In the duke's study, dim light fell like a solemn veil over shelves filled with grimoires and maps. Laurence Douglas stood by the window, watching the duchy's banner ripple beneath the gray wind. The door opened softly, and Caleb stepped inside.
—Father, will the knights go into the forest? —the young man asked, his anxiety barely contained.
—Yes —Laurence replied without turning—. They have a mission assigned by the kingdom.
—Can I go with them?
—No. Your mother will be in charge of that mission, and she cannot look after you —he said firmly.
Caleb lowered his gaze, his fists trembling.
—But Lusian is going. Why is there a difference between him and me? Is it because he's an Epsilon and I'm only a Delta? I've heard the generals whisper… they'd rather see him as heir to the duchy.
Laurence turned then, his eyes burning with authority.
—Do not repeat such nonsense again. I will decide who my successor is, and I have chosen you. No one in this duchy will dare to contradict my word.
Caleb nodded, though doubt still burned in his chest. As he left the study, he noticed a maid passing by carrying an elegant box adorned with the Armett family seal.
—Who is that gift for? —he asked with feigned casualness.
—For young Lord Lusian, my lord —the maid replied with a bow—. It was sent by Lady Isabella Armett.
—May I see it for a moment?
—Lord Caleb, the duchess will be angry if she learns you touched Lord Lusian's belongings —the woman stammered nervously.
Caleb ignored her and followed her to his half-brother's chamber. Inside, Lusian lay reclined on a sofa, a thick tome of sorcery in his hands.
—What do you need, brother? —Lusian asked without looking up.
—I want to know why Isabella has written to you.
—I don't know —he said calmly—. Read it yourself.
Caleb approached. On the desk rested a neatly written letter beside the gift. He unfolded it and read quietly:
"Dear Lord Lusian Douglas The Mondring,
I wish you a swift recovery from your injuries. I send you this small gift, hoping it will help you refine your skill with the flute. Should you ever wish for guidance in using this instrument, I would be delighted to offer my advice.
With respect,
Isabella Armett."
—Well, how formal —Lusian commented with a faint smile—. She seems like a well-mannered girl.
—Yes… —Caleb replied, a dark glint in his eyes—. Very special, indeed.
—There's no need to worry —Lusian added, closing his book—. I'm not interested in her.
Caleb clenched his teeth but said nothing. As he turned to leave, he opened the door—only to find Sofía standing there. The duchess looked at him with icy severity.
—What are you doing here, Caleb? —she asked, her voice sharp as a blade—. I've warned you many times not to approach Lusian.
—I'm sorry, Duchess —he said, bowing his head—. I only came to ask him something. It won't happen again.
—Leave.
He obeyed, the weight of humiliation burning across his back. Sofía watched the door close and sighed faintly. In that house, silence was beginning to smell like betrayal.
Days later, the capital stirred beneath the sound of imperial trumpets. The carriages of the Ferrussi Empire passed through the gates adorned with crimson banners. Among them stood one decorated with silver reliefs and black eagles: the vehicle of the Ninth Prince, Leopoldo Ferrussi Fabrini—a man of regal bearing, blue hair like steel and eyes green as cold gems. At his side marched Marcus Valentine, general of the Twelfth Legion, known on the battlefield as The Jackal.
The nobles of the kingdom watched them with restrained respect—some with open distrust. At the palace steps, the royal concubine Alessia Ferrussi, the prince's sister, awaited his arrival.
—It's good to see you, Leopoldo —she said with a practiced smile.
—Sister —he replied, kissing her hand—, I'm glad to see you. Though I must admit, living in this corner of the world must be… primitive.
—It hasn't been so bad —Alessia answered diplomatically—. How are things in the Empire?
—Fine —he shrugged—. Though they sent me here with a ridiculous task: to marry a peasant princess.
—Brother, don't be upset —she murmured—. The people of this kingdom are different. Don't expect reverence or lavish banquets like at the imperial court. I ask for your tolerance. Don't ruin our plans.
Leopoldo let out a bitter laugh.
—Tolerance? Are you saying these peasants would dare disrespect me?
They entered the throne room, where King Felipe Erkham awaited them. There were no petals, no welcoming music—only the echo of their footsteps across marble. The king rose, expression steady.
—Welcome, Prince Leopoldo.
—The manners of this kingdom are… cold —the prince replied with a venomous smile—. Perhaps I should recommend the Emperor send someone to teach you etiquette.
The king met his gaze calmly.
—There is no need. The Empire has its customs, and we have ours. If you do not like them, you may return whenever you wish.
Leopoldo pressed his lips together, fury hidden behind courtesy.
—That won't be necessary, Your Majesty. I will stay a few days. I would like to meet my fiancée.
Felipe raised an eyebrow.
—I must correct you, Prince. I never accepted that request. The princess is not at your disposal.
Leopoldo stared in silence, a shadow crossing his face.
—Is that your final decision? Do you not fear the Empire's retaliation?
The room filled with tension, as though the air itself awaited a storm. At that moment, the fate of two kingdoms began to hang by a thread as thin as a blade's edge.
The echo of trumpets rang again. The herald raised his voice:
—Duchess Sofía Douglas The Mondring!
The great ebony doors opened, and all murmurs ceased. Sofía entered with measured steps, cloaked in dark blue. At her side walked a majestic beast—a silver-maned lion as large as a carriage, its burning eyes warning that a single wrong move meant death.
Prince Leopoldo instinctively stepped back, his arrogance faltering. He moved behind General Marcus Valentine, who observed in silence, thinking: A prince who talks too much and listens too little. In war, that is a death sentence.
The beast crossed the hall with a low growl that made the chandeliers tremble.
Sofía bowed before the throne.
—Your Majesty, I have come to report that all units are ready for the forest expedition.
King Felipe nodded.
—Duchess, it is a pleasure. General Joshua Erkham will command my troops. Coordinate with him.
—As you wish, Your Majesty.
—Very well. You may go.
Sofía turned without sparing the imperial delegation a glance. To her, they were little more than arrogant shadows—silk-clad worms she might one day have to crush.
Marcus watched her closely, analyzing every movement of the lion. He reached a silent conclusion: he could defeat it… but he would not survive. And that was without counting the other two magical beasts bound to Sofía's will. Even the Emperor himself—the only human with the rank of Epsilon Champion—might not guarantee victory against her.
The prince broke the silence, his voice tense.
—Your Majesty, how can you allow such a beast to endanger imperial diplomats?
The king remained unmoved.
—It seems the Empire frightens easily. My opinion of you has just dropped further.
—No need to be so aggressive, Your Majesty —Leopoldo replied stiffly—. After all, we are family.
—For now —the king answered coldly—. Rest, Prince. There will be a banquet tonight. You are welcome… if you wish.
Silence fell like a verdict. Sofía left the hall, and the lion's distant roar echoed like an omen.