Deep in the northern forests of the Falcon Duchy, nestled between black cliffs and rotting pine, was a cave the locals once whispered about in drunken fear. No longer a place of myth—just death.
The smell was indescribable.
A dense, iron stench clung to the walls, riding the damp air like rot in summer.
The floor was slick with blood and bile, pooling around the mangled corpses of a lion and its newborn cubs.
Their bodies were pulverized beyond recognition—bones shattered, pelts torn apart, and innards scattered as if hurled by monstrous fists.
At the center of the carnage stood a shirtless man—massive, brutish, and drenched in blood up to his elbows.
He raised a meaty fist to his mouth, licked the blood from his knuckles, and chuckled low in his throat. It wasn't a laugh of joy or madness. It was satisfaction—as if violence was a meal, and he'd just finished savoring the last bite.
Then, from the darkness beyond the cave mouth, footsteps echoed.
A hooded woman entered, kneeling without a word before the monster.
"Captain Varkis," she said, her voice calm, her face expressionless despite the stench, "the visitors from the Leon Duchy have arrived. As predicted... it's Orion and his daughter. Sylvia."
Varkis tilted his head slowly. A thick vein twitched beneath the blood-streaked skin of his neck.
"Sylvia…" he muttered, smirking. "Isn't she that little piece of shit's fiancée?"
He grinned—wide and toothy, eyes glinting with something worse than cruelty.
"Such a kind man I am," he whispered. "How could I possibly tear apart a pair of star-crossed lovers?"
The woman said nothing.
"I'll kill them both," he continued, licking a fresh smear of blood from his palm, "and let that bitch Serena live. Let her watch Hugo and her precious daughter-in-law be united forever."
He chuckled.
"Just not on this earth."
Despite the horror around her—the butchered lion, the reek of death—the woman didn't flinch. Her training held strong. But even so, her breath caught slightly when she added, "There's been an increase in Falcon soldiers, the ones directly departed from imperial regime, within the castle guard. It's no longer routine reinforcement. Something's changed."
Varkis's grin didn't fade. Instead, he stilled.
His eyes narrowed.
"So the old beast's making a move," he muttered, more to himself. "Everard's finally tired of playing host."
She nodded. "And… the heir. Hugo."
Varkis raised a brow.
"He's changed. Dramatically. He welcomed the guests like a different man. And…"
She hesitated.
"He's gained access to the Ducal Study Chamber."
Varkis blinked once. Then he laughed.
"Well, well," he said, shaking blood off his hand. "They're giving a kid the keys to the war room now?"
He turned his back to her, staring at the carnage he'd created, arms crossed over his broad, blood-slicked chest.
"This isn't just defense. Everard's not posturing. He's laying groundwork."
The woman shifted, confused. "Then should we pull back?"
"Exactly," he said without hesitation. "Fall back. Do it now."
She blinked. "What? We've already lost the shadows. The balance is broken. We can't afford to keep watching, we're at risk of being found."
He turned to face her again. The grin was gone.
"I saw Everard fight once," he said softly.
That made her still.
"I was young. He was surrounded. Eighteen men. All skilled. All desperate. He didn't use a sword."
With a gulp of saliva, Varkis lifted his hands and curled them into fists.
"No techniques. Just these. When he was done, none of the bodies were whole. Not even the bones."
He took a step toward her.
"Do you understand, Marla? I may be a beast. But he…" He smiled again, slowly, with something between fear and reverence.
"…he's worse."
Marla looked away for the first time since entering.
"Then... if we can't wait—"
"If waiting's no longer an option, I'll make an opportunity," Varkis growled. "But I won't rush it. Not for impatience. Not for sloppy kills."
He pointed a bloodied finger at her.
"Pull back the scouts. Reduce exposure. I'll decide when we strike."
She bowed her head, lower this time.
"Yes, Captain."
Varkis turned back toward the lion's corpse, that savage grin returning.
"Let Everard play his little game. I'll play mine."
.
The tea was good.
Like, suspiciously good.
I shot a quick glance at Clara, who stood by my side with that unshakable maid expression on her face—the one that said, "Of course the tea is perfect, do you doubt me, Young Master?" I raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment and took another sip.
Juli sat across from me, her hands folded neatly over her lap, eyes practically glowing as she stared at me like I'd just descended from the heavens.
"So…" she dragged the word out, resting her chin on her palms and batting her lashes. A clear signal that I was about to be interrogated—with a smile.
I raised an eyebrow. "So?"
Her grin widened. "You going to tell me or do I have to guess?"
I took another slow sip. "If this is about how stunning I looked during that entire guest reception, you're free to guess. I won't stop you."
Juliette rolled her eyes. "I meant the study, my dear brother. The Ducal Study. You got access. Father never lets anyone in there—not even me."
"Ah, that," I said, as if I'd just remembered I accidentally wandered into the most secure chamber in the estate. "Yeah, it's got a lovely smell of dust, old paper, and judgment."
She squinted at me. "Seriously, brother. What did you do?"
"I asked."
"You asked?"
"Yes," I nodded solemnly. "I walked up to Father, looked him right in the eye, and said, 'Father, may I bury myself in centuries of dusty archives to avoid human interaction?' And he said, 'What a responsible young man. Of course, son.'"
Juliette stared at me, clearly unimpressed.
I sighed and leaned forward, setting the cup down.
"Fine. The truth is, I figured if I'm going to be paraded around as the heir, I might as well learn what everyone thinks I already know. So, I asked Clara to fetch the relevant documents, showed up in front of Father with a list of things I didn't understand, and instead of yelling at me for being an idiot, he told me to use the study as long as I didn't break anything."
Juliette blinked. "Wait… that actually worked?"
"Wait... you believed that?"
She blinked. Then puffed her cheeks out in that classic little-sister pout. "Ugh, brother! has anyone told you that you're the worst?"
"Correction: I'm the worst with full access to the duchy's internal affairs," I said, resting back against the chair with a satisfied sigh.
Juliette groaned and sank a little into her seat, clearly debating between annoyance and curiosity. Predictably, curiosity won.
"Alright, brother hugo, spill it. How did you really do it?"
"Glad you asked." I steepled my fingers together like one of those mastermind nobles in those cheesy romance-adventure novels she secretly reads. "It started with me asking Father to summon me."
"You asked him?" Her eyebrows shot up. "Isn't that, like… a death wish?"
"Oh, definitely. He gave me the 'why are you wasting my air' treatment for the first minute." I waved a hand. "But I went in with a plan."
Clara, who stood still like a shadow beside me, let her gaze flicker toward me ever so slightly. Was that a trace of approval in her eyes? Maybe. Or maybe she just liked the tea she brewed.
Juli leaned forward again. "Go on."
"Well, I pitched the idea of shifting Falcon's economy from relying solely on military and accommodation revenue to turning it into a trade nexus. The twist?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"We don't compete with Griffin Vale. We become the backdoor—the silent middlemen linking Valthryon, Tenjiku, Elvian… and eventually, Zerathene."
Juliette blinked slowly. "…Zerathene? The enemy empire?"
"Indirectly." I held up a finger. "The elves—the Elvian kingdom—they currently trade with Zerathene. If we can get them to trade with us instead, Zerathene will be forced to follow the goods."
"But wouldn't that break the truce?"
"Not at all." I grinned. "We don't sell to Zerathene. Elves do. We just sell to the elves. Simple loop. No lines crossed."
She looked stunned. "And the Emperor will allow that?"
"That's where Father comes in. His connections, the imperial gatherings. Plus, Tenjiku and Elvian gain better bargaining power. Everyone benefits."
Juli slowly sat back. "And Leon Duchy?"
I nodded. "That's the keystone. With Orion as the next Duke, and our little engagement back on track, we make Leon the heart of the trade routes. Infrastructure's already there; all it needs is support and protection."
"And Falcon gets to oversee everything from the shadows."
Clara's eyes flickered with faint amusement. I could almost hear her thoughts: Young Master playing puppet master now?
Juliette let out a low whistle. "You're insane."
"No, just ambitious with style." I said, picking up my cup. "And good taste in tea."
Clara bowed ever so slightly.
Juli looked at me for a long moment, then smiled. "Fine, fine… just don't forget your cute little sister when the world starts singing your praises, alright?"
"No promises."
She pouted again.
I took another sip.
Still suspiciously good.
.
I adjusted my cuff for the third time. It wasn't even wrinkled—just an excuse to move my hand while standing in the middle of the duchy's main garden like a glorified statue.
The evening breeze teased the edges of my coat, but I remained still—not out of patience, but because Clara was beside me.
Elegant and composed, my personal attendant stood like grace itself. She could make simply standing feel like an art form.
Seraphina approached with a quiet bow, her eyes missing nothing.
"My lord," she said, voice polished like the silverware laid across the banquet tables.
I nodded. "Flawless, as expected."
Without delay, she moved on. Each step measured and precise.
Technically, I was here to oversee arrangements for this charming little political circus. The role of host had been dumped on me.
But really, there was nothing to do. Seraphina had already taken care of it all.
The nobles began arriving soon after. First the barons, then the viscounts, and eventually the marquises arrived with the kind of grace you'd expect from people who never carried anything heavier than a wine glass.
I moved through the crowd, greeting those who mattered—and those who believed they did. The influential viscounts and marquises all made sure to exchange a word with me. I was, after all, the heir to Falcon.
It was the same as always: smiles laced with barbs, words dipped in honey and iron.
Then came the subject of my suff- 'ahem' gathering—Viscount Orion and his daughter Sylvia.
They arrived without ceremony, yet the crowd parted around them.
Sylvia especially. She carried herself with quiet confidence, refined yet precise, her back straight, her dress gliding like it had somewhere better to be.
I stepped forward to greet Orion. "Viscount Orion. Your presence honors the occasion."
"The honor is ours, Lord Hugo," he replied. "Your duchy is… formidable."
My gaze shifted to Sylvia. She inclined her head slightly, her obsidian eyes reflecting the garden lights.
"Lady Sylvia," I said, keeping my tone smooth but formal. "You look radiant this evening."
"Thank you, Lord Hugo. The arrangements are lovely," she replied, voice composed and calm.
"I only supervised. The staff deserves the credit."
She gave a small, polite chuckle. "Then you have an excellent eye for delegation."
Quick, observant. I nodded and moved along before lingering too long.
And then, everything stopped.
Everard arrived.
Silence fell as his boots touched the stone. He didn't walk—he entered. Like presence itself.
Dignified, towering, with an aura that made seasoned warriors straighten their backs and nobles bow just a little deeper than needed.
Beside him was Serena, the Duchess—poised, serene.
Then came Priscilla, the Duke's second wife, her elegance subtle and restrained.
And finally, Juli, trailing behind with wide eyes and the same mischief she never could quite hide. She was already drawing attention from more heirs than I cared to count.
Sebastian, my father's personal attendant, matched his steps, a quiet force beside him. Less a servant, more a shadow.
No one guided anyone to their seats. They knew where they belonged. It was instinct.
The marquises and high-ranking viscounts seated themselves closest to Everard. I chose a place a little further down—not grasping, not irrelevant.
Juli was already fending off conversations from a small battalion of noble heirs. To her credit, she didn't look bored. Yet.
And just as I was about to settle into the false sense of peace, she arrived.
Lady Sylvia. My fiancée—technically, atleast.
She approached with practiced grace, every step measured, every glance subtle.
"Lord Hugo," she said, stopping beside the seat to my right.
I rose, offering a courteous nod. "Lady Sylvia. You honor me by joining my table."
"If I may?"
"Of course. Please."
She sat with ease, adjusting her gown with a flick of her fingers. Clara stepped in, silently setting the next course.
Sylvia's gaze scanned the central table. "The gathering is larger than I expected."
"Quite. The nobility here rarely miss a chance to be seen near my father. Or to whisper about him afterward."
Her lips curved, faintly. "And about you?"
"Only when they're bored. Or forget I'm listening."
No laugh. But her eyes glinted.
"I appreciate your welcome earlier," she said. "It made this place feel less foreign."
"A good host ensures his guests are at ease."
She studied me for a moment—calm, quiet. Assessing.
And, for the first time that evening, I didn't mind the company beside me.
Just as I thought this evening will pass as soothing as it is, Clara froze.
She had just placed my plate down. Her hand paused mid-air. Her breath caught. Her eyes locked onto mine—terrified, but silent.
No panic. A signal.
I turned to Sylvia, voice low. "Don't eat."
She blinked, glanced at Clara, then back to me. Her eyes widened ever so slightly—but she didn't ask. She obeyed. Sharp. Graceful under pressure.
I scanned the tables. Seraphina remained composed, chatting with guests. No reaction. If she hadn't noticed, then only my table was affected.
I closed my eyes, letting the pieces fall into place.
I had arrived early. I remembered Seraphina introducing the maids for each table.
Mine had been assigned to Alina.
She was now gone.
I opened my eyes, calm. Then glanced at Sebastian. His face was unreadable. If Everard's table had been touched, Sebastian would've reacted.
So it was just mine. Just me.
Clara stood frozen, her hand on her skirt. I knew what rested beneath the fabric.
The garden around us buzzed with idle talk, laughter, silver clinking on porcelain.
None the wiser.
But I knew.
Someone had tried to poison me.
And they were going to regret not succeeding.
"Lady Sylvia. Clara." I rose, brushing off my coat with deliberate ease. My voice dropped a note lower—calm, unshaken, but carrying the kind of authority that didn't ask for attention.
"It'd be a shame to let this moonlight go unappreciated. Come—let's take a walk."