthen. I could use the opportunity to search for the crystal there," Darian offered, handing over the very blueprint his father had been working from.
"I won't allow it," the old man cut in sharply, snatching the blueprint from his son's hand and sliding it neatly into the pile.
Father!" Darian called out, his brow furrowed, hand slamming down on the table, rattling the tools and blueprints scattered across its surface.
"You'd have to pass through the desert bordering Sylvarren," his father began, voice low but urgent. "It's crawling with bandits. And right now, Sylvarren's five noble houses are locked in a brutal struggle for the Grand Lord's seat. The border is in chaos. I worry that if anything happens—"
"I understand your concern," Darian cut in, firm but respectful. "And I'll defer to you on routine escort matters. But this—this is different."
He leaned in, his voice edged with urgency.
"The white iron crystal is crucial for improving the crossbow. Without it, the wear and tear issue won't be solved in time. Once Sylvarren elects their Grand Lord, their next move will be to attack Valestra. If we fail to deliver a functioning design by then, the king will hold us responsible."
His expression darkened, worry carved into every line of his face. His brow twitched as he continued, voice dropping to a near-whisper.
"So I must go and try. Even if it means crossing into Sylvarren... let alone Caer-Luthen."
His father's hand shot out, finger pointing at him with trembling disbelief. "You…" he choked, unable to form the words before a violent coughing fit overtook him.
Darian's eyes widened. He rushed to his father's side, helping him into the chair near the worktable. Gently, he patted his back, trying to steady him. He reached for the teapot, quickly pouring warm tea into a nearby cup, then held it out.
The old man took it, sipped slowly, and drew in a deep breath to calm himself. His shoulders sagged.
Then, in a hoarse, tired voice, he spoke.
"Listen to my advice... Return to your identity as a girl. Stop taking these risks."
Darian nodded slightly. "Father, even if I return to being a girl, I'll still need to design weapons as the Moren heir—for the king. Our ancestral laws don't allow women to lead the family. Are you willing to hand over the legacy to the second branch?"
He met his father's gaze, steady and unflinching.
"I guarantee that within a year, Tarek—my cousin—will squander the family fortune, the one we've built over decades. And more than that… since I was seven, I made this decision. Unless a better heir appears in the family, I will remain Darian Moren for life."
His words hung in the air, thick with conviction and quiet desperation. He waited—hoping, searching his father's face for a flicker of response.
But Thalen Moren said nothing. His eyes drifted, deep in thought, lost in a silence that stretched too long.
With a faint sigh, Darian stepped back, the weight of unanswered words pressing on his shoulders. He turned and quietly made his way out of the workshop.
The moment he opened the door and stepped through—
As if on cue, a blur of motion rushed at him.
Just as he predicted, Darian leaned aside with perfect timing, narrowly slipping past the arms of his youngest sister, Mari, who came barreling toward him for a hug.