The Duke's study, moments after Leon's departure, remained thick with a chilling silence. Duke Alaric Varent stared at the heavy oak door that had closed behind his third son, his expression unreadable, a mask of granite. Valerius, ever the opportunist, broke the quiet first, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
"Well, Father," Valerius drawled, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual triumph. "That was… efficiently handled. The Blighted Marches. A fitting estate for young Leon, wouldn't you agree? Perhaps he can engineer a way for rocks to grow into bread." He chuckled, a dry, unpleasant sound.
Duke Alaric's gaze flickered towards his eldest. "This is not a matter for humour, Valerius. It is a matter of necessity. A regrettable one, perhaps, but necessary nonetheless." His voice was still cold, but a hint of something; was it weariness? Or justification? But it crept into its depths.
"Leon, for all his… mother's hopes… was a loose thread in the Varent tapestry. In these uncertain times, such threads must be trimmed, lest they unravel the whole cloth."
Cassian, who had remained silent throughout the pronouncement, finally spoke, his voice a low rumble. "The Marches are a death sentence, Father. Even seasoned warriors stay away from that land. He will not survive a month."
There was no pity in his tone, merely a statement of fact, yet Leon might have detected a flicker of something complex in his eyes before he'd turned to leave; not sympathy, perhaps, but a grudging acknowledgment of the harshness of the decree.
"Survival is his own concern now," Duke Alaric stated flatly. "He has been given a territory, a title of sorts, however barren. If he possesses any of the Varent spirit, any spark of ingenuity beyond his useless scribblings, he will find a way. If not…" The Duke shrugged, a gesture of finality. "Then he proves my assessment correct. The Varent line will be stronger for his absence."
And so, the political machinery of exile began to turn, grinding with cold, impersonal efficiency. The formal decree was drawn up by the Duke's steward, a lengthy document filled with archaic legalisms and carefully chosen euphemisms.
It spoke of granting Leon Varent a 'distant fiefdom' to 'encourage self-reliance and the development of his unique talents.' It mentioned the 'ancient and challenging lands of the Eastern Blighted Marches' as a place where 'a pioneering spirit might forge a new destiny.'
It was a masterpiece of political doublespeak, designed to present a veneer of ducal magnanimity while effectively condemning Leon to a slow, forgotten demise.
Leon was officially stripped of most of his Varent titles and privileges. He was no longer 'Young Master Leon of House Varent.' He was now, simply, 'Lord Leon of the Blighted Marches,' a title so ludicrously empty it was almost comical.
His access to the ducal treasury was, of course, revoked. His lavish chambers were to be reassigned, and Valerius had already expressed an interest in them for use as a 'secondary study for arcane research,' a thinly veiled grab for more space and status.
The news of Leon's exile spread through the castle like wildfire, carried on the hushed whispers of servants and the knowing glances of courtiers. The reactions were varied, but predictable. Most of the ducal court, bootlickers and political animals to a man, saw it as a necessary, if somewhat harsh, pruning of a withered branch from the mighty Varent oak.
They offered their silent approval to the Duke's decisive action. Some, perhaps those with a shred of compassion or those who had known Duchess Elara's kindness, might have felt a pang of pity, but none dared to voice it openly.
His brothers' reactions were telling. Valerius made no secret of his satisfaction. He saw Leon's exile as the removal of an irritant, a final confirmation of his own superior standing. He even made a few cutting jests at Leon's expense during dinner the evening after the decree, remarking on the 'grandeur' of Leon's new 'kingdom of mud and monsters.' Duke Alaric did not reprimand him.
Cassian remained largely silent on the matter. He avoided Leon, his usual stoicism now tinged with an almost palpable discomfort. Leon wondered if his martial brother, for all his adherence to Varent strength, felt some unease at the cold-blooded nature of the exile.
Cassian was a warrior, and warriors, even Varent ones, sometimes possessed a code of honor, however twisted. Sending an unarmed, untrained youth to certain death in a monster-infested wasteland might have pricked at some vestige of that code.
Or perhaps, Leon thought cynically, Cassian was simply annoyed at having to acknowledge Leon's existence one last time before he was conveniently forgotten.
Among the castle servants, the reaction was more nuanced. There was fear, certainly fear of the Duke's wrath, fear of being associated with the disgraced son. But there was also a current of genuine pity.
Many of the older servants had known Leon since he was a child. They had seen his quiet nature, his often-misunderstood intelligence, and his deep affection for his mother. They had witnessed the casual cruelty he had endured from his father and Valerius.
They knew the Blighted Marches were a death sentence. Their eyes, when they chanced to meet Leon's during his final day in the castle, were filled with a sorrow they dared not express.
One elderly maid, a woman named Martha who had often sneaked Leon extra sweets when he was a boy and had been particularly devoted to Duchess Elara, approached him as he was packing his meager belongings. Her face was etched with worry, her hands trembling as she pressed a small, cloth-wrapped bundle into his hand.
"Young Master… Lord Leon," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "This isn't much… some dried fruit, a bit of hard cheese. For the journey. Your mother… she would have wanted you to have at least this." Tears welled in her old eyes. "Be careful, my lord. The Marches… they are a terrible place. Pray for God's protection."
Leon was deeply touched by her kindness, a small spark of warmth in the overwhelming coldness of his situation. "Thank you, Martha," he said, his own voice hoarse. "I… I will remember this."
His preparations were starkly simple. He was allowed one sturdy, if worn, traveling cloak, a few changes of roughspun clothing, a waterskin, a tinderbox, and a week's worth of rations.
The sword he was given was a plain, unadorned longsword, heavy and unwieldy in his untrained hand. It felt more like a burden than a weapon. He strapped it on, the unfamiliar weight awkward against his hip.
His only other possession of value, the one thing he guarded with fierce determination, was the small glass bottle, tucked safely in the deepest pocket of his tunic.
He spent his last night in the Varent castle, not in his former opulent chambers, but in a small, stark room near the stables, as if he were already a departing guest of no consequence. Sleep eluded him.
His mind was a turmoil of grief, anger, and a burgeoning, desperate resolve. He thought of his mother, her love, her cryptic words about the bottle. He thought of his father's cold ambition, his brothers' indifference. He thought of the Blighted Marches, a land of legend and terror.
He was an engineer, a problem-solver. This was, perhaps, the ultimate engineering problem: survival against impossible odds, in an environment designed to kill him. He had no magic, no martial skill, no allies. All he had was his mind, his knowledge from another world, and a mysterious artifact that whispered of forgotten power.
As the first grey light of dawn began to creep through the grimy window of his temporary room, Leon rose. He ate a small portion of the dried fruit Martha had given him, drank some water, and slung his meager pack over his shoulder.
The sword bumped awkwardly against his leg. He took a deep breath. This was it. The end of one life, the beginning of another, is far more uncertain and dangerous.
He walked out into the stable yard, where a sway-backed, tired-looking horse and two grim-faced Varent guards awaited him. The guards were men he vaguely recognized, common soldiers, their expressions carefully neutral, though he detected a hint of pity, or perhaps morbid curiosity, in their eyes. They were his escort to the edge of the abyss.
There were no farewells. Duke Alaric did not deign to see him off. Valerius and Cassian were, no doubt, still abed, or perhaps already engaged in their more 'important' ducal duties. Leon mounted the horse, its gait as unenthusiastic as its appearance.
The guards fell in on either side of him, and together, they rode out of the Varent castle, the massive gates creaking shut behind them with a sound of grim finality.
As they passed through the outer wall and onto the road leading away from the heart of the Duchy, Leon did not look back. He focused his gaze on the path ahead, a path that led towards the rising sun, and towards the dreaded, unknown expanse of the Blighted Marches. The politics of exile were complete.
His old identity was stripped away. He was Lord Leon of Nowhere, riding towards a future that was, by all accounts, supposed to be short and brutal. Yet, as his hand instinctively touched the small bottle in his pocket, he felt not just despair, but a flicker of something else: a stubborn, defiant determination to prove them all wrong.
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