Hello, Reader. Before we begin, I want to ask you something: what comes to mind when you think of nobles? Do you see them as proud and powerful, untouchable figures who rule with grace? Or do you see them as corrupt, arrogant, parasites feeding off the backs of others? Everyone has their opinion.
But let me tell you something… You have NO IDEA what it means to be noble until you've had it all ripped away.
This is the story of my family—a family that carried PRIDE in our blood, HONOR in our name—until it was all reduced to ASHES. Yes, we were nobles. And yes, maybe you hate nobles. Maybe you think we deserved it. But I don't care what you think—not yet. Walk with me first. See what happened. Then judge me if you dare.
Because when the crown turned on us… when those LIARS and TRAITORS destroyed everything we had, when they laughed in our faces as they burned our home and stripped our titles—TELL ME, READER—WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE?
A noble is supposed to lead with dignity, head high, untouchable. That's what I believed. That's what I was RAISED to believe. But dignity means NOTHING when your enemies kick down your doors and spit on your bloodline. Power means NOTHING when the very throne you swore loyalty to brands you a traitor.
I remember that night. The smoke. The flames. The heat on my skin. The sound of stone crumbling. And I remember the look on my brother's face—Frost, standing beside me, his hands shaking with rage and grief. He's still here, still breathing, but that night… it carved scars into both of us that will NEVER heal.
I REMEMBER THEIR LAUGHTER.
And I SWEAR ON WHAT'S LEFT OF MY NAME—ON WHAT'S LEFT OF MY BLOODLINE—THEY WILL PAY.
…Forgive me. My anger runs hotter than it should. Let me take a step back, before I rip these pages apart. Let me show you how it all began.
Before the flames, before the betrayal, there was honor.
House Duskbane was not merely another noble line fattened by gold and titles. We were a house of soldiers. My father, Lord Caelum Duskbane, stood on countless battlefields for the crown, his blade carving victory after victory. His loyalty was iron, his word unbreakable. It was said that when the king slept, it was the vigilance of the silver falcon—our crest—that kept him safe.
Our halls were alive with pride. The banners that hung from the stone towers were not stitched by coin but by blood, earned in service, sacrifice, and scars. When peasants passed our gates, they did not spit or curse our name—they bowed, because they knew we defended them, even when the king's taxes drained them dry.
I remember the feasts: long tables of roasted venison and wine flowing like rivers. Frost would sneak into the kitchens, stealing honeyed bread when he thought no one noticed. Mother would laugh, catching him red-handed but never scolding, her heart too gentle for cruelty. Father would place his hand on our shoulders, heavy as iron, reminding us that honor must be carried like armor.
For years, I thought we were untouchable.
But envy is a poison that spreads in silence.
Not all houses rejoiced at our strength. Some whispered that our victories on the battlefield were not service, but ambition. That Father fought not for the crown, but for his own rising power. Among these jealous vipers, one name slithered above the rest: House Draemir.
They despised us. Where our lands thrived, theirs faltered. Where our soldiers marched loyal, theirs deserted for coin. Where our halls were filled with laughter, theirs echoed with scheming. And so, Draemir sought not to face us blade to blade, but dagger to back.
It began with whispers. Court gossip. "The Duskbanes grow too bold." "The silver falcon seeks to overshadow the lion of the crown." The words spread, repeated, twisted, until they slithered into the king's own ears.
At first, Father ignored it. He believed loyalty was a shield enough. He believed deeds outweighed lies. But even the strongest shield will shatter if the strikes never cease.
Then came the decree.
The king ordered every noble house to increase taxes upon their lands, draining peasants already starved by harsh winters. Father refused. Not out of rebellion, but mercy. He told the king's emissaries, "My people bleed enough. I will not cut them deeper for the sake of a heavier purse."
It was the beginning of the end.
Draemir seized their chance, twisting Father's defiance into treason. "See how Duskbane disobeys the crown?" they hissed. "See how he gathers loyalty not for the king, but for himself?"
And the king, weak and blinded by flattery, listened.
"The trial was a SICK JOKE. I stood beside Frost in the grand hall, my mother's hands clamped around ours so tightly it felt like bone might snap. And there was my father—MY FATHER—forced to KNEEL like a criminal before the very king he had bled for. The banners of our crest still hung above us, and yet they dared to call him a traitor. Treason. Rebellion. Every word a LIE, every voice in that chamber a viper spitting venom. I wanted to scream until my throat tore open. I wanted to tear their smug faces apart. But I was a boy. And Father… Father was made to kneel, when he should have stood above them all.", accused of crimes he had never committed: treason, ambition, plotting rebellion.
Every word was a lie. Every witness is a paid tongue of Draemir.
Father spoke with the fire of truth, but truth holds little weight when the crown already hungers for your fall. When he demanded proof, they silenced him. When Mother begged for mercy, they looked past her as if she were a ghost.
And when the decree was read—"By order of the crown, House Duskbane is hereby stripped of title, land, and nobility. Their name shall be erased from the records, their banners cast down, their line declared traitors."—the hall rang with Draemir laughter.
I will never forget Frost's face in that moment. His fists clenched, his teeth bared, tears burning his eyes. He was still so young, still believing in honor, in fairness, in kings. That day shattered something in him.
As guards ripped the silver falcon from our banners, I felt the world tilt. Everything we were—our history, our honor, our blood—was ground beneath the heel of envy and cowardice.
We returned to our estate not as nobles, but as exiles in our own home. The servants who once greeted us with warmth now lowered their heads, afraid to be seen in our presence. Allies who once feasted at our table turned their backs. We were alone.
But Father… Father refused to bow. He told us, "They can take our name, but not our blood. They can call us traitors, but the truth will outlast them."
He believed it. He clung to it. And for a time, so did I.
But Draemir had not finished with us.
They did not want our shame. They wanted our destruction.
And so they came, not with words, but with fire.
The days after the decree were suffocating.
We were still in our estate, but it no longer felt like home. It was a cage, a gilded coffin waiting for the lid to close. Servants vanished overnight, some out of fear, others because Draemir's men promised them coin to betray us. Friends of Father stopped writing. Old allies at court turned away when they saw us in the streets, pretending not to know us.
Frost wandered the halls like a ghost. His laughter, once boyish and loud, was gone. He trained alone in the courtyard until his hands blistered, as if beating steel would drown the helplessness. Mother tried to keep warmth in the house, but even her smile trembled when she thought we weren't looking.
And Father… Father grew colder. He no longer dined with us. He spent his nights writing letters, sending ravens to any house that might still stand with us. But most never replied—those who did offered only pity and excuses.
"Cowards," Father spat one night, slamming a letter onto the table. "They feast while we rot. Draemir poisons the throne, and they lick the plate clean."
I had never seen him so bitter.
Yet even then, I believed it could not last. That truth would surface that the king would see reason.
I was wrong.
The final blow came not with war drums, but with silence. The crown stripped us of our lands, piece by piece, handing fertile fields to Draemir. Soldiers began patrolling our roads, not to protect us, but to watch us. Then one evening, a royal edict was nailed to our gates:
By order of the crown, the former House Duskbane is forbidden from bearing arms, raising banners, or commanding soldiers. Any act of resistance will be met with immediate execution.
I tore it down with my own hands. Frost stood beside me, his teeth clenched. "Execution? For what? For existing?"
"For being Duskbane," I said. The words tasted like poison.
That night, Frost whispered to me, "They won't stop. They want us gone." His voice was so cold, so certain, it froze me more than the winter winds ever could.
And he was right.
It began with the sound of boots.
Hundreds of them, marching under the cloak of night. By the time the alarm bells rang, the estate was already surrounded.
Through the gates they came, bearing the lion of Draemir, carrying torches and steel. The captain at their head read aloud a decree from the king: "By royal order, the traitor's estate is to be cleansed. House Duskbane is no more."
Then they set fire to our world.
Flames roared against the stone, climbing higher with each torch cast through a window. Servants screamed. Horses broke free from the stables, shrieking as smoke filled the night. The sky turned red, ash raining like snow.
I ran through the halls with Frost at my side, searching, calling for our parents. The smoke was thick, choking. We burst into the great hall just as a beam collapsed, blocking the passage where Mother had fled. Her voice echoed, faint and desperate, before the flames swallowed it.
"Mother!" Frost lunged toward the fire, but I held him back, choking on the word no.
We never saw her again.
Father's end came in steel. I remember the sound of the clash before I saw it—the ring of his blade cutting through three Draemir soldiers before they brought him down. Even wounded, he stood, refusing to kneel, roaring that he was no traitor. They speared him where he stood, and when his body fell, Draemir laughed.
That laughter. I can still hear it.
Frost trembled beside me, his eyes burning with tears, his voice shaking with rage. "They'll pay. Every last one of them."
But I knew then that vengeance alone wouldn't save us. If we stayed, we would die. I dragged him from the hall as the roof collapsed, sparks searing our cloaks. We burst into the courtyard where Draemir's soldiers awaited us, their captain smiling cruelly.
"Well, well," he sneered. "The last whelps of Duskbane. Do you hear that? Your name dies tonight. Your bloodline ends here."
Frost drew steel, his grief boiling into fury. "COME AND TRY!"
I followed because there was no other choice.
The fight was madness—steel against steel, rage against jeering cruelty. Frost was reckless, throwing himself at them with a scream. I fought to cover him, my blade an extension of the fire in my chest. But there were too many. Ten against two. Then twenty.
And then—
Something in me broke. Or perhaps it woke.
The rage that seared my veins became more than rage. The air itself bent to it. Heat swirled around me, not from the flames of the estate, but from my own body. Sparks leapt from my skin. The ground trembled as if the earth itself answered my fury.
Frost stopped mid-swing, staring at me with wide eyes. "Lucus…"
My hair burned red in the firelight, and with a roar, the world answered.
Flame erupted from my hands, surging outward in a wave that consumed the front line of Draemir soldiers. Their laughter turned to screams as fire devoured them. Then came the wind, bursting from my back like a gale, hurling others into the walls. Stone cracked beneath my feet as the ground itself shuddered, throwing soldiers to the earth.
The elements obeyed me.
Frost's sword dropped as his own body trembled—not with fear, but awakening. His hands glistened with water that formed from the very air, freezing into jagged ice that extended down his arms like claws. His hair, pale as snow, shimmered blue in the firelight. When he moved, shards of ice burst from the ground, skewering two soldiers at once.
The battlefield fell silent but for their screams.
We stood together, my hair blazing crimson, his flowing blue, fire and ice spilling from our bodies. The soldiers looked at us not as exiles, but as monsters.
And for the first time, I didn't care.
The flames consumed everything.
By the time Frost and I stumbled from the courtyard, bloodied and breathless, the estate was nothing more than a funeral pyre. Smoke coiled into the heavens like a curse, blotting out the stars. Behind us, Draemir's banners waved in the firelight. Before us, only the endless road stretched, dark and merciless.
We were alone.
The titles, the land, the wealth—gone. Our parents are gone. Our home—ash.
But the fire in my veins had not died. Nor had the frost in my brother's.
As we staggered into the night, Frost looked at me, his blue eyes cold and sharp. "Lucas," he said, his voice steady though his body trembled. "We are no longer nobles. But we are not done."
I clenched my fists, feeling the embers of power still crackling in my veins. "No. Not done. Never done."
We stood there, on the ruined road, our silhouettes cast in firelight. And together we swore:
The bloodline of Duskbane may have fallen, but it will rise again.
Weeks passed. We became shadows on the road, whispered of as exiled traitors. Some spat at us when we entered villages; others crossed themselves as if warding off demons. Our magic had marked us. Fire and ice followed us wherever we went.
Then, in a nameless tavern at the edge of the kingdom, we heard the first whisper.
"The Phoenix Academy," the barkeep muttered, eyeing us with suspicion. "A place for the broken, the lost, the ambitious. They say those who succeed there can reclaim anything—even a name."
My pulse quickened.
Frost raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a fool's tale."
But the barkeep leaned closer. "Not a tale. An invitation. Nobles send their heirs there to sharpen their blades. The crown sends its favorites to test their worth. And the fallen… sometimes, they crawl back to life there."
A place where we could prove ourselves. A place where we could claw our way back.
And so we went.
The Phoenix Academy rose before us like a fortress carved by gods. Black stone towers reached for the storm clouds above, banners bearing the sigil of a blazing phoenix snapping violently in the wind. This was no place of comfort or grandeur—it was a crucible. A forge for those who dared to burn and be reborn.
But the strangest thing was the figure waiting at the gates.
He leaned against the massive iron doors as if he owned the world, his scythe resting lazily at his side. His coat was a long, black trench that whipped in the wind, silver chains rattling against his legs. Combat boots grounded him with a weight that spoke of countless battles. His gloves were black leather, fingers tapping the haft of his weapon as though he was already bored.
His mask was what froze me.
A demon's grin stretched across it, glowing neon white. The smile was too wide, too knowing, like a secret that mocked the very air around him. From the eye sockets, vortexes of white spiraled endlessly, pulling you in if you stared too long. Horns curved back from the mask like the crown of some unholy king. And behind it all, his hair spilled in silken white strands, slicked back neatly like a blade hidden in its sheath.
For a long moment, he simply watched us.
Then, his voice broke the silence—childish, sing-song, taunting.
"Well, well, well… look what the fire coughed up. Two little noble brats who thought themselves dead, crawling back to life."
Frost stiffened beside me. His hand twitched toward his sword. "Who are you?"
The man tilted his head, the neon grin catching the lightning above.
"Me? I'm nobody." His tone suddenly dropped, cold and sharp enough to cut steel. "But to you… I'm the only somebody who matters."
I gritted my teeth. "Answer the question."
He laughed—a distorted, echoing sound, as if three different voices spoke through him at once. Then he shifted again, voice bright and mocking:
"Fine, fine! Names are important, aren't they? I am Allen West, Dean of Phoenix Academy! Collector of strays, breaker of chains, babysitter of future corpses!"
He twirled his scythe as if it weighed nothing, its blade carving sparks against the stone. Then he leaned closer, the glowing grin inches from my face.
"And I know who you are, Lucas. Frost. The little princes of ash. The fallen bloodline."
"How—" I began, but he cut me off.
"The ashes told me. The fire whispered. The ice complained, but I listened anyway." His tone twisted again, suddenly deadly serious. "You want your name back. You want vengeance. You want to prove the world wrong."
Neither Frost nor I answered. He didn't need us to.
Allen straightened, swinging his scythe up onto his shoulder with one hand. His masked grin seemed to widen, though it never changed.
"Good. Because the Phoenix Academy is not a place for the noble, or the fallen, or the damned. It's a place for those who BURN. You'll either rise from your ashes… or die choking on them."
He stepped aside, the iron gates groaning open behind him.
"Welcome to the Phoenix Academy."