The Duke of Atherton's Landau was precisely the image of wealth and arrogance its owner wished to project. Pulled by a matched team of four black horses, the carriage's polished black lacquer gleamed, its brass fittings throwing back the sharp, indifferent light of the morning. Inside, the Duke, a man whose face was etched with the self-satisfaction of inherited rank, reviewed his list of necessary wedding gifts.
They were travelling a newly constructed stretch of cobbled road linking the main capital, Atheria, to the suburbs of Rosewood Lane. It was meant to be a swift journey, befitting a man who had important business to conclude—namely, claiming his bride and thus completing the political maneuvering that promised security and discretion.
His coachman, a stern man named Giles, sat high on the box, holding the reins with practiced ease. The coach was protected by two armed riders in the Duke's livery, their rifles loaded—not for highwaymen, but for the strange, unseen worries that had recently troubled the highest ranks of Atheria's society.
As the carriage passed a stand of old, thick oak trees, the air changed.
It did not grow colder, nor did it thin. Instead, a peculiar heaviness descended—a sudden, tangible pressure that made the Duke's teeth ache. The horses, which moments before had been moving with smooth confidence, suddenly bucked and whinnied, their eyes rolling wildly.
"Steady, you fools!" the Duke barked, bracing himself against the padded velvet wall.
Giles fought the reins, but it was not the horses he fought. It was the Earth itself.
A fissure, impossibly sudden and clean, ripped across the cobbled road ahead of the lead horse. It was not the jagged tear of a simple tremor, but a smooth, silent trench that stopped the coachman short. The carriage wheels, hitting the sudden edge, grated to a violent halt.
"What treachery is this?" the Duke shouted, kicking open the carriage door and stepping onto the verge.
The fissure stretched twenty feet wide and seemed bottomless, emitting a cold plume of vapour that was neither steam nor fog—a signature of concentrated, hostile elemental Water. It completely blocked the road.
Before the Duke could issue a threat or a command, the air above the carriage coalesced into a sharp, whistling gust of elemental Air. It was a gale that tore the heavy ceremonial feathers right off the horses' harnesses and yanked the tricorn hat from the Duke's head, spinning it into the newly formed chasm.
Then, from the stand of oak trees, a single, deep crimson flame—a pure form of elemental Fire—ignited a branch high above the road. It burned with a cold intensity that produced no smoke and cast stark shadows, serving only as a marker and a warning.
Giles, the coachman, scrambled down, his face grey. He looked not at the chasm, but at the unnaturally burning branch and the unsettling stillness of the air.
"My Lord," Giles stammered, his voice choked with superstitious dread. "**This is not a mere mishap. This... this is a claim."
The Duke, pale with fury and a terror he would never admit, understood instantly that his wealth and political status were useless. His journey was not merely interrupted; it had been terminated by a power that surpassed the King's own assurances of safety.
He stared at the burning branch and the impossible trench, rage turning to cold, calculating fear. He knew who had done this. He knew the warning was absolute.
"Retrieve the baggage," the Duke ground out, his voice shaking only slightly. "We are returning to Atheria. The wedding is postponed.
Valerian know the duke would shield easily the marriage was a political game after all but he decided it was right time the king got a warning