I stand up to leave Amelia's side and exit the carriage.
I extend my hand to Sir Arthur. Why? His father, Sir Ivor, isn't just my father's Ducal Marshal—according to my mother, they have been friends since their youth. I recall seeing him when my father visited after the war; Sir Ivor was always by his side. He had a feature that made him memorable—an eyepatch. The family records recount his feats. He lost his eye protecting my father.
Arthur hesitates at first, visibly taken aback by the gesture. A noble extending his hand? He glances to the side, then back at me. The Ardorion Empire values strict hierarchy; a handshake is far too familiar for my station.
For a brief moment, he wavers—then, with a firm nod, he clasps my hand and returns the handshake.
"Sir Arthur, it's an honor," I say with confidence. "I know of your father's feats—his service and loyalty have never gone unnoticed. I trust that you will uphold his legacy and carve your own path as a great man."
I was always good at reading faces. I am not quite sure why, but I could always instinctively read what people were feeling. It's one of the reasons I recognized my mother's fear that night. And she was the best at hiding her intentions.
And what Arthur was feeling right now was—
Recognition. His family's loyalty and sacrifices weren't forgotten.
A flicker of pride crosses his features as he clasps my hand firmly, his grip measured and steady. His expression softens, and for the first time, his posture relaxes ever so slightly.
"You know your history well for your age, young lord," he remarks, his voice carrying newfound respect. "Your tutor must have done a fine job."
A faint smile tugs at his lips. But just as quickly as it appears, it's gone. He blinks, as if remembering himself—
who I am, who he is.
His back straightens, shoulders squaring, and the formal soldier returns. "The honor is mine," he says, more composed now, his tone clipped yet respectful. "Your carriage should be here soon, my lord," he continues, "I will assign guards to your carriage to ensure you have a safe trip."
I tilt my head slightly, my tone light but measured. "Sir Arthur, there's no need to be so stiff with me."
He's back to formality. I expected that.
I never cared much for etiquette. Back in Lisbel, I used to play with the maids, my butler—even the peasant children in the village when I could slip away. It was frowned upon, of course, but I never really saw why. What was the harm? Was respect only as deep as the difference between a bow and a handshake?
It is now a painful, seemingly distant and unreachable memory.... I manage to repress my emotions.
This empire was built on its hierarchy. The right to rule, the right to command—etched into law, upheld by blood. Yet, even the emperor himself had ignored it once.
"After all, even great men must breathe."
Arthur's eyes subtly widen—not at my words, but at the weight of them.
The quote was not mine.
It was the current Emperor of the Ardorion Empire who had once spoken those very words to Gallian of Ardoria, the great hero who had saved humanity. The emperor, a man regarded as divine, the ultimate authority, had uttered them in a moment that shook history itself—a moment where, before the assembled nobility and the high council, he had done something… unthinkable.
He embraced Gallian.
It was a fleeting gesture. A man honoring a hero. But to those who understood the rigid laws of this empire, to those who lived by its strict hierarchies… it was something far more.
A king does not embrace his subjects. A ruler does not acknowledge his vassals as equals. And yet, the emperor had done so before the most powerful men and women of the empire.
No one dared speak of it openly. That would be suicide. But silence does not mean forgetfulness.
Historians were careful. The records spoke of the emperor's praise for Gallian, his recognition of the hero's deeds—but nowhere did they mention the act itself. The embrace was omitted, smoothed over, erased from history like a misplaced ink blot. A gesture too dangerous for the fibers of society to be remembered.
Arthur clears his throat lightly, a small, subtle reaction, but I don't miss it. His fingers twitch slightly at his side, as if resisting the urge to respond. Because by quoting those dangerous words, I had done something more than recite history. I had invoked something left unspoken.
The carriage arrives, far more suitable for a noble than the battered wooden box we had been riding in. The seats are cushioned, the interior lined with polished oak, and thankfully, I could sit without feeling the jostling of every rock on the road.
Arthur stands beside it, the moment between us lingering as he weighs his response. His fingers twitch, but he remains composed. His face doesn't betray much—only a slight shift, a brief hesitation.
He had recognized the quote.
That alone meant something. A knight, a marshal's son, not only aware of such a dangerous phrase but knowing enough to react to it. Had my father told his father? Or had he heard it from someone else?
Still, Arthur does not align himself. He bows slightly, lowering his gaze with careful neutrality, as though setting the conversation aside. "Your carriage is ready, my lord. May your journey be swift."
It is not rejection, not outright. But it is distance.
I nod, stepping into the carriage, Amelia following beside me. The door shuts, and soon, the horses pull us forward, the old cart and its crude driver fading into the dust behind us.
Amelia lets out a breath, then glances at me with a grin. "That was impressive."
I raise an eyebrow. "What was?"
"The way you spoke to him. You carry yourself well." She tilts her head, considering her words. "You have presence."
Presence.
"Thank you " I respond briefly, leaning back against the seat. There was no way she understood the full extent of that exchange.
The new carriage is leagues apart from the last—spacious, steady, well-maintained, and the driver professional. I adjust, shifting into comfort, but my mind is elsewhere.
As we pass through the city gates, Leonor sprawls before us—a great hub of life and power, the very heart of the duchy. Its roads are paved stone, broad enough for merchants, nobles, and commoners alike to move in controlled chaos. Buildings stretch high, some adorned with banners displaying the sigil of my father's house, a roaring lion cast in silver.
At the city's center, a statue stands tall. Duke Leonor. My father. His stone visage is carved with the same stern expression I barely remember. A reminder that this city, this land, belongs to him.
Markets bustle with traders shouting their wares, spices and silks brought from across the empire. Enchanters sell charms and scrolls, their stalls filled with glimmering trinkets that catch the light. Magelights line the streets, glowing in steady intervals—small orbs of contained energy floating just above their bronze stands. I had only read about them in books until now—mesmerizing.
Children dart through the streets, laughing as they chase each other with wooden swords. Music drifts from somewhere—a festival? Bright ribbons and banners flutter along the main square, where performers draw a small crowd.
For a moment, I let myself feel it. The wonder. The life of the city.
But then—
Something else catches my eye.
A large board stands near one of the guild halls, layered with parchment, bounties for wanted criminals pinned across its wooden surface. The closer we move, the more details I catch—the crest of the emperor himself stamped in wax on the most prominent among them.
A massive bounty.
The face of a man I recognize immediately.
'Zene, dead or alive.'
A cold weight settles in my chest. His name had been unknown to me until now, but there was no mistaking it. My memories flash to the same piercing eyes, the wild black hair, bloodied blades, features that now haunt me.
"Halt!" I commanded.
He wasn't alone. The bounty listed others. Some with names. Some only with silhouettes. Some with nothing but titles or aliases. Seventeen figures in total.
The Forsaken.
They weren't just exiles. Not just men cast out by the emperor. They were an organization. My fingers tighten as my gaze shifts further down the board. Before the crawling, boiling rage could settle inside me, there was something else... Another poster—no face, no name. Just a question mark, bold and glaring. And beneath it, a title—
"He Who Alters Fate...."
My breath stills. The words linger in my mind, striking something deeper than I understand. I whisper them under my breath, almost as if testing them on my tongue.
Amelia, seated beside me, turns her head slightly. "What was that?"
I blink, realizing I had spoken aloud. "Nothing," I murmur, shaking my head. I tear my gaze away from the board and allow the carriage to move forward, the city swallowing us once more.
We ride in silence until we reach the estate.
Guards line the entrance, their armor glinting under the afternoon sun. The gates, tall and heavy with reinforced steel, open without question. The moment they recognize our escort, they step aside, granting us passage.
The Leonor estate is everything I expected—grand, structured, unyielding. Much like the man who owns it.
The carriage slows to a stop before the grand entrance of the Leonor estate. The driver opens the door, and as I step out onto firm stone, I take in the towering structure before me. It dwarfs the mansion back in Lisbel—grander, imposing
"Wow," Amelia breathes beside me, her gaze sweeping over the towering columns and the vast courtyard leading up to the entrance. "It's beautiful."
It is, objectively. Polished stone, intricate carvings along the archways, banners bearing the Leonor sigil fluttering in the wind. And yet, something about it feels... different.
Colder.
Lisbel's mansion had a charm to it, a warmth I never truly recognized until now. It was my home. This? This is something else.
A servant in well-tailored garb approaches with a small bow.
"We have been expecting you, young master," he announces smoothly. "Lord Leonor received a letter from Baron Cristophle of Akvale regarding your arrival."
I glance at him, mildly surprised. A baron sending a letter directly to a duke? That was unusual. A baron reports to a count, not a duke, as he is not a direct vassal. A bold move—perhaps an attempt to curry favor. But if he was trying to impress, why send us here in a dilapidated cart with a half-wit driver?
Contradictory.
The servant gestures toward the grand staircase leading to the estate doors. We ascend, Amelia taking in the sights while my mind wanders.
How will they receive me? My father, my siblings—how much do they know of me? Of what happened?
I step forward toward the open entrance, my foot crossing the threshold when—
A shift.
Something almost imperceptible, like the world slowed for just a second.
Two tall figures pass by me, their words muffled by the butler's speech.
Then—an aroma.
Faint, yet distinct. Leather, steel, a sharp, crisp scent tinged with something faintly herbal.
I know this smell.
It tickles my senses, stirring something deep in my mind. A memory just out of reach.
I glance to my side.
My eyes move upward.
Boots, polished and well-worn. A long coat, dark, immaculately tailored. A posture straight, commanding. A broad frame, shoulders squared with an ease that speaks of discipline.
I lift my gaze higher.
A face carved from stone—sharp lines, severe features. Eyes cold, unreadable, set beneath furrowed brows.
An odd feeling stirs in my chest. Not fear. Not relief. A strange fluttering in my stomach, neither warm nor cold, just... there—
Anticipation.
I had been thinking about my father only moments ago, wondering what he would be like. How he would greet me. And now, standing before me, looking past me as though I were nothing more than another servant in the hall, is—
"Father..."