PREVIOUSLY-
As the Templars began to march, their steps synchronized and their armour gleaming like a blinding light, a palpable sense of terror followed them. The ground beneath their feet seemed to tremble with each movement, as if the very earth recognized the weight of their mission. The city held its breath, knowing that the wrath of the Divine Order had been unleashed.
Within the Church, the Cardinal remained seated, his eyes watching the procession through the tall windows that framed the view. His lips curled into a satisfied, almost imperceptible smile. The plan was set in motion. The Duchies would soon be thrown into chaos, and with the power of the Templars at his back, the Cardinal would move one step closer to his ultimate goal: total control over the Empire.
The fate of the heretics was sealed. And there would be no mercy for those who stood against the divine will of the Ashen Pantheon.
--X—
DATE- 30th, Month of Frostborn, 2012 A.G.
"Amelia!" Edward's voice boomed from the other side of the chamber.
Amelia turned, an amulet hanging in her grip, "What happened, Ed?"
Edward rushed to her,
"Where is Raphael?!"
Colour drained from Amelia's face, "What are you saying? Raphael was supposed to be in the grounds!"
Edward shook his head in denial, "I searched the whole estate but couldn't find him. As far as I know, he is not even present in the duchy."
Then, suddenly—
CRACK!
A deep crack splintered across the mirror as darkness enveloped the surface. The atmosphere changed. In an instant, Edward had covered his body in aura, taking a battle-ready stance while Amelia's magic circles had already covered the room.
TAP!
A subtle heel kissed the floor, the figure who entered was a masterwork of deceptive beauty, instantly drawing and confusing the eye. Her form was slender and graceful, yet possessed a soft, almost plush curvature that made her seem invitingly approachable.
Her skin was the colour and texture of flawless, polished porcelain, lending her an ethereal quality that seemed too perfect for the mundane world. It was her face, however, that held the true magic.
It was a study in pure innocence and gentle love, defined by bubbly, hamster-like features—full, rounded cheeks and wide, trusting eyes—that made her instantly adorable, radiating a sweetness that bordered on the cloyingly cute.
This fragility was undercut by two crucial details. First, the impossible length of her hair: a single, heavy pink braid that descended past her waist and brushed the floor near her ankles like a vivid, trailing rope.
Second, and far more telling, were the subtle, shining points emerging from her temples—the smooth, iridescent edges of a dragon's fin, a silent, gleaming signature that this creature of overwhelming softness was, in truth, an ancient force in human disguise.
"I greet the Duke and Duchess," her lips parted, her voice, a pitched melody draped in deep resonance, echoed inside the room.
"I, Rosalyne, had been tasked with the transportation of the Young Duke."
'Had?'
Amelia narrowed her brows, "Who are you? And why do you want my child?"
Rosalyne stepped forward, the mere presence of her made the room heavy.
"I was commanded by Master Duskrane to send the Young Duke to the Tigris Fortress."
Edward and Amelia's expression loosened, their demeanour loosening a little. Slowly, Edward walked towards the mirror,
"Is that so?"
Leon scratched his chin, sitting cross-legged on his bed, Sophie and Alexander standing in front of him as another portal stood unmoving near his bed.
"So," a grin stretched across his lips,
"There is this castle I am supposed to go to once I am five, but you are sending me a few weeks before."
Alexander and Sophie nodded in agreement.
"Also, Uncle Seradin's son is there with other heirs of the secondary bloodline."
Leon calmly stepped out of the bed, walking towards a pair of honeyed eyes,
"And I am supposed to go with this dragon-person here?"
The man carried himself with the stillness of an ancient mountain, an undeniable authority radiating from his every relaxed posture.
His skin was the colour of polished obsidian, dark and smooth, stretched taut over a frame of chiselled, powerful musculature. Every line of his body spoke of strength held in perfect control, from the broad shoulders to the lean waist, all sculpted with the precision of a master artisan.
His face was a study in stark, classic beauty, defined by sharp angles and strong bone structure—a high forehead, a prominent jawline, and lips that seemed perpetually set in a knowing, almost sardonic calm.
From his scalp flowed a magnificent cascade of violet hair, a breathtaking hue that seemed to absorb and reflect light, reaching an almost impossible length, trailing to his waist like a regal banner. But it was his eyes that truly held the power: twin pools of molten gold, brilliant and intense, yet holding an almost unsettling stillness. They were ancient eyes, missing nothing, observing everything with the patient, unblinking gaze of a predator at rest.
"The name is Viole, Young Duke."
His voice was a deep current, smooth as polished stone, laced with a resonant calm that commanded attention without ever seeking it. Each word was a deliberate stroke, possessing the weight of ages and the absolute certainty of an apex predator.
Leon bowed slightly,
"Pleasure to meet you, Sir Viole."
Viole only blinked in response, turning towards the void ahead,
"Now, Young Duke, please follow me."
Location- Tigris Fortress, Tigranclaw Duchy
Raphael opened his eyes to a vast wall of stone hovering before him. Beside him stood Rosalyne, the latter stood unaffected by the torrential downpour as thunder splintered the sky above.
"Young Duke," She smiled warmly, turning to Raphael,
"Please take care. This place is a place for you to build a foundation and to prove yourself as the rightful heir."
The heavy gates of the fortress opened to a gathering of figures, waiting.
"Is that the boy?" One man wearing a white tunic and military trousers squinted his eyes.
"He does look like a Tigranclaw. Its time we see for ourselves if the resemblance only stops at looks or runs deeper." Another woman, dressed in the same clothes with worn battle-gear spoke.
Finally, an old man, who stood at the centre of the gathering, stepped forward,
"Young Master Raphaeldor," He kneeled gracefully, right fist against the heart, "I, Elder Rokan of the House Tigranclaw would like to welcome the Young Duke."
The others followed suit as Raphael stared at the scene unfolding before him. The heavy rain, thunderous skies or the muddy ground did not stop the Tigranclaw from fulfilling their duties.
A FEW MINUTES LATER-
The room—less a chamber and more a fortified nerve centre—was a brutal monument to functionality. Everything here served a purpose rooted in immediate survival and defence.
The walls were not dressed stone, but thick, unpolished slabs of local granite, left rough and bare, scarred by previous impacts and stained dark with grime and moisture from the persistent, rough weather outside. There was no art or decoration; instead, the walls were lined with heavy, interlocking iron rings for securing ropes or gear, and built-in, deep storage cubbies for weapons and emergency rations.
The air was thick and heavy, smelling perpetually of cold stone, damp earth, lamp oil, and the faint, metallic scent of iron and blood. Light was a precious commodity, provided only by sputtering oil lamps set into recessed niches designed to prevent them from being knocked over during a fight or tremor.
The floor was packed, uneven earth or roughly hewn flagstones, often dusted with dried mud and grit carried in from the incessant wind and rain outside.
The only furnishings were strictly utilitarian: a massive, plain wooden table scarred by knife marks and spills, built to withstand a siege; sturdy, backless stools that could be easily tossed aside; and perhaps a few iron-framed cots pushed against the coldest wall.
The windows, if they existed, were tiny, deeply recessed slits—not for viewing the harsh landscape, but for firing arrows or crossbolts. These apertures were usually sealed by thick, hinged shutters made of riveted iron plates, providing a chilling reminder that the world outside was teeming with monsters and always looking for a way in. This was a room built to withstand being eaten alive.
Rosalyne sat on a couch, her posture relaxed, as if visiting a friend.
"Dame," A maid stepped into the room, her gait swift yet quiet.
"Rosalyne," The dragon smiled, "Please address me as Rosalyne, I prefer much casual greetings."
"Lady Rosalyne." The maid bowed, respectfully handing her new robes.
Minutes later, the door of the Grand Hall opened as Raphael, now dressed in the duchy's intricately crafted gear stepped inside.
He wore a black turtle neck, the Tigranclaw crest- A tiger wrapped in thorny vines- stitched in silver embroidery.
Around his waist he wore a leather vest with small loops for a tactical knife as two horseshoe like rings hung from the vest's back.
A butler materialized out of thin air, bowing before stretching a spear towards Raphael. The boy chuckled, looking at the spear.
"Will he think this as rude?"
The woman from before leaned closer to Rokan,
"After all, noble kids usually expect beautiful weapons with gemstones, polish and whatnot."
Elder Rokan quietly glanced towards her, "Since did we care about what others think? This is a subtle test to Young Master's maturity, though an unpleasant reaction is completely normal out of a kid."
Raphael glanced over the spear resting ahead. It was a stout piece; a spear of roughly four-feet made of steel at its base yet coated with carbon fibre at the shaft. The shaft was not polished but wrapped tightly in tough, textured linen cord.
This created a grip which was ugly, hard-wearing yet aggressively non-slip. The tip was not the usual razor-sharp leaf but a thick, spiked iron point with a blunt, hexagonal cross-section, built for piercing thick hide or armour through sheer brute force, not for clean slicing.
This was care disguised in nonchalant expressions. Since a five-year-old relies on momentum and brute thrust rather than sophisticated technique, a heavy, resilient point was more effective and less likely to break than a delicate, sleek blade.
His fingers wrapped around the shaft, a faint smile appearing on his lips. He turned to the elders, bowing in gratitude.
"I thank the elders for their thoughtfulness."
Gasps and silent grins cracked across the attendees,
"The Young Duke is really well-mannered."
"Such maturity and insight from a young age? Our duchy has truly been blessed."
Beside Raphael, Rosalyne silently mused,
'I wonder what Viole might be doing.'
Meanwhile, at the Liodar Castle-
"What the hell is this?!"
Leon's smile widened as snow brushed against his skin. His feet stood at the castle's outer wall, the view leaving him in awe.
Liodar was not merely built on the mountain; it was born from it, a silent, formidable sentinel carved directly into the bone of the snow-capped peak. Perched amidst perpetually churning snow squalls and razor-sharp winds, the castle focused its resources on elegant, sustainable defence rather than brute force.
The exterior stonework was local granite, hewn with precision to create seamless, non-ornamental walls that offered no handholds to climbers or winged threats. The deep gray stone was kept immaculately smooth and angled to encourage ice and snow to slide harmlessly away.
Its true defence was thermal: strategically placed vents near the massive, iron-reinforced portcullis released blasts of superheated air, designed not to boil but to flash-freeze any non-rigid monster attempting to breach the gate, locking them in place.
Inside, the layouts favoured quick movement and strategic retreat. Corridors were wide enough for two soldiers to pass a stretcher, and every corner held a shallow firing embrasure, discreetly integrated into the masonry. There were no grand courtyards prone to snow accumulation, but a central, covered parade ground where geothermal heat kept the footing dry and ready for drills.
From his view, Leon could see the town square bustling with people, the houses stretched in a uniform pattern yet each house was subtly different. Some extended an extra, jury-rigged attic window, others had small, railed balconies added to the second floor, and many boasted a vibrant, flower-filled window box.
"Young Master," A voice boomed behind the duo, Leon turned to the figures who were now kneeling with respect, loyalty and strength alike brimmed in their eyes like embers burning proudly in a snowstorm.
"We are honoured to have you here."
Leon sheepishly ran a hand through his hair,
"The feeling is mutual."
Location- Drakengard City, the Capital of Fafnir Empire
A templar ran to the Ashen church's iron gates. Crimson sprayed over his once pristine armour. Fear evident from his pupils.
"HELP! That crackhead is here!"
WHAM!
A fist collided with the man's helmet as the helmet burst open like a can of beans.
PLOP!
The man's body dropped to the ground, blood streaming from his eyes, nose and ears.
Finally, the gates opened to a praying room, the pews neatly stacked beside the walls as more templars crowded the area.
The man entered the room, white hair catching a glimpse of sunlight before the door closed beside him. The man's azure eyes glanced over the huddled templars.
"Oh, how unfortunate of you," Henry Duskrane casually stretched his back,
"To be stuck with me."
From the crowd of templars one shouted, "Attack! He is unarmed."
Bodies lunged at Henry as the count only cracked his knuckles.
BOOM!