A long, winding road cut through the rolling plains, dust rising with each passing carriage wheel, stretching toward the horizon as a carriage embroidered in gold and red approached the imperial castle.
At the first sight of the carriage, marked with the upright cross, the crowd along the road fell silent, As if that single carriage was deliberately avoided
"Father," young Lucan murmured, his green eyes wide with wonder, "why do the people here hate us so much?"
Dreagon's deep, knowing chuckle echoed softly through the morning air. "Lucan, what you see is fear… not hate."
The boy lowered his gaze, turning over the weight of those words. After a pause, he asked softly, "Why do they fear us, Father?"
Dreagon's eyes swept across the towering walls and gilded spires, calm, commanding, almost imperious. "Listen well, son. We are the enforcers of this empire. No one stands above us but the Emperor. Respect… and a measure of fear… are the threads that hold this world together."
Lucan felt the weight of his father's words settle over him like the wind sweeping the endless grasslands—a presence vast, unspoken, and impossible to ignore. Though he did not yet fully comprehend, a strange current of something greater stirred within him, as if the world itself whispered a secret meant only for him.
The carriage remained quiet for a long moment before Dreagon asked, "Son, what do you think is the iron rule of our house?"
"We ensure the empire endures, no matter the challenges it faces," replied Lucan, firm and thoughtful. Dreagon patted his son as a token of acknowledgement.
At the gates of the castle, the coachmen announced, "Lord Gravenholt has arrived to meet the Emperor at his command." The guards stepped aside, allowing them to enter. Lucan's gaze swept over the bustling capital, awed by its grandeur, its vibrant streets, and the rich tapestry of life that filled the city.
Inside the palace, he was instructed to wait outside the throne room. There, a pale girl, clad in the finest noble attire, approached him, her entourage of maids following gracefully behind. She regarded him with a gentle curiosity and said, "You must be Lucon, son of the High Warden of Valdris, Duke Dreagon."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Lucon replied, his voice steady and respectful.
The princess's eyes sparkled with interest. "And what do you think of the capital, Lucon?" she asked, her tone cheerful yet refined.
Lucon inclined his head slightly, his expression composed. "It is magnificent, Your Highness."
A soft smile touched her lips. "I hope to visit Valdris someday with my brother. I have heard tales of the vast plains, lush and green."
Lucon's gaze brightened as he spoke, his voice carrying pride without arrogance. "My home is nothing short of a haven, Your Highness. The plains are a blessing, and their beauty is a joy to behold."
Dreagon returned from the throne room, his presence calm yet commanding, "Please excuse us your Highness" said Dreagon and gestured for Lucon to follow. Together, they stepped back into the golden carriage, the city of Aurethion sprawling around them in all its splendor.
Lucon's gaze lingered on the distant towers and bustling streets, and for a brief moment, he felt the quiet pull of something unspoken—a promise or a secret that the city itself seemed to whisper.
They emerged from the castle gates, and a messenger, bowing low, approached Dreagon. Leaning in, he whispered something in the High Warden's ear.
Dreagon straightened, his expression firm. "Son, I have an urgent matter to attend to. You will remain in the capital for a while," he said.
"As you wish, Father," Lucan replied calmly.
The carriage rolled deeper into the heart of Aurethion. Lucon took in the bustling streets, the lively markets, and the grandeur of the city's spires and squares. For the first time, he had the chance to move freely through the capital, observing the rhythm of its people and the pulse of the empire itself.
By the time they reached the residence where he would stay, Lucon had already begun to memorize the streets and squares, the smell of fresh bread from the bakeries, and the distant clang of the smiths at work. It was different from Valdris—larger, louder, and full of life—but it felt welcoming in its own way. Dreagon gave him a brief nod before departing
As the carriage disappeared down the cobblestone avenue, Lucon stood at the threshold of his temporary residence, the city stretching endlessly before him. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows between the spires, and the air buzzed with the hum of life—merchants calling out, children laughing, the rhythmic clip of horse hooves.
For a moment, he allowed himself to breathe, to feel the pulse of Aurethion around him. It was exhilarating, and yet a quiet tension lingered beneath the surface, a subtle reminder of his father's words. Respect… and a measure of fear.
A servant appeared, bowing low. "Your rooms are prepared, My Lord. Dinner will be served at sunset."
Lucon nodded, stepping inside. The interior was lavish yet restrained, a reflection of noble taste rather than ostentation. He ran his fingers along the carved wood of the bannisters, feeling the weight of tradition and authority in every detail.
After a short rest, he wandered to a balcony overlooking the city. The golden light of dusk painted the streets and towers in hues of amber and crimson. Lucon felt a strange mixture of excitement and responsibility swell within him. The empire was vast, intricate, and full of unseen currents—but he would find his place in it.
He turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, "I will make my father proud," he whispered to the wind, a quiet promise that carried more weight than any title or crown.
In that moment, Lucon understood something essential: power was not merely to be wielded, nor fear merely to be commanded. It was to be understood, balanced with wisdom, and carried with purpose. And somewhere, in the heart of Aurethion, his journey had only just begun.
The city lights flickered on, like stars fallen to the earth, and Lucon felt the first stirrings of destiny—unwritten, vast, and waiting.
A sharp, harsh voice shattered the vision. "Wake up, you dumb fool!"
Lucon's eyes snapped open. The grandeur of Aurethion, the gleaming spires, his father's commanding words—all dissolved into darkness. Damp stone walls pressed close around him, the cold of the cell biting through his thin garments. Chains clinked faintly at his wrists.
For a moment, he lay still, the echo of the past lingering like a ghost. The palace, the bustling streets, the golden carriage—they had all been a dream from a life he could no longer touch. A memory of power and love, now replaced with silence, shadows, and the bitter taste of exile.