Chapter 03: D'Armande family
To the past, before Lucien awoke from his slumber…
Continent of Valedorn, Imperial City of Humans.
Inside the Royal Court, where the morning sunlight pierced through a stained-glass dome, casting prismatic patterns that danced across the assembly like liquid jewels.
Enormous steam-powered chandeliers of wrought iron hung from above, their brass gears clicking softly as they turned, illuminating the intricately checkered brass and marble floors below.
Dominating the room was the throne itself—polished cogs turned with methodical precision, copper filigree caught and scattered the light in mesmerizing patterns, and riveted steel formed an intricate exoskeleton around a cushioned seat of burgundy velvet.
Lining the hallways stood soldiers clad in armored metal, steam rising from their helmets in synchronized puffs that harmonized with their measured breathing, their gauntleted hands clasped tightly around ceremonial halberds that gleamed threateningly in the artificial light.
But the main focus of the room was the noise—the loud murmurs and restless muttering of the assembled court, a symphony of whispers that swelled and receded like tides.
Fans snapped open to hide gasps and pointed remarks behind painted silk.
The solemn prayers of the surrounding clergy rose and fell in practiced cadence, their voices blending in harmonious counterpoint as if attempting to purify the space with sound alone.
And through it all, the keen eyes of all present—some wide with morbid fascination, others narrowed in calculation—fixed upon two central figures kneeling before the throne.
The sisters knelt with spines straight despite their circumstances, the proud d'Armande family crest on their attire now a beacon drawing every condemning gaze.
One sister's jaw remained clenched tight, chin slightly raised in silent defiance, while the other's shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly, her gaze fixed on the intricate floor patterns as though searching for escape within their geometric precision.
The minister stepped forward. His official robes rustled with self-importance as he planted his feet firmly before the throne, the golden chain of office around his neck catching the light with each calculated movement.
"Your Majesty," he began with a deep bow, his voice expertly projected to reach even the furthest corners of the court, "esteemed clergy," he nodded toward the chanting figures whose prayers faltered momentarily, "nobles gathered within our Imperial City—bear witness!"
He paused dramatically, allowing his words to hang in the air. The great clock above the entrance ticked loudly in the sudden silence, its mechanical heartbeat counting down to judgment.
"It is with a heavy heart and unwavering duty that I present these charges," he continued, placing a gloved hand over his chest where emblems of justice were embroidered in gold thread.
His fingers splayed wide, as if physically containing his righteous indignation. "Concealment of forbidden magics—" at this, gasps rippled through the court like wind through summer wheat,
"—possession of proscribed tomes—" his voice rose with each accusation, matching the increasing tempo of his measured pacing before the accused,
"—and the orchestration of unholy experiments—abominations in the eyes of the Goddess herself!"
At the mention of blasphemy, the clergy's prayers intensified, and several nobles made protective gestures across their chests, fingers trembling slightly as they traced sacred symbols.
"Furthermore," the minister spun to face the broader court, his robes billowing around him like dark wings, "the House d'Armande, once a pillar of virtue, stands accused of consorting with the infernal, lending material aid to the enemies of the realm, and sowing insidious mistrust within our precincts."
He turned back to the sisters, looming over them, his shadow falling across their faces like an early execution. "Their deeds, grave and slanderous, threaten not only the dignity of this court, but the very sanctity upon which our city rests!"
The monarch shifted slightly on the throne, causing a cascade of tiny mechanical adjustments as gears recalibrated with soft clicks. The momentary distraction passed quickly as all attention returned to the unfolding drama.
"By decree of His Majesty," the minister's voice lowered to a rumble that vibrated in the chests of all present, "these crimes cannot—must not—be allowed to fester and corrupt!"
He swept an accusing hand toward the sisters.
Deep furrows formed between his brows as his face contorted with disgust, his eyes narrowing to slits of righteous fury, the glare of anger and contempt plain in his gaze as he condemned the 'd'Armande' name.
His forehead wrinkled into a deep frown, the skin between his eyebrows creasing into three pronounced lines as he regarded how these two beautiful women had actually aided the very demons they had spent years fighting.
The minister's lips pressed into a thin white line, his nostrils flaring slightly as he inhaled sharply.
Has the d'Armande family truly fallen this low? he wondered.
He recalled how, in the past, the d'Armande family was a respected and ancient noble house—a family of dukes whose portraits still adorned the eastern corridor of this very palace, their proud faces now seeming to look down in shame at their descendants.
Renowned for their dedication to the arts, history, and magical research, the d'Armandes' contributions to humanity were so significant that scholars still studied their treatises on arcane theory in the Imperial Academy.
Such was their importance that even the Imperial Court overlooked their occasional missteps.
But all of that changed after the king's death, with the throne temporarily held by the Crown Prince while all his siblings were still alive.
And following the death of the d'Armande Patriarch, head of the noble house—a funeral attended by fewer allies than expected—the family's protection had crumbled like ancient parchment.
"How could this be?! We are deeply devoted to the Goddess Seraphiel!" cried one of the two women.
Tall and slender, with a fragile, almost ethereal presence, she wore her pale ash-blonde hair braided and adorned with tiny, faded ribbons that fell to her waist, the once-vibrant colors now dulled with sweat and worry.
"How could we, as accused, have concocted or carried out an immoral experiment?" she continued, her voice hoarse with desperation, cracking on certain syllables as though each word was torn from a throat raw with unshed tears.
Her chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths that threatened to unravel what composure she still maintained.
Tears welled in the corners of her luminous, icy blue eyes—streaked with hints of silvery grey like frost patterns on winter glass—which darted frantically between the clergy.
The clergy looked upon her with stern judgment and accusation, their hands clasped tightly around prayer beads that clicked in rhythmic condemnation.
This sight horrified her. Her fingers clutched at the prayer pendant hanging from her neck, the familiar contours of the Goddess's symbol providing little comfort now.
How could her devotion to the Goddess—her faith that was once praised by these very clergymen, who had called her a faithful disciple and devout servant with smiles and blessings—now be questioned so cruelly?
The irony cut deeper than any blade, especially considering her noble lineage, a magical family that was often skeptical of any god or goddess and instead pursued logic and absolute power.
She was the firstborn of d'Armande: Lyra d'Armande.
"Objection! How can this be concluded if the investigation is still ongoing?" the second sister—the younger one—interjected, her voice cutting through the murmurs like a freshly honed blade.
Unlike her older sister, she was slightly shorter and more athletic than Lyra, her posture suggesting years of combat training rather than courtly refinement.
Elara d'Armande had deep emerald green eyes, sharp and penetrating, missing nothing as she fixed her gaze on the minister who had just recited her family's alleged crimes.
Those eyes—inherited from her warrior mother rather than the scholarly d'Armande line—seemed to dissect the man before her, searching for weaknesses like a master duelist.
"This is His Majesty's Decree! How d—" The minister, of course, was furious—his jowls quivering with indignation, face flushing a dangerous shade of crimson that spread from his collar to his receding hairline.
A decree was absolute; even with their family's former prestige, they could not defy it.
"If this were the past, when our father was still alive, you would surely have turned a blind eye, right?" the younger sister retorted, her voice carrying a razor's edge that sliced through the minister's bluster.
Her dark chestnut hair, pulled into a loose ponytail secured with a silver clasp bearing the d'Armande crest, swayed like a pendulum as she spat the words clearly, the motion emphasizing each syllable.
Several strands had escaped their confinement, framing her face with wild tendrils that only enhanced her untamed spirit. "And if you truly believe in the Empire's law, then demand the truth—not a spectacle. Let the evidence speak!"
She rose slightly from her kneeling position.
She tried to reason with the court, her eyes darting strategically from one noble face to another, seeking allies in this battlefield of politics.
Even if her elder sister failed to sway the Holy City with appeals to faith, perhaps she could appeal to the rest of the nobility through their shared values of justice and fair procedure.
But…
Their eyes—dozens of them, from the youngest court page to the most ancient baron—were indifferent, cold as the marble beneath her knees.
Faces that had once smiled at her across banquet tables now revealed nothing but mockery, pity, and disappointment.
Some avoided her gaze entirely, suddenly fascinated by the patterns on the ceiling or the embroidery of their sleeves.
Others stared openly with the hungry curiosity of those watching a tragic spectacle, their expressions betraying the secret relief that it was someone else's family being dismantled today.
Why? Why?! The realization crashed over her like ice water, her shoulders imperceptibly sagging as the last embers of hope flickered and died in her chest.
At this point, she knew—knew all too well with a bone-deep certainty that hollowed her from within—that everything had been arranged; their downfall orchestrated from the moment their father and the previous king died.
…
Back to the present:
Hmm? Who are they? Lucien—having just awakened after who knew how long, famished and dazed—found himself confused, his consciousness floating back into his body like scattered leaves returning to a tree.
His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as though weighted with lead, and each blink was a monumental effort that sent sparks of light dancing across his vision.
His mouth was desert-dry, tongue sticking uncomfortably to his palate, and the metallic taste of stasis lingered at the back of his throat. Every muscle in his body seemed to have forgotten its purpose, responding to his mental commands with reluctant, jellylike resistance.
Beautiful as models, graceful and elegant like noble ladies, these two women appeared in his field of vision, which was still limited by the darkness surrounding him like a cocoon of shadows.
Their silhouettes were haloed by some unseen light source behind them, lending them an almost ethereal quality. One moved with fluid, dancer-like motions, her hands floating through air as though conducting an invisible orchestra. The other stood slightly apart, her movements more economical and precise, head tilted in apparent curiosity.
Through his blurred vision, he could make out the barest hints of color—pale blonde and rich chestnut—against the formless backdrop.
New nurses? Did they finally replace her? Lucien wondered, though the thought made little sense even to his own fragmented mind. His brow furrowed with the effort of recollection, creating tiny valleys of concentration across his forehead.
After all, the last thing he remembered was—
"****" His train of thought was interrupted by another sound—a voice, it seemed, belonging to a middle-aged man calling to them from the darkness, just beyond Lucien's boundaries.
The voice carried a strange resonance that seemed to vibrate through the heavy air—authoritative yet cautious, with syllables that slid together in unusual patterns.
The accent, the words... To Lucien, still only half-awake, it was a strange dialect; words that were probably, or certainly, not from any language he was accustomed to hearing daily.
The consonants seemed too sharp, the vowels stretched in unfamiliar ways, yet something in his mind unraveled the foreign sounds into meaning—as if a dormant part of him had awakened alongside his consciousness. His brow furrowed as he strained to process this contradiction, a dull ache spreading behind his temples with the effort.
Just as Lucien lingered in this state of confusion, from within his blurry, vignette-like field of vision, he noticed the women's eyes—wide open—freeze and widen even further.
Their pupils contracted to pinpoints against irises suddenly pale with fear. Color drained from their faces in an instant, leaving their skin ghostly in the dim light.
A sharp, collective intake of breath disturbed the stale air as their bodies tensed like prey animals sensing a predator. Their mouths fell open as they shouted a single word: "VAMPIRE!"
The word burst from their lips with such primal terror that it seemed to physically disturb the air around them.
Vampire? Lucien thought, the foreign concept tumbling awkwardly through his mind like a key seeking its lock.
His tongue unconsciously traced the edges of his teeth, finding unfamiliar sharpness that sent a jolt of alarm through his still-awakening senses.
How could I even understand what they're saying, given that odd intonation? But more importantly—a vampire? Me? The absurdity might have made him laugh if his body remembered how, but instead, a strange tightness gathered in his chest—something between amusement and dread.
The two beautiful women quickly disappeared. But the shock of their reaction was more than enough to shake Lucien from his tangled thoughts and prompt him to slowly rise to his feet.
His muscles protested the movement with sharp, singing pain—not the familiar ache of disuse but something deeper, as if his very tissues had forgotten their purpose and were reluctantly relearning it.
His joints cracked audibly with each incremental movement, the sound unnaturally loud in the abandoned space.
Somehow, though his limbs felt like lead weights, there was also a strange new lightness to his movements, a disturbing fluidity that felt both foreign and natural simultaneously.
It was only then that he realized what lay before him was neither a luxurious hospital room, nor the dingy, second-rate facility where he'd expected to be transferred.
Instead, it looked like an old mansion.
For some reason, despite the darkness, everything appeared starkly clear to him. Shadows that should have been impenetrable revealed their secrets to his gaze—the intricate carvings on distant banisters, the worn patterns of carpet runners, the small scurrying form of a mouse disappearing into a wall crevice twenty paces away.
Colors that should have been muted by night glowed with subdued vibrancy, as if each object emitted its own subtle luminescence.