The great iron-wrought gates of Duke Aldren's estate creaked open, revealing a stone-paved path that meandered through a manicured courtyard of evergree-leaved trees and flowers that glowed faintly with attracting the eyes. On either side of the walk way were poles which lamp were hung. They cast a golden shimmer across marble statues of past rulers and ancient beasts once slain in the Duke's name. The estate, walled like a fortress yet adorned like a palace, loomed ahead with towers capped in sapphire tiles and flying pennants bearing the sigil of a white gryphon over emerald fields.
As the he passed beneath the archway carved with runes of protection, they were met by liveried guards in polished armor and long crimson cloaks. Beyond them stood the grand entrance hall—vaulted, domed, and inlaid with mosaics of stars and constellations. The floor gleamed like glass, a mosaic of enchanted stone depicting the Duke's bloodline and the province's history. Elven light-orbs hovered just below the ceiling, illuminating columns carved to resemble entwined dragons and phoenixes.
A steward in midnight-blue robes appeared soundlessly, bowing with practiced grace, then led the visitor through a long corridor draped in deep tapestries. Each showed scenes of battle, coronations, and moments of strange, arcane peace, his ancestors shaking hands in alliance.
At last, two massive oak doors appeared ahead, guarded by silent knights in polished silver plate. With a gesture from the steward, the doors opened slowly on their own, revealing the audience chamber.
Inside, the room exhaled power. A long red carpet ran to a dais of black stone, where the Duke's throne stood, not golden, but carved of rootwood and oak and choice upholstery pulsing gently with living energy. The walls were lined with books, swords, and relics from centuries past. High above, a stained glass skylight cast a divine light down upon the throne, refracting into pale blues and burning ambers.
And there he sat, Duke Aldren. Regal, sharp-eyed, wrapped in robes of sky blue and ash-gray. A majesty. And and though he was still, the room felt shaped by his presence.
The visitor bowed. The air was still.
"Welcome! Sir Saevan! " he greeted. "How was your journey from Dravenguard? "
"It was as expected. Artherion however wasn't. Oh! what a glory this kingdom!"
"A glory indeed," Aldren said, voice rich and slow, "but don't you know glories come at a cost?"
"A question worthy of a throne," Saevan replied, allowing a small, almost imperceptible smile. "But not one often asked in time."
Aldren studied him. "You are as the I've heard, precise with words and deliberate with silence."
"And I find, Your Grace," Saevan answered, stepping forward a single pace, "that in courts such as these, words are weapons. But silence... ah, silence is the sheath."
The Duke chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that echoed faintly. "Then I wonder, what sword have you come to unsheath, Sir Saevan?"
"I come bearing no sword," Saevan said with a humble bow of his head, "only observation. And perhaps... curiosity."
"Curiosity?" Aldren raised a brow.
"The kind born not of spies," Saevan continued smoothly, "but of a soldier who has wandered far enough to see kingdoms rise in gold, and fall in ash. I have passed through lands where dukes no longer rule but kneel to lesser blood. I have seen thrones grow brittle beneath the weight of imperial whim. Yet here, I find a fortress wrapped in artistry. A realm in miniature. A man who rules not only by birthright but by command of soul."
Aldren smiled slightly, though he masked it with the slow lift of a goblet. "Flattery is the spice of noble company, but tell me, what do you seek, truly?"
Saevan let the silence settle, then moved toward one of the windows, hands clasped behind his back, as though admiring the lands beyond.
"I seek only to understand," he said softly. "What man builds a citadel so complete, yet allows himself to be ruled by one who fears it?"
The Duke's expression tightened, but only slightly. "Artherion is the heart of the realm. We are its arms. Its shield. Its sword, when summoned."
"Yet even the heart can grow diseased," Saevan murmured. He turned. "And a diseased heart cannot nourish limbs such as yours. It will instead starve them, slowly. Beautifully. Until there is nothing left but husks wearing cloaks of loyalty."
A pause.
"I do not speak treason," he added, "only biology."
Aldren's voice had cooled. "And you are trained in such sciences?"
"I am trained," Saevan said gently, "in what men become when they stop asking why."
The Duke regarded him long. "I see. So the Commander of Dravenguard has come not for war... but philosophy."
Saevan's smile returned, subtle this time, but still civilized. "Philosophy is the polite word for truth when wine is still in hand."
He stepped forward again, hands open, relaxed.
"Do you not find it strange, Your Grace," he said, voice velvet-dipped steel, "that a man such as you, with blood old as the stones, commands ten thousand, governs three provinces, keeps peace among men and yet, must bow to a king who's never seen war? Without pain, no one can understand true peace. Out of weakness, we are made strong."
Aldren's jaw shifted slightly. "It is the way of order."
"Ah," Saevan said. "And who wrote that order?"
No answer. The stained glass light had shifted to crimson.
"I do not propose rebellion," Saevan continued smoothly. "No, never that. I propose... memory."
"Memory?"
"Yes. That you remember who you were before Elyrion crowned you a subject. That your ancestors once ruled lands unbroken by any throne. That your coffers, Your Grace, overflow not because of Artherion, but despite it."
The Duke stood slowly from his throne. He descended the steps with measured grace, stopping before Saevan.
"And what would this memory achieve?"
Saevan's tone dipped to near-whisper, yet carried weight like thunder wrapped in silk.
"Not rebellion. Not yet. But readiness."
He leaned in slightly. "There is a storm coming. Not of steel or fire, but of truth. The kind that shatters veils. And when it does, kingdoms will collapse not because they were struck... but because their lies can no longer stand."
"And what do you ask of me?" Aldren said carefully.
"Nothing," Saevan replied. "For now. I ask only that you remember this night... and when the first cracks appear, choose not blindness, but vision."
He bowed, slow and full.
"When that day comes, Your Grace, I shall not ask you to raise your banner. Only to recognize your own."
And with that, he turned and walked toward the great oak doors leaving silence thick as velvet in his wake.
Behind him, Duke Aldren stood motionless, eyes narrowed, mind already spiraling through a hundred futures.
---
Back in Dravenguard, Princess Vaeloria stood before the fire, her gown untouched by the chill that clung to the castle stones. The flames cast sharp angles on her face, hardening what little softness remained in the young princess. Without turning, she spoke.
"Mirelleth."
I bowed as I approached, quiet. Just now, I was preparing her bed. Princess Vaeloria's voice carved through the silence before I could speak.
"You will rise before dawn. The stables are in disarray, see to it they are cleaned. Not supervised. Not delegated. Cleaned." She turned then, her gaze impassive, as if she were discussing the weather.
My lips parted, but the princess cut him off with a flick of his hand.
I swallowed the protest forming in his throat.
She stepped closer, eyes like flint. "You are not here to be coddled. You're here because I have use for you. When I no longer do, you'll know. Until then, do not wait for kindness where necessity is king."
She turned on her heel, the matter settled as far as she was concerned.
I watched her go, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy between us. But princess Vaeloria didn't look back. She never did.