Count Collin Winchester was not an easy man to wake. In the quiet, marble corridors of Winchester Keep, everyone knew that disturbing the young Lord during his afternoon rest was a calculated risk—one that could end in a reprimand or a blast of scorching light, depending on his mood. But the head butler, Johnson, had dutifully served the Winchester family for three generations. He had seen the former lord storm battlefields with lightning in his fists, and he had changed Collin's diapers. A little temper would not kill him.
He rapped twice on the heavy oak door.
No answer.
Johnson exhaled softly, pushed the door open, and entered the dimly lit chamber. Heavy curtains blocked out the late-afternoon sun, and Count Collin lay half-buried beneath fine silk sheets, one arm dangling off the bed, his dark hair tousled like an unruly child's.
"Milord," Johnson said with a shallow bow, "there is an urgent message."
Collin groaned without opening his eyes.
"If it isn't an invasion, a coup, or my kitchen catching fire again, I'll have your head for waking me."
"My Lord," Johnson said, clearing his throat, "it is… none of those. But it is something you will want to hear."
Collin cracked one eye open. "Is it the nobles? Did one of them finally poison the other? Please tell me it was Brantley. That man laughs like a strangled goose."
Johnson shook his head. "It concerns a young man… a certain Gregor Augusta."
That got Collin sitting upright.
Johnson unfolded the letter and began reading aloud. The account was detailed, direct, and damning—as if the writer feared any omission would be punishable.
A group of ten city guards had gone to the farmland three miles from Arbadeen, intending to "inspect" the construction happening there. The report did not bother to hide the truth: the guards were looking for bribes, prey, or entertainment. What they found was far from it.
Gregor Augusta had walked out wearing a loose shirt, work trousers, and boots dusted with lime and dirt. On his belt hung a curved blade in a polished wooden sheath—its shape, thickness, and forward-slanted design unlike any knife, dagger, or short sword common to Arbadeen. The guards described it as "a foreign weapon," one of an unknown style, heavy toward the front and forged for brutal, cleaving strikes rather than finesse.
Even the city guards, many of whom had seen weapons from across the empire, admitted in their report that they had never seen a blade like it.
The guards tried to intimidate him, to extort him, even to falsely accuse him of being a rogue mage who had murdered over seventy people. Instead of pleading or offering coin, Gregor had stared them down and laughed.
"If I were truly the man you're hunting," he reportedly said, "and I had already torn through seventy people… what makes you think I would hesitate to rip apart ten more?"
The workers confirmed this. The guards themselves, red-faced and humiliated, twisted the story to paint themselves as heroes who bravely confronted a possible murderer—only to retreat because they chose "mercy."
Johnson finished the letter and folded it neatly. He waited for his lord's reaction.
Count Collin leaned back against his pillows, exhaling slowly.
"So that's how it is…" he murmured.
The young lord was only twenty-five, but his eyes had the weight of someone who had seen too much too young. When his father—the former Count—was found dead in his bed five years ago, the physicians declared it a natural passing. Heart failure. Peaceful. Ordinary.
Collin did not believe a single word.
His father wielded lightning and flight, two abilities that made assassination extremely difficult. There were only a handful of people who could have killed such a man without a trace—and one of them was a powerful telepath whose allegiance had always been questionable. Yet Collin could not accuse him. Doing so without proof would brand Collin as paranoid or unstable, both dangerous labels in noble politics.
So he swallowed his suspicion. He accepted the title. And he inherited a viper's nest.
The nobles of Arbadeen had smiled during his coronation. Their congratulations were warm, polite, and dripping with greed. To them, Collin was a young, inexperienced ruler—a candle easily snuffed out.
Some had even tried.
Collin still remembered the night assassins crept into his room. They believed him to be only a fire mage, and therefore manageable. They were wrong. Collin's flames alone could have killed them, but when they pressed him, cornered him, and forced him to exert everything—
—the beams of white-hot light that shot from his eyes burned holes through armor, flesh, and the stone walls behind them.
It drained him terribly, but it saved his life.
When the nobles offered a minor house as a scapegoat to pacify him, he accepted their offering—and wiped that house off the map within a week. Man, woman, and child.
Since then, the nobles acted tamer. Not respectful, but cautious. Still, their influence grew every year, like roots strangling the foundations of the city.
Collin understood one thing:
He needed allies. Strong ones. Ones he did not have to babysit.
So the report about Gregor Augusta was more than interesting—it was an opportunity.
"A sixteen-year-old boy… who faces down ten corrupt guards without flinching," Collin muttered. "If the rumors are true, he slaughtered the Red Scorpion gang alone. Seventy-plus dead. A mage? A fighter? Or something else entirely?"
Johnson gave a small nod. "The workers described him as disciplined. Calm. They also say he works with his own hands. And he purchased that farmland with legitimate coin."
"He's building a home?" Collin asked.
"A rather unconventional one, my lord. Two floors above ground… three below. The masons describe it as unique. Revolutionary, even."
Collin's brows rose. "Interesting."
"And there is something else," Johnson added delicately. "They say he built a machine that can draw water from the ground."
"That is a mage's work," Collin said sharply.
"Apparently not, my lord. The workers claim it operates without magic."
Collin stared at him for a long moment.
A machine… that could do the work of magic? That alone was enough to disrupt the balance of power in the region. If Gregor could build such things, he was more than just physically strong. He was dangerous—and valuable.
"Prepare the personal guards," Collin said, swinging his legs off the bed. "We will visit this Gregor in the morning."
Johnson bowed. "Shall I have breakfast prepared early?"
"Yes. And tell the captain to polish the carriage. I want our arrival to make the right impression."
"As you wish, my lord."
The butler left quietly. Collin remained seated on the edge of his bed, fingers steepled.
The nobles were growing stronger. Bolder. The city guards were no longer loyal tools but greedy parasites. The common folk believed him distant. And the empire itself was beginning to notice Arbadeen's instability.
But now… a variable had appeared. A wolf, hiding in farmland, quietly building a den and gathering strength.
"Gregor Augusta," Collin murmured, tasting the name.
A potential weapon.
A potential enemy.
A potential ally.
If he moved quickly, he could claim him before the nobles even realized the threat.
If he moved too slowly… someone else would try to use the boy—or kill him.
Collin smiled faintly, fire flickering in his irises.
"Let's see what sort of man you are."
Tomorrow, the game would begin.