The morning fog clung to the twisted trees that bordered the Valtros estate like a warning—cold, persistent, and gray. It drifted across the worn cobblestones as if trying to erase the footprints of the young duke who had wandered them in solitude since dawn.
Lucifer Valtros stood at the edge of the withered garden, his cloak pulled tight against the wind. Dew clung to his silver hair, and the breeze carried the scent of old iron and burnt soil. No birds sang. They never did here.
"Your Grace," came a soft voice behind him.
Judas. Ever the shadow behind the name.
Lucifer didn't turn. "The council is gathering?"
"They arrived an hour ago. As expected… not one with kind intentions."
Lucifer smirked faintly, gaze still locked on the distant, sunless horizon. "Good. Let them come sharpen their fangs."
He returned to the manor in silence. The halls were quiet—too quiet for a place meant to house nobility. Most servants had long since left, and those who remained moved like ghosts under Judas's command. His mother hadn't risen yet. She rarely did these days. Her mind floated somewhere between mourning and memory, caught in a time when the Valtros name meant something.
The grand hall had once held feasts and laughter. Today, it held only the whispers of dying legacies.
Lucifer entered with the slow confidence of a man well aware of the tension his presence caused. Around the table sat nobles draped in fine silks and false civility. Their eyes met his with the usual mixture of disdain and ambition. They saw a title without a throne. A name without weight. A boy pretending to be a duke.
He let them.
"Shall we begin?" Lucifer said, his voice calm but cold.
Baron Reth cleared his throat. "Your Grace, with all due respect, your holdings are weakening. The harvest was late, your militia numbers barely a hundred—"
"And yet," Lucifer interrupted, walking slowly around the table, "our borders remain untouched, your taxes paid, and not a single plea for aid has left these walls. Curious, isn't it?"
The baron's jaw tightened.
Lucifer continued. "You came here expecting collapse. But you forget, gentlemen—ashes don't mark an end. They mark what survives the fire."
Whispers broke out, quickly silenced by Judas's heavy steps as he entered, setting a sealed envelope on the table before Lucifer.
"The letter arrived this morning," Judas said. "From the capital."
Lucifer cracked the seal. His eyes scanned the parchment once. Twice.
Then he smiled.
"Change is coming," he said, folding it slowly. "A royal decree. A call for nobles to send their kin to the Sanctum of Ordeals. A test of strength, wisdom, and worth. The prize? Favor from the Crown… and a seat at the Inner Court."
The barons exchanged glances.
Lucifer met each of their gazes, eyes gleaming like tempered steel.
"I'll be going."
Reth scoffed. "A duke at a trial meant for young heirs? It's beneath your—"
"It's survival," Lucifer said sharply. "And I suggest you start thinking about yours."
He turned, cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow unbound.
---
That night, as Judas helped him prepare his gear, Lucifer stood before the great mirror in his chambers. The reflection showed a boy dressed in noble black, sword at his hip, crownless yet regal.
But he didn't see a boy.
He saw a name waiting to be reborn.
"Judas," he said, buckling his gauntlet, "do you believe in fate?"
The old butler hesitated. "I believe it's a stubborn thing."
Lucifer gave a tired smile. "Then let's teach it to bend."
Outside, thunder rumbled. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the gears of something ancient stirred.