"Why?" The Duke's gaze bore into her like a spear.
"Why throw away your station, your security, your very life—for him? That trash son of mine, that stain upon Valemont's name. What worth does he hold, that you would walk into disgrace at his side?"
The flames in the hearth snapped. Shadows clawed up the carved walls. The weight of his contempt pressed against her, daring her to falter.
But Elora did not waver. She lifted her chin, blue eyes steady—eyes like storm-swept seas, unbroken, unyielding.
Her voice came low, yet resolute, carrying across the silence like a prayer whispered to the gods.
"Because he is my master. And I will not abandon him.
I have served the young master since he was a boy of five. I have seen him stumble, seen him bleed, seen him rise again stronger. I have watched him endure when others mocked, endure when others scorned.
And now—when he faces his darkest hour—this is when he needs me most. To forsake him now would be... unthinkable."
The chamber stilled. The Duke's expression darkened, carved from iron. He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning beneath him, and for a long moment he only studied her.
To the household, Elora was but a maid—one of countless insignificant shadows moving in silence through Valemont's halls.
But the Duke Leofric Valemont knew better.
He remembered the day her name was inked on the scrolls of selection. When he had first assumed the mantle of Duke, the crown had granted him the ancient privilege of his bloodline: the right to pluck the rarest talent from across the kingdom and forge them into living weapons of House Valemont.
From many candidates, he had chosen a mere handful.
Warriors who became the edge of his sword, sent to the borders where kingdoms clashed. Guardians trained not as kin of blood, but as shadows of loyalty, blades unseen until the moment they struck.
Elora had been among the first. A prodigy, keen as steel, bright as flame. His blade. His proof of judgment. His pride.
Never once had he considered wasting her on lesser heirs. She was his gift to Klein alone—the son who had shone with brilliance, the boy who once bore the promise of legacy. Only Klein had been deemed worthy of her guardianship.
And now? That boy stood ruined. His affinity sealed. His promise shattered. His worth ground into dust.
And yet here she was—choosing to follow him into exile.
Duke Leofric's jaw clenched. His voice came out like iron dragged across gravel.
"…What if I say no?"
Elora did not hesitate. She dropped to one knee, lowering her head to the floor.
"Then I will accept whatever punishment my lord deems fit for disobedience."
The fire hissed. The Duke's nostrils flared. He stared at her bowed form, at the maid who was not merely a maid but the sharpest blade he had ever forged. He knew the weight of what she asked.
To keep her would be hollow. To force her would be beneath him. Yet to release her was no less bitter.
With a sharp exhale, he waved a hand, dismissive but strained.
"Do as you wish."
The words rang like a gavel, but beneath the steel, something cracked. Not defeat, not surrender—but pride wounding itself on its own edge.
Elora bowed low, her voice unwavering.
"My thanks, my lord."
The Duke did not answer. His eyes returned to the parchment before him, though his pen lay motionless. The fire's glow painted his features in restless amber.
Inside, a storm churned.
First his son—the boy in whom he had placed a hundred hopes—had proven nothing but a cripple, a disappointment sealed by fate.
And now, by that same boy's ruin, he was losing her too. Elora. His prodigy. His hidden blade. His pride.
All of it slipping through his grasp.
But he did not break. He would not.
For he was Leofric Valemont, Duke of a pillar house of Almadeon. And though pride bled within him, he let no drop stain the floor.
He sat, silent and immovable, a mountain against the storm—while the fire in the hearth snapped and spat, as if mocking the cost of loyalty and the weight of a father's pride.
Elora did not linger.
The Duke's disappointment pressed against her back like a blade, but she did not falter. Regret? None. Even if time rewound, she would still walk this path.
She turned on her heel, her steps echoing against the marble floor as she walked away.
Most would have called her mad. To walk away from House Valemont—the cradle of power, legacy, and treasures that forged warriors into legends—was to spit in the face of every dream-struck youth who prayed for a chance at its embrace.
Within those walls lay every resource to refine her gift, to polish her into a weapon unmatched. And she knew it. Oh, she knew. Yet her heart, stubborn and loud, refused the golden chains of ambition.
Her story had not begun in defiance. Years ago, when the Duke commanded her to serve under his third son, Klein, she accepted without question. She was his hound, loyal and grateful for the hand that had fed her.
Guard the boy, protect him in shadow, and sharpen his edges if fate allowed—that was her duty. Nothing more.
At first, she obeyed with mechanical precision. Orders were orders. Yet seasons turned, and something insidious bloomed.
Somewhere between the dawn drills and the quiet walks back from the training fields, her loyalty began to shift—not in a thunderclap but in a creeping tide she never noticed until it was too late.
Klein was… different.
Not a strutting peacock draped in titles. Not another noble brat gorging himself on wealth. No, his fire burned elsewhere.
While others flaunted names and banners, Klein's pride lived only in the steel he carried. He trained with a hunger that unsettled her—a hunger that bordered on desperation.
They called him heaven's chosen. A divine prodigy who shattered records, who left his peers crawling in the dust of his achievements.
But Elora, ever watchful in silence, saw the truth behind the illusion. His greatness was not carved by destiny's favor but by blood, sweat, and the crack of bone under strain.
After the tutors left, after the other heirs drowned themselves in wine and velvet, Klein returned to the field. Again and again his sword rose and fell until the night itself seemed to weep for him.
His hands blistered, his breath ragged, his body trembling—yet he would not stop. And she, watching from the shadows, found her heart betraying her.
Entranced. That was the word. Entranced by his defiance, his refusal to bow even when heaven spat in his face.
Two years ago, when his sealed affinity was revealed, many whispered that Klein's story had ended before it began. A cruel joke from the gods. A curse.
But where others saw ruin, Elora saw the spark of a man who spat back at fate.
Even as whispers turned to jeers, he gritted his teeth, bled harder, pushed further. And in that moment, her vow crystallized.
She would not serve House Valemont. She would serve Klein.
Now the day had come—the ritual of adulthood. At eighteen, every Valemont offspring was tested, their worth weighed.
Success earned them the mantle of Enforcer, pride of the house. Failure stripped them bare, titles and privileges cast to the gutter.
For one born with a sealed affinity, there was only one fate: exile.
That was why she had stood before the Duke, spine unbending, and declared her will. To walk beside the son he had already cast aside. To follow Klein even if it meant walking into oblivion.
The Duke's eyes had hardened, his silence a blade sharper than words. But she had not broken.
Leaving his office, she prepared herself. Her heart ached—not for her choice, but for the bond with the Duke that would now rot in cold ashes.
He had been her benefactor, almost a father. Yet she would not betray the man who had earned her soul.
From the shadows, she watched Klein's departure. He walked through the hall flanked by guards, his shoulders heavy, his eyes hollow—for the first time, she saw him broken.
When Lucian moved to torment him, she almost stepped forth, hand twitching for her blade. But Marcus intercepted, and she let the moment pass.
Good. She had no desire to reveal herself yet.
She followed as Klein and Marcus left the estate. When they parted ways, she slipped after Klein, her footsteps hidden in the hush of dusk.
And then—collapse.
His body crumpled as though the strings of his spirit had been cut.
Her heart froze. She rushed to him, calling his name, shaking him. Nothing. His chest rose faintly, but his consciousness was gone.
Panic gnawed at her composure. Without hesitation, she gathered him into her arms and carried him—through woods, through roads, until the lights of a town bled against the horizon.
There, in a rented room that smelled of dust and old wood, she watched over him.
Two days he lay in silence, caught in some unseen war within. Two days she sat, sleepless, her eyes never leaving his face.
And now at last, as his lashes fluttered and breath deepened, she allowed herself the smallest relief.
Her path was now chosen.
No regrets. No turning back.
She belonged to him now and would protect him at all costs, even if it meant giving her life for it.