Seravyn moved with effortless grace toward the great oak doors, silver veins carved through their intricate patterns like moonlight trapped in wood. Above them, written in seductive sweeping curves, were the wordsAle Velmira.
Those two words had followed her since childhood whispered by servants, courtiers, tutors, strangers. A blessing, a promise, a warning. The House of Velmira. She knew what it meant. Everyone did.
One day, the moment her mother's hair turned grey with age, Seravyn would be the one to take the mantle.
Just the thought of it made her shoulders tighten.
Words could not begin to explain the anxiety lodged beneath her ribs. Her mother, the Empress feared across the oceans for her strength and brilliance, a mind like a blade, a pen with edges sharp enough to draw blood.
Her steps slowed before the door, and as if sensing her presence, it eased open. A cold rush of rain-soaked wind swept in, biting against her skin like a greeting she hadn't asked for. Seravyn's face tightened for a heartbeat then smoothed the moment she saw who had opened it.
The young man kept his gaze lowered, like always.
She moved past him with only the briefest glance. His shorts were cut so high they looked more like a punishment than clothing, knees reddened by the cold, skin pale from the weather. His white shirt clung to him, soaked through, leaving little to imagination but Seravyn felt nothing. No flicker. No spark. Just another servant doing his duty.
She stepped into the rain, the downpour hammering her hair, shoulders, and clothes with relentless fury. The weight of it settled onto her like a second skin. She quickened her pace, then shifted into a slow jog, blond hair plastered to her cheeks, strands trailing behind her in the storm. Her outfit clung to her, outlining the curves she never gave men the permission to dream about.
Twenty minutes into her rain-soaked run, she finally saw it shrouded behind the thick curtain of mist:
the Floormen Quarters.
A massive round structure encircling a wide concrete courtyard the training grounds. Every floorman shared a room with two others, save for the senior commander
As Seravyn approached, she spotted a man standing at the edge of the grounds, a blue raincoat draped over his shoulders and hood. His eyes were razor-sharp, fixed on the storm ahead, so focused he didn't even register her presence drawing near.
Wort stood with his arms numbed white from the cold, each raindrop striking his exposed face harder than the last. The wind scraped at his eyes until they felt dry and raw, but he held his post before the massive brown-coated gate.
A gate he didn't understand.
A gate he had complained about guarding more times than he could count.
The Floormen were the weakest arm of the imperial military everyone said it, even the officers whispered it. Their quarters sat in the left wing of the palace, tucked almost shamefully beside the Shieldmaidens' barracks. A cruel contrast.
The Shieldmaidens…
Wort tried not to think of them. A barbaric host of armored furies who could clear a street of bandits in a single afternoon. Led by the princess herself another creature Wort simply couldn't comprehend. A woman carved from something far sharper and far older than steel.
If the Empress were ever attacked if anything truly threatened the imperial palace what could the Floormen possibly do? Wort already knew the answer.
Nothing.
They were the frailest arm of the empire's might. Even their captain struggled to stand his ground against Amal, the weakest of the Shieldmaidens. The last time they sparred, the captain came away with more broken bones than knife cuts though there were plenty of those too.
Monsters, Wort thought. All of them.
He forced his eyes forward again, pretending vigilance, pretending strength.
Then something shifted in the rain.
Two green lights blinked in the darkness. Eyes.
Glowing.
Alive.
His heart lurched wildly. He stumbled back, boot slipping on wet stone. A monster? A beast? One of the things from the highlands? Why hadn't he heard it approach—?
"What are you doing."
The voice cut through the storm like a blade. Cold. Sharp. Familiar.
The figure stepped forward, emerging from the violent curtain of rain.
A pale face took shape first cold as marble but still hypnotically beautiful. Wet strands of dirt-blond hair clung to her cheeks, framing features sculpted with cruel precision. Her jade eyes were even brighter up close, shimmering beneath the downpour like polished gemstones.
Wort felt his breath hitch.
Her clothes white fabric soaked through clung tightly to her body, tracing every curve without revealing a single indecent detail. The material held its dignity even under the rain, but it left any man who dared to look with a bitter ache in his throat. Like beholding a divine carving you were never meant to touch.
Seravyn Velmira.
Not a monster.
Something far more terrifying.
Ripping his eyes from her figure and dragging them up to meet her gaze, Wort forced himself to breathe. One thing was certain: if she believed he had been staring at her indecently, she could behead him before he even finished the thought.
His thirty‑four years on earth would end with him watching the cold rain drum against his severed head as he slowly drifted into nothingness.
Trying to gather whatever remained of his emotional balance, he whispered through clenched teeth,
"...It's my turn to man the gates, Your Highness."
Her jade‑green eyes flicked lazily toward the gate, then to the window where a faint light reflected across the soaked stone.
"I enquire the presence of Sir Alex," she said, her voice sharp and cold, "in the name of the Empress."
Wort swallowed hard. The Empress.
The word hung between them, heavy enough to smother the rain itself. Everyone knew the Empress never summoned floormen. In fact, before Sir Alex, none of the previous captains had ever received a direct order from the royal blood.
He bowed once more before turning toward the brown gate, pushing it open on the left side and running toward a blue door adorned with the empire's crest.
Seravyn stared with a cold gaze at the departing back of the floorman, her mind void of any thoughts as the rain continued its downpour around her.
Making his way through the dimly lit corridor, the walls coated brown from the once-white orbs now covered with dust, Wort moved silently, passing doors with only slight whispers of men behind them. His face betrayed little concern, but his mind proved otherwise.
Why would the Princess deliver a message to the captain herself? One could say that being the captain of the floormen was nothing special indeed, it was considered a joke in much of the empire. Yet for men, especially those in the capital, it meant everything. Wort had been barely a teen when the first male floor captain was appointed by the Empress. It had felt like a great day then; the cheers of the men had rung louder than ever, though frowned upon by their counterparts.
Unfortunately, the captain had been killed in a failed raid in the Highlands seven years ago. At the time, Captain Alex had been barely a three-star floorman, but he had earned his name as the only floorman out of a thousand to make it out alive. He became a legend, remembered as "The Last Man," a name that boys still whispered about today.
Now Wort stood before a huge, grand door. Fear gripped him, but he pushed through it, knocking despite its thickness. The door was too solid; he had to knock again, harder this time
A stern voice vibrated through the heavy door. "Who is it?" Calm, controlled, yet laced with authority.
"I‑I… I'm sorry for interrupting you, Sir Alex, but the princess is down at the gate. She demands your presence."
Wort's voice cracked, betraying him. Come on, Wort… you're in your thirties, for the goddess' sake. How can you be stammering like some schoolgirl? He clenched his teeth, forcing his voice steadier. "She claims to have been sent by order of the Empress."
Silence swallowed his words.
Then, a loud clank echoed from behind the door, breaking the stillness. Slowly, the massive door creaked open. Standing there was a man as tall as the princess probably taller, though Wort couldn't tell through the shadows. His dark hair was streaked with grey; eyes heavy, red‑rimmed, and dark underneath. Dressed entirely in black, the standard garb of the floormen, he wore sturdy brown boots that had seen a lifetime of tread. The sheer presence of him made Wort's heart skip.
Without a word, Sir Alex stepped past Wort, boots thudding softly on the stone as he strode down the corridor. His presence was heavy enough that Wort instinctively pressed himself to the wall, watching the man vanish toward the stairway without so much as a backward glance.
Back at the gate, Seravyn stood exactly where Wort had left her. Unmoving. Unbothered by the cold hammering of the rain on her back. The wind slammed into her like a wild, invisible beast, forcing her cloak to whip violently behind her. Her clothes were soaked through, makeup washed clean from her face, but none of it mattered. Not to her.
It had barely been ten minutes.
Yet she looked as though she had been carved into the storm itself an unmoving silhouette with jade eyes glowing faintly through the sheets of rain. The downpour struck her with relentless fury, but she refused to bow her head. If anything, the ferocity of the storm only amplified her presence.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the massive oak door, the one Wort had scurried through. Every droplet that hit her skin rolled down in rivulets, tracing her jaw, her throat, disappearing beneath the soaked fabric that clung tightly to her frame.
The massive door cracked open with a deep groan, pushed from within. A broad silhouette emerged, stepping into the rain. Sir Alex's frame filled the doorway towering, carved from years of discipline, dark hair streaked with grey clinging to his forehead under the relentless downpour.
His steps were surprisingly light for a man of his build, careful even, as though he still made an effort not to splash through the puddles collecting on the concrete floor. Rain hammered against his shoulders and back, rolling down the black fabric of his uniform in heavy sheets.
When he reached the gate, he paused just long enough to open it fully. Then he straightened his spine, brought his fist to his chest, and saluted. A rigid, perfect line unmoving despite the storm tearing at his clothes. His gaze remained forward, respectful, never daring to meet her eyes.
"At ease," Seravyn ordered, her voice firm, cutting cleanly through the rain's roar.
The huge man relaxed his stance, though only by a fraction. Up close, he was nearly her height only the faintest glimpse of the top of his head visible to her. Even so, his presence felt dense, solid… like a wall built to weather storms even harsher than this one.
"You sent for me princess"
Seravyn cast a brief glance toward the windows of the quarters. Silhouettes fluttered behind the curtains, shifting like gossiping shadows before vanishing again. She returned her attention to Sir Alex.
"Yes. I did," she said. Smooth voice. Razor edge.
"Walk with me."
He gave a crisp nod, accepting the unspoken command, and they drifted away from the gate. The rain hammered the ground in uneven bursts, loud enough to swallow their footsteps.
A minute passed in silence. The storm beat against them without mercy. She noticed the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the cold gnawing at him even as he forced his posture to stay firm. He was pretending to be unaffected for her sake, which was almost sweet in its futility.
"How is the training with the new cadets?" she asked, gaze fixed straight ahead.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then his answer finally pushed through the roar of the storm.
"It… hasn't been easy."
"And why is that?" Her tone was clipped, interrogative, the kind that demanded truth and left no room for excuses. He felt it, because the next breath came with a hint of resignation.
"Lack of eagerness to train," he admitted. "Some can't even handle the morning jog around the palace without collapsing from exhaustion. It makes me angry that these are the ones expected to defend Her Majesties order"
Words drowned in the rain.
"The majesty doesn't need floormen to defend her orderThe words struck something deep inside him something he tried very hard to pretend wasn't there. Because Seravyn was right. And he knew it.
The Floormen weren't warriors. Not truly.
They were civil officers in polished boots glorified city guards, dressed up with royal military training to make them look respectable. A badge, a duty roster, and a few months of drills didn't make them soldiers. It only made the failures more obvious.
He swallowed hard.
"Princess," he said, attempting to smooth away the sting of the moment. His voice steadied itself into something almost formal almost safe. "The man you sent to summon me… he said you came under Her Majesty's orders. I assume you didn't call me out here just for a casual walk with your former student… under this kind of rain."
There was a trace of something warm nostalgia, worn thin by years hidden in his tone.
He remembered the days when he trained under the Shieldmaidens, when Seravyn herself barely grown could already drop him to the ground with a single strike. He had trained until his muscles failed, until his breath turned to fire, until his bones screamed.
And even then… he never once reached her level.
Age might have placed him above her in years, but in strength, aura, and presence?
He didn't even come close.
The rain hit the ground in uneven, violent slaps, washing over them both as they walked, side by side yet worlds apart.
"I am," Seravyn answered, her voice almost swallowed by the rain. "We just have to meet someone else first."
Sir Alex gave a small nod, accepting her words without question. The two of them continued forward, the storm hammering down on stone and soil alike, drowning the world in a cold, violent hiss. Their footsteps sloshed through shallow puddles, neither speaking, both wrapped in the weight of the coming task.
After several long moments, the outline of a massive building rose through the curtain of rain three stories tall, its architecture mirroring the royal castle itself. Sturdy stone, polished balconies, sweeping arches. A place built with dignity, purpose, and wealth.
Seravyn stepped toward the iron gate and pushed it open with a smooth, practiced motion. The hinges exhaled a soft groan, as if waking from slumber.
They entered.
The shift was immediate.
Inside the yard, the storm seemed to quiet just a fraction shielded by tall walls and dense ornamental trees. Lush flowers bloomed in disciplined rows along both sides of the garden, their colors muted by the downpour but still impossibly vibrant. A stone walk path stretched ahead, lit by warm yellow ground-lights embedded into the earth, their glow reflecting against the slick pavement like scattered stars.
The whole place radiated calm beauty, an oasis hidden inside the chaos of the night.
Sir Alex felt it immediately the difference.
The contrast.
This was nothing like the floormen's quarters.
His own yard was cracked stone, rusted railings, and a training pit that smelled of sweat and old rainwater.
But here…
Here was the scent of wet roses, freshly trimmed leaves, and something soft like warm earth after a storm.
He couldn't complain.
Not out loud.
He simply straightened his back and followed behind Seravyn, who navigated the path with the ease of someone who'd walked it a thousand times.
She belonged in places like this.
He did not.
Yet duty pulled him forward, step by step, through a garden glowing like a secret sanctuary while the storm roared behind them
Making her way up to the massive oak door dyed a deep violet, its golden hinges gleaming and the empire's emblem pressed proudly into its center.
Seravyn lifted her hand and knocked.
The door slid open with a soft, controlled glide, revealing a woman standing in the narrow spill of light. Long black hair glistened under the glow leaking through the crack, framing a face so elegant and breathtaking she would be considered a world-class beauty anywhere else.
Unfortunately for her, she stood before Seravyn still rain-drenched, still effortlessly dominant who outshone her without even trying.
The woman was dressed in all black, similar to him, though far more revealing. Her flawless white skin lay bare at the shoulders, and her shorts cut so high they barely reached her thighs fluttered in the cold breeze.
She offered Seravyn a small, crisp salute before her eyes slid toward Sir Alex.
The glance sharp, brief, dismissive speared straight through him. A cold tremor shot down his spine. Was it old fear? Some buried trauma? He couldn't tell. All he knew was that every instinct in his body screamed at him to run, to hide, to disappear.
The rumors whispered through the palace called her "the beast among women." Some said she ranked in the top five strongest under the Queen… others claimed she could rival the entire empire's elites.
She stood there elegantly in the doorway, posture loose and almost lazy but crossing paths with her was said to mean death. Even her relaxed gaze felt like a blade resting against the throat.
"My princess" she said her voice smooth and soft almost enticing to the ear.