The Grand Duchy of Hammendir sits proudly atop a vast highland expanse, where mountains, lakes, and sprawling fields coexist in a breathtaking harmony of nature and civilization. As the third-largest ducal city in the empire, Hammendir thrives not through conquest, but through creation. It is a haven for the brilliant and the skilled—a city built by the hands of craftsmen, known far and wide as the beating heart of artisanal mastery in Solistia. Its mines yield the richest veins of ore in the empire, and its workshops echo with the clanging of hammers and the hum of invention.
Hammendir's history is steeped in resilience. Nearly two centuries after power shifted from the Solléonis to the Velmorian line, a descendant of Kaelsin reclaimed the contested land—not through bloodlust, but through vision and unyielding will. His name was Siarkon Solléonis. Not merely a nobleman, he was a leader called by Lehoi to guide the lost and the broken. In his domain, the discarded found sanctuary—the mercenaries, criminals, fallen nobles, and exiles alike. He offered them shelter, purpose, and the promise of a new beginning, unveiling the teachings of Lehoi: the grace of forgiveness, the path forward, and the life freely given but earned in spirit and obedience.
Legend holds that Lehoi, the creator of the heavens and the earth, guided Siarkon to gather these people and carve from the highlands a city of light. On the day of Hammendir's sanctification, it is said that Lehoi casted a pillar of divine light upon Siarkon before the eyes of the empire. The Empress, herself a devout follower of Lehoi, beheld the sign and granted Siarkon full rights to the land. Rival nobles, silenced by the celestial display, fled. But not all accepted Lehoi's will. Those who dared to seize the land afterward were struck down by unspeakable calamities, believed to be the wrath of the divine.
In the hundred years that followed, Hammendir flourished into a marvel of craft and commerce. Its blacksmiths forge some of the finest weapons in Solistia—second only to the empire's greatest forges. But steel is not only its art. Hammendir is a sanctuary for every form of craftsmanship: gemcutting, tailoring, weaving, stone cutting, leatherworking, pottery, dye-making, artificing, carpentry, and even the delicate intricacies of clockwork and mechanical engineering. Every craft imaginable finds its place in Hammendir, where artisans shape metal, weave enchantments, and carve knowledge into permanence.
Across the empire and beyond its borders, Hammendir is known not merely as a city—but as the cradle of creativity..
While the former Solléonis Palace now stands proudly in the heart of Hammendir's main province, it is currently known as the Solléonis Estate, honoring the enduring legacy and influence of the Solléonis bloodline. The main house, Soleis Castle, is perched atop one of Hammendir's most beautiful garden-covered hills and serves as the official residence of the new generation of the Solléonis family built and developed by Siarkon Solléonis.
Grand Duke Siarcanis Solléonis is the 8th-generation ruler of Hammendir.
Hammendir boasts a vast and intricate feudal structure, comprising three border territories governed by a Margraves and two Marquesses, supported by twelve major counties, nineteen viscountcies, and over one hundred and ninety-eight baronies, along with numerous knight-nobles and landed lords who pledge allegiance to the Grand Duke.
The sun had risen over the eastern reaches of the Empire, casting golden rays upon the highlands of Hammendir. The grand duchy, home to the most skilled craftsmen of Solistia, stirred to life with the clang of hammers and the low hum of turning gears. Mendians—the proud citizens of Hammendir—were already up and bustling with activity. Knights shifting took their posts, streets filled with the sounds of footsteps and busy chatter, and the harmonious city welcomed the brightness of a new morning.
Across the cobbled artery of Santure, the main road of Hammendir lined with towering, majestic pines, rolled a carriage of distinction. Stained in rich dark gold and ivory white, its surface gleamed with hand-painted florals and murals and emblazoned on its side was the symbol of the golden lion: the crest of House Solléonis. Four sleek black stallions led the carriage, their hooves rhythmically striking the earth as a footman carefully steered them forward. Though the journey from the provincial estate to the city was usually a swift hour, today it was stretched into nearly two. Every time Fhena stirred in her sleep, Siarcanis would lean forward and quietly order, "Slower." He refused to wake her, and so the ride slowed to a respectful lull—as though even the road itself bent to her rest.
The city's vast territory was encircled by a formidable black wall—an enduring symbol of strength and protection. At last, they have arrived at the threshold: the Great Arc of Hammendir, the main gateway in and out of the city, just as the sun climbed higher. A majestic gate cut into the mighty black wall that shielded the duchy. The wall—fortress-like and monumental—was a feat of craftsmanship born from the blood, sweat and vision of Siarkon Solléonis and the hands of his people. Built over four decades, it stood thick and tall, with room enough inside for knights to patrol its inner corridors. Watchtowers rose every mile, and communication hubs every kilometer, ensuring Hammendir could never be caught unaware.
The moment the carriage crossed beneath the Arc, it was as if the city exhaled—a breath of smoke, steel, and pine-scented wind. Hammendir was awake. And now, its most precious daughter had returned.
As the carriage entered the city and continued along the main road, passing shops and bustling establishments, Siarcanis sat quietly with Fhena asleep in his lap. She hadn't stirred once. Her small hand rested against his chest, and her breathing was soft and even. He looked down at her, heart both full and heavy.
For two long years, he had left his precious and only daughter in the care of a woman he now saw for what she truly was—cruel, calculating, and dangerous. Guilt clawed at him. How could he not have seen it? Ossaria had been the closest friend of his late wife, Fhenalyssa. He had trusted her because of that. But now… that trust felt like a trap.
Was it all a façade? he wondered grimly.
Siarcanis was not a man easily fooled. His intuition was sharp, honed from years of war, politics, and governance. But the betrayal ran deeper than a mere act of deception. He began to suspect more—the entire D'Vorelle household. Something about this felt orchestrated, purposeful.
Was it a power play?
Did Ossaria befriend Fhenalyssa to get close to me? To the Solléonis line?
Was I used?
Was this their plan from the beginning?
The questions spun in his mind like blades. But when he glanced back at Fhena's sleeping face—so peaceful, so innocent—his fury sharpened into something colder.
Why Fhena?
Why hurt her? What could possibly be gained from harming a child? My child?
No answer came. Only a deepening rage, held at bay by the weight of his daughter in his arms.
The carriage soon turned from the central road onto the Duchess' Way—Lyssa Road, named after his beloved wife—leading them uphill toward the garden-covered rise where Soleis Castle sat, watching over the duchy like a steadfast guardian.
Siarcanis exhaled slowly. Fhena was home.
She was safe now.
But the storm within him had not passed.
It lingered.
And it was far from over.
The grand onyx gates of Soleis Castle parted with solemn grace upon their arrival. The carriage rolled in, continuing along a gentle uphill path lined with flowering trees and soft, sweeping fields. The air grew cooler, and the landscape more serene—as though nature itself bowed in welcome.
A few minutes more, and the castle revealed itself in full majesty.
Nestled amidst ivy-covered slopes and vibrant gardens, the castle was built from ivory and pearl-toned stone. Ancient in spirit, yet touched with elegance of modern design, it rose with quiet splendor. Five towers stood proudly at each corner and center-back, and in the heart of the structure shone a vast glass dome, catching the sunlight like a sacred jewel.
The façade bore layers of balconies and arched windows, their frames draped in flowering vines and banners of gold and white. The winding carriage path curved around the front courtyard, which bloomed with decorative arches heavy with roses, jasmine, and skybells. At the center stood a statue: a lion of immense size, carved in a gold sheen obsidian, eyes cast toward the sky.
It was said to be Aefhen, the golden lion guardian, in his primal form.
"We've arrived, Your Grace," the footman whispered with a bow from outside.
"Go and take your rest," he said gently. "Tend to the horses. I shall carry my daughter in a moment's time."
The footman nodded and stepped away.
Siarcanis leaned down and brushed a kiss across Fhena's brow. Her skin, though pale and soft, had recovered some color. Her cheeks weren't sunken, but they had yet to regain the fullness of a child well-fed and loved. Still, she looked peaceful now—safe.
"Forgive me, Fhena," he murmured, voice low and trembling. "Forgive me for not seeing you sooner."
With care, he drew in a breath and opened the carriage door.
And then, holding her close to his chest, the Grand Duke stepped into the light of home—bearing in his arms one of the most precious treasures of House Solléonis.
The great doors of Soleis Castle opened fully just as the Grand Duke stepped forward with his daughter in his arms. From within, Matron Superior Eulalia Horfa—known more commonly as Matron Eula—hurried out to meet them. Despite her sixty-eight years, she moved with urgency and surprising agility, her posture still strong with purpose. She bowed deeply before him.
"Siar," she greeted softly.
Only she, among the entire household, could call him by his childhood name. Matron Eula had served under his father before him and was considered the oldest and most honored servant of the house.
"Madame," Siarcanis acknowledged with a curt nod. "Has Rheomund returned?"
"He has, Your Grace. An hour ahead of you."
She reached her arms forward instinctively to receive Fhena, but Siarcanis shifted, denying her access. He didn't speak a word—he simply held Fhena closer to his chest and strode inside. Matron Eula bowed once again in quiet understanding and followed behind him without protest.
The interior of Soleis Castle was dignified, neither gaudy nor cold—each corner spoke of history. Neutral-toned walls, dark fabric carpets, and generations of solemn family portraits lined the hallways. Every room bore its own subtle distinction, passed down or revised by each generation of the Solléonis family. Yet one feature remained constant throughout: the great pillars—tall, thick, and cast in deep, marbled gold. They were the spine of the estate and the pride of Hammendir craftsmanship.
The house colors—white, deep green, rich purple, crimson, and metallic gold—wove themselves tastefully into drapes, upholstery, and ornamental inlays.
Matron Eula moved with practiced grace. Her silver-streaked hair was pinned into a neat bun, and her long, well-fitted matron's coat swayed slightly as she kept close behind Siarcanis.
"The young master has already informed me…" she said, her voice low and trembling slightly. Then, after a pause, she asked gently, "How is she?"
Siarcanis spoke in a low, regretful voice, barely above a whisper. "I… almost didn't recognize her." His steps did not falter as he carried his daughter through the familiar halls, heading toward the castle's private infirmary. Outside the chamber doors stood the castle's resident physician, Doctor Aldous, already waiting. He bowed respectfully and opened the doors without delay, revealing a clean, softly lit room with a bed prepared with warm linens. It was clear everything had been arranged in advance. Siarcanis, though grateful, blinked in mild surprise. Did Rheomund receive a letter earlier than I thought? he wondered. The level of preparation hinted at forethought beyond what he had instructed during their journey.
Without delay, Doctor Aldous gestured for Siarcanis to gently lay the girl down. A soft bed awaited the young girl, with warming stones beneath the blankets and a faint trace of healing incense lingering in the air. With utmost care, he did so, brushing a loose strand of hair from Fhena's face as he placed her on the bed. She did not stir, only whimpered faintly in her sleep. The doctor immediately began his examination, using a combination of standard medicinal procedures and enchanted instruments—an innovation borne from Mage-Healers and Artificers of the Empire's Medical Guild. Soft lights pulsed from scanning stones, and whispered incantations flitted through the room like breeze-swept leaves. The Solléonis may not have a natural aptitude for magic, but Siarcanis knew its benefits—not only as a tool for healing but as a sacred practice of miracles.
Siarcanis stood nearby, stone-faced, but inside, the storm swirled. For nearly an hour, he watched in silence, fists clenched behind his back. An hour passed. At last, Doctor Aldous stepped away, his face carefully composed but pale. "I will begin compiling the report, Your Grace," he said softly. "But if I may speak candidly… now is not the time to go over the findings. Not here. Not yet. The findings are… substantial, and I believe delivering them to you in your current state may do more harm than good." He bowed low, his grave expression betraying what words did not. The silence screamed what he dared not say aloud. It was worse than Siarcanis had expected.
Siarcanis didn't speak. His golden eyes stared forward, unreadable, but his presence alone made the room feel colder. He didn't need to hear the report—not yet. The bruises, the malnourishment, the broken spirit—he had already seen enough. Ossaria. His fists clenched tighter. He could feel the storm rising in his chest.
A gentle hand rested on his forearm. Matron Eula. She met his gaze, firm and kind. "The young Master is waiting in your study, along with the Oumer twins. A draft of the letter to the Emperor and to the D'Vorelle Estate is prepared. I will stay with the young Miss and see to her comfort. When she's settled, I shall send word."
Still reluctant, Siarcanis looked once more at Fhena—his little girl, peaceful in sleep, despite everything. Slowly, he walked over and knelt beside her bed. With tenderness uncharacteristic of the man known across the Empire as the Lion of Hammendir, he brushed his fingers through her hair, kissed her forehead, and rested his brow gently against hers. "You're safe now, Fhena," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I'll come see you soon. Rest, my child." And with a deep breath, Siarcanis rose and turned away—his steps heavier than ever as he walked toward the reckoning that awaited.
With that, Siarcanis gave Matron Eula a silent, commanding nod and turned from the infirmary. His footsteps echoed down the marbled corridors of Soleis Castle, measured and firm, yet carried by a slow-burning fury that coiled like a serpent in his chest. The cold silence of the hallway did little to ease it.
When he reached the door to his private study, he paused only for a moment—then pushed it open.
Inside, three figures turned to greet him.
"Father," said Rheomund, rising from his seat with composed urgency.
Beside him, the Oumer twins, Wallace and Walsh, bowed deeply, each with a hand to their chests.
Siarcanis scanned their faces—his son's calm but focused, the twins' serious and awaiting orders. These were not just retainers. They were his most loyal. His most trusted.
He nodded once. "Let's begin."