Miles away from the town of Gluftown, in another province of the Kingdom of Oztera, lay the grand city of Glorianda. A city of towering spires and ancient halls, it had long been ruled by Duke Edward Grimshaw II. But now, the official seat of the duke sat empty, his rule cut short by a brutal assassination.
His sudden death left behind two sons—one, his adoptive heir, Aurelius Grimshaw, and the other, his blood-born son, Lysander Grimshaw. Yet, the duke's will was clear: only Aurelius was to inherit his title and estate.
But fate had its own cruel designs. Before Aurelius could claim his rightful place, he fell gravely ill, his presence in society vanishing as whispers of his deteriorating condition spread.
And as if that weren't enough, there remained another hurdle the dukedom required a duchess. Without a wife to solidify his rule, his claim to power remained in limbo, leaving the fate of Glorianda hanging by a thread.
In the reflection of an ornate vintage mirror sat a timeless beauty. Her long, striking black hair cascaded down her back, lush and bewitching. Her face, delicate and flawless like a porcelain vase, held a serene yet commanding presence. Doe-like hazel eyes, warm as honey, gleamed under the soft glow of candlelight. A perfect nose, full, exquisitely shaped lips—every feature a masterpiece.
The image of perfection gazed back at her as the maids carefully arranged delicate gold jewelry around her neck and wrists. The minimalistic adornments complemented her beauty rather than overpowering it. That was how the Grand Duchess of Glorianda preferred it graceful, effortless, and undeniably regal.
"Your Royal Highness, the physician has arrived," announced the guard at the door, momentarily pulling her gaze away from her reflection. She cast a fleeting glance toward the entrance before returning to the mirror.
"Let him in," she commanded, lifting her hand with a languid gesture.
At once, the maids hurried toward the grand Duchess, draping a black tulle veil over her head a solemn mark of her status. A widow. A title despised across the nation. Widowed women were considered beneath all social classes, save for the fortunate few, like the Grand Duchess, whose position was secured by a son to uphold her rank. and it seemed that she was trying to keep it that way.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and a man stepped inside. His attire was impeccably formal—a long black wool coat reaching his knees, a subtly patterned silk waistcoat beneath, and a crisp white shirt with a high, stiff collar. A neatly tied cravat adorned his neck, and his dark cotton trousers fell perfectly over his polished leather boots.
Grand Duchess Flora observed him intently as he entered, his head slightly lowered in deference.
He stopped at a respectable distance and spoke in a composed tone. "Greetings to Her Highness. I wish you continued health and strength."
"I am well," she replied coolly. "Now, take a seat and tell me—why have you come?"
Though she already knew the answer.
The physician let out a heavy sigh before speaking. "Your Highness, the young Duke's condition is worsening at an alarming rate. His liver is failing—each day, its function diminishes further."
"Young Duke?" Flora's voice rose with fury, her temper flaring as she shoved away the maids attempting to calm her. "How many times have I told you not to call him that?!"
The physician flinched but held his ground. "Your Highness, can we truly deny it? The late Duke explicitly wished for him to be his successor. It is only a matter of time before he takes over the land."
Flora's teeth clenched, her jaw tightening with barely contained rage. "Were you summoned here just to provoke me, Mr. Filch?" she seethed, her voice laced with venom.
"No, Your Highness," Filch said, his tone steady despite the tension in the room. "I came to request your permission to proceed with a surgery. If we act now, the young Duke may yet be saved."
Flora exhaled a long, weary breath before collapsing back into her seat. "That will not be happening."
"This is murder!" Filch nearly shouted, desperation creeping into his voice.
Flora's sharp gaze snapped to him, her next words slicing through the air like a blade. "Mr. Filch, might I remind you that your family resides under my roof?" Her tone turned ice-cold. "If you intend to oppose me, I may be forced to reconsider their place here."
Filch's face paled. His lips parted, but no words came. Slowly, his head lowered in defeat. He bowed deeply before retreating, his steps heavy with silent anguish.
Though she had successfully silenced the physician, Flora knew that his sentiments were shared by many. She could not rely on threats alone to maintain control—sooner or later, the tide would turn against her. Her choices were dwindling, and she had to find a way to eliminate him discreetly, ensuring her own survival and securing her son Lysander's inheritance.
Her mind was a tangled mess, desperation clawing at the edges of her thoughts. There was only one person she could trust to devise a solution.
"I need Sir Adam in my office by tonight," she ordered the maid standing behind her.
"Yes, Your Highness," the maid replied before swiftly leaving the room.
-
Adam Argon let out a slow breath, his aged fingers skimming over the parchment once more. The document was as unyielding as it had been the first time he read it—and the hundredth. The late Duke's words were etched in ink, unchangeable, final. And yet, the Duchess's piercing hazel eyes bore into him with a silent demand.
She would not accept defeat.
"Your Grace," Adam began, his voice measured, his grey brows furrowing slightly, "the will is ironclad. The Duke was meticulous in ensuring that no loopholes existed."
Flora's fingers tightened around her wrist, her nails pressing against her skin in frustration. From beneath her veil, her beauty still glowed like a phantom light, delicate yet filled with quiet strength. She had been patient, but patience had never been her virtue.
"There must be a way," she pressed, her voice controlled yet laced with urgency. "You have served this family for decades, Sir Adam. You know better than anyone that my son is the rightful heir. That dukedom is his birthright."
Adam exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. She was not wrong. By blood, by tradition, the young heir should have been the sole inheritor. But the will… the will spoke otherwise. The Duke had left provisions, ones that complicated everything.
Flora leaned forward, the soft rustle of her gown barely audible over the crackling fire in the hearth. "Tell me, Adam. If you were me, if it were your child's future at stake, would you simply accept this?"
He met her gaze, the weight of her words pressing into him like an unspoken challenge. The Duchess was no fool—she knew exactly what she was asking. And deep down, Adam suspected she already had a plan forming in that calculating mind of hers.
"There may be… a way." he admitted at last, choosing his words carefully.
Flora's lips curved ever so slightly, the first hint of satisfaction flickering across her features.
"Then tell me," she whispered. "I am listening."
"I know this might sound absurd to you, but we must let Master Aurelius take up the Duke's title." Adam said tensely, his voice heavy with the weight of his words. He refused to meet her gaze, knowing the storm it would unleash.
For a moment, there was silence. Then—
A sharp crash rang through the chamber.
Flora had swiped the tea set off the table in one violent motion, the delicate porcelain shattering against the marble floor.
"You must be out of your mind, Sir Adam!" she roared, her hazel eyes blazing as she took a step toward him. "You want me to give up Lysander's birthright to some low-blood just because my husband was blinded by that slave?"
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she glared down at him. "Was it not enough that I allowed his bastard to take the title of my husband's son? Now you want me to hand over the dukedom to him too?" Her voice dripped with disdain, trembling with barely contained wrath.
Adam remained still, though tension gripped his shoulders. His voice, though quieter, was urgent. "Your Grace, please hear me out. I know you think this is absurd, but there is no other way. This will ensure that Master Lysander receives the title for good."
Flora's nostrils flared. "How?" she demanded. "How does allowing that wretched boy to willingly take the title ensure anything for Lysander?"
Adam finally lifted his head, his grey eyes filled with something rare—desperation. "Because once he accepts, we will have the power to take it away."
A slow, dangerous smile curled at the corners of Flora's lips.
"Now that... is something I can work with. Explain yourself so I can understand you." Flora's voice was sharp, her curiosity piqued.
Adam remained prostrated, his forehead nearly touching the cold floor. Without lifting his head, he continued, "According to the will, Master Aurelius must be married to inherit the title. And as you already know, his survival chances are less than one in a hundred. If he dies without taking the title, the official dukedom will revert to the king, who will bestow it upon whomever he pleases. But…" he hesitated for a moment, then pressed on, "if Aurelius were to be wedded instantly and a will drafted in his name stating that, upon his passing, Lysander is to inherit the title, then it would be secured. Lysander would become the sole heir."
A calculating silence followed. Flora tapped her nails against the wooden table, deep in thought. "Hmm... Aurelius's death," she mused, a glint of amusement flickering in her hazel eyes. Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "I can arrange for that."
Just then, a sharp knock at the door interrupted them. Flora lifted her gaze, eyes narrowing.
A moment later, the door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside, cradling a wooden box carefully in both hands. Her expression was foxlike, lips curled in a sly smirk.
"Duchess, the extraction has been completed," she announced, her voice smooth as silk.
Flora's grin widened. She strode toward the woman, fingers hovering over the sealed box before finally breaking the wax seal. Lifting the lid, she revealed ten palm-sized glass vials filled to the brim with crimson liquid.
"Such a collection," she murmured in delight, lifting one of the vials. She tilted it, watching the thick blood swirl inside like the finest of wines. "He still bleeds like a stallion." Chuckling, she brought the bottle close, inhaling deeply, revealing in the metallic scent.
The woman bowed and swiftly exited, leaving Flora alone with Adam once more.
She turned back to the advisor, placing the vial onto the table with an audible clink. "So, you suggest that I marry Aurelius. But don't you think his wife could pose a problem later? After all, she must be noble-born. We can't simply kill her."
Adam lifted his head slightly, his expression unwavering. "Precisely why we must choose a noble from a low background. Someone who wouldn't dare defy you. A woman who will live like a rat in the shadows of the castle once Master Aurelius is dead."
Flora considered his words, her mind already spinning with possibilities. Then, after a brief pause, her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
"Rise, Adam."
He obeyed instantly, standing before her.
"You truly are my most brilliant advisor," she declared.
Then, with an air of finality, she added, "Once Lysander inherits the title, I shall ensure your rank increases as well."
Adam bowed low. "I am merely doing my duty, Your Grace. I am but a humble servant to your greatness."
Flora smirked, her fingers still lightly caressing the blood-filled vial. "Humble or not, Adam, I do reward loyalty."