**Year 1976. Valderia.**
The Nation of Lumiére, a land that answered directly to Lordess Lumara, did not forgive children born wrong. It did not need open violence to teach obedience; silence and routine were enough. In Valderia, judgment lived in glances that lingered a second too long and names that were spoken differently depending on who stood nearby.
The forest beyond Lumiére's outer districts was where the unwanted were brought when words failed to correct them. Light struggled there, trapped between tall trunks and heavy leaves, the air damp with rot and old rain. It was a place chosen carefully—far from witnesses, close to fear.
Two boys stood among the roots, dressed in black robes lined with red thread that marked provisional service to the nation. They were too young to wear such colors with pride, too old to pretend they did not understand what the summons meant.
The younger boy kept his hood pulled low. Fourteen years old, thin, shoulders tense, he stood as if the ground itself might accuse him. Beneath the hood, red hair burned faintly against the darkness. His name was **Lucien de Vraille**, younger brother of the Queen of Valderia, Bella de Vraille—an inheritance that could not protect him, only endanger him. Officially, Lucien did not exist. Unofficially, he was being measured.
Beside him stood another boy, fifteen, taller and broader, posture straight despite the weight pressing into his chest. He did not hide his face. He had learned long ago that hiding only invited worse punishment. His skin was dark, his expression controlled, his eyes steady in a way Valderia found unsettling.
He was **Adrien Corbeau**.
Lucien watched the forest the way one watches an audience—quiet, observant, waiting for the moment attention turned into danger. Five years of careful silence had taught him how power behaved when it believed itself unquestioned.
They had not been told why they were summoned. Lumiére never explained; it tested. Survival meant usefulness. Failure meant erasure.
A bell rang somewhere behind them—metal striking metal, sharp and brief. The sound cut through the forest like a verdict.
From between the trees emerged three officials wearing pale coats embroidered with the winged crest of Lumiére. Their boots moved without hesitation over mud and roots. These were not soldiers. Soldiers enforced order. These people enforced meaning.
"Remove your hoods," the tallest one said.
Lucien obeyed immediately. Adrien hesitated for less than a second, then followed. The pause was noticed.
The official's gaze settled on Adrien first. Dark skin. Broad nose. Unflinching eyes. The kind of face Valderia liked to define before listening to.
"Name," she said.
"Adrien Corbeau," he replied.
She repeated it incorrectly. Slowly. Deliberately.
Adrien did not correct her.
Lucien noticed everything—the tightening of Adrien's jaw, the way his hands curled inside the robe, the subtle satisfaction on the official's face. Lucien had learned that power revealed itself best through small humiliations, not grand cruelty.
"And you?" the official asked, turning.
"Lucien," he said. He offered nothing more. Surnames carried weight. His was a blade better kept sheathed.
Another official circled them, boots sinking softly into wet soil. "You know why you are here," she said, not asking.
Adrien shook his head. "No, ma'am."
A lie. A necessary one.
"Lumiére requires loyalty," the tallest official said. "Loyalty is proven through obedience. Today, you will demonstrate whether you possess it."
They were ordered apart. Ten steps between them. The forest felt larger immediately, the silence heavier.
The test began simply, then sharpened.
Step forward. Stop.
Kneel. Stand.
Speak. Stay silent.
Commands contradicted each other without warning. Hesitation was noted. Obedience was never praised. The officials watched not for correctness, but for fracture.
When Adrien corrected a misquoted statute of Lumiére—quietly, precisely—the forest stilled.
"You think yourself educated?" one official asked.
Adrien lowered his gaze. "I wished only to answer correctly."
"Correctness," the official replied, "is not your place."
Something shifted.
Lucien spoke.
Not loudly. Not angrily.
"You mistake silence for obedience," he said calmly. "That error is why Valderia decays."
The forest froze.
The officials turned toward him, shock giving way to fury.
"You dare—"
The strike never came.
Adrien moved.
He seized the nearest official's wrist and twisted—not in rage, but with controlled force. Bone cracked. The scream was sharp, sudden, obscene against the quiet of the forest.
The remaining two stepped back, hands reaching for weapons that were no longer there.
Too late.
This was never meant to end here.
That night, the forest became something else.
The three officials were brought back—not dragged, not chased, but led. Bound. Silent. The clearing chosen was old, the ground darkened by rituals Valderia pretended to have forgotten.
Lucien stood at the center, calm as stone. Adrien held the first official in place. Fear finally broke her composure.
"We were loyal," she whispered.
"No," Lucien replied. "You were careless."
Names were spoken then. Not shouted. Offered.
**Lord Kharos.**
Three lives. Three keys.
The sacrifices were deliberate. One by blade. One by flame. One by experiment. Each death carried intent, not chaos.
When it was done, the forest did not answer—but something old stirred beneath Valderia's soil.
Lucien wiped the blood from his hands and looked toward the dark canopy above.
"This is only the beginning," he said.
In Valderia, history never announced itself. It began quietly, in forgotten forests, with boys who had learned that mercy was a language power never respected.