Viscount Tyr Ashstone crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back just enough to observe the chamber’s occupants from the corner of his eye. The walls hummed with a faint glow from the runes etched into the stone—a quiet reminder that House Castellio took no chances when hosting so many powerful nobles under one roof. Tyr had heard rumors that these arcane symbols dampened magical interference; at least, no one here would have the luxury of a surprise spell.

Across the polished mahogany table, Duke Gabriel Castellio’s fist came down with a crack that made Tyr’s heart skip a beat. The duke’s voice, resonant and sure, filled the room: “A man’s worth is not determined by a single defining moment, but by the countless, ineffable choices that shape him over time culminating to the brilliant moment where he shines.”

Tyr arched a brow at the flourish of language. He was used to Eryk Ashwynd’s abrupt, no-nonsense approach—nothing like Gabriel’s dramatic flair. Still, watching the older man speak reminded Tyr of everything he’d heard about King Fredrich I. Ancient war stories claimed that Fredrich’s presence alone had once kept the fractious nobility in line as they conquered the kingdom of Friengard almost 130 years ago. Tyr had never met the old king, but the echoes of that era lived on in every suppressed whisper about the kingdom’s decline.

“Take Valderic, for example...” Gabriel’s thunderous tone turned Tyr’s attention to Lord Valderic Valthorn, who sat rigid at Gabriel’s right. Valderic’s posture was as unyielding as the salt-and-pepper hair lining his temples. Tyr had studied this man’s rise through secondhand reports: how Valthorn troops pushed deep into the Harrowlands each peace-cycle to level up and sharpen their blades before the next beast tide. It was clear the rest of the lords credited Valderic’s unwavering discipline for Friengard’s continued survival. Tyr found that assessment fair—there were plenty of rumors about Valthorn brutality, but no one could deny their results.

A slow hush fell, and Tyr tilted his head, anticipating Valderic’s response. He’d caught a glimpse of the duke’s eyes—cold, calculating. When Valderic finally spoke, it was in a voice that gleamed like polished steel: “We stand on the brink of ruin. Not from beasts, but from within. This ‘boy king’ lacks skill, strength, essence.” The condemnation hung in the air. Tyr suspected Valderic had long harbored ambitions beyond merely guarding the borders, though whether that meant seizing the throne or appointing a puppet was open to debate.

Gabriel’s shoulders sagged slightly, grief flickering in his gaze. “We all knew King Fredrich,” he said. “His death—his poisoning—still wounds me.” Tyr felt a pang of sympathy. He hadn’t shared that history, but he understood the magnitude of losing a leader who had once welded the whole kingdom into a single blade. That blade, Tyr thought grimly, was now dulled.

Tyr let his gaze slide to Lady Elira Thornwynd, who sat just a seat away. She was a study in silence—sharp-eyed, half-smiling. She reminded Tyr of a forest cat on the hunt, all tension and readiness. He suspected she caught even the subtlest quiver of breath from the men around her. The skill that had earned her the moniker “Silent Blade” was the reason Duke Eryk Ashwynd trusted her with the kingdom’s darker errands.

Then Gabriel’s gaze turned fully on Tyr. “You have the assurance of Lord Ashwynd? Will the northern hold stand with us?”

Straightening in his seat, Tyr cleared his throat. Stormveil haunted the northern frontier with beasts, but Eryk’s domain rarely asked for outside help. “We’ve learned to fend for ourselves behind the Stormveil. But Duke Eryk recognizes that we can’t stay out of this forever. He’ll lend his voice to the cause—our steel, less so. Our first duty is to our own borders.”

That earned a thoughtful nod from Gabriel, a brief flash of relief in his eyes. But Tyr could sense the quiet frustration behind it. He knew it wasn’t the answer they all wanted. Yet Ashwynd had no intention of sacrificing its best soldiers. The beasts encroaching from the frost-laced peaks were threat enough.

A soft rustle to Tyr’s left drew his attention to Baron Gregor Lionfell, Valderic’s second-in-command. The man’s blond hair and striking blue eyes gave him an almost ethereal quality, but Tyr had read numerous accounts of Gregor’s cunning. At a nod from Valderic, the baron leaned in. “Military might alone won’t topple the king,” he said, voice low and precise. “The people’s loyalty, bestowed by the father’s deeds, remains with the son. The Words of the World bolster him further. No—we sow the seeds of dissent, let them sprout into a rebellion, and strike once the boy’s foundation collapses.”

Tyr’s brow furrowed as he listened. Ashwynd would keep its distance for now, but this was bigger than any local revolt. He could feel in his bones that once events were set in motion, no corner of the kingdom could stay untouched. His {Perfect Recall} skill recorded every nuance of their scheme. If the realm crumbled, Tyr would recall these very words with haunting clarity.

He glanced at Elira, catching a faint narrowing of her eyes. She must be thinking the same thing, Tyr mused. The realm was poised on a knife’s edge, with power-hungry wolves circling. It would take only a single misstep—one ill-conceived push—for Friengard to shatter.

Change is coming, Tyr thought, and we’re all going to feel the weight of it soon enough.

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As that meeting proceeded in the Straits, Jonathan Castellio was worlds away, urging his sleek, ebony-coated Aetherstride across broken terrain. The young heir to House Castellio bore deep circles under his eyes, the price of relentless campaigns in the Harrowlands. He had achieved what few dared—acquiring a wyvern egg—and he was painfully aware that such a treasure might bring as much peril as fortune.

Riding alongside him on a pale Skyveil Charger was the son of Baron Greystone, Lucien Greystone, an old friend turned reluctant companion. They had left most of their traveling party behind, scattered or fallen to the jaws of hostile creatures in the Harrowlands. A single shrill screech from above caused Lucien to jerk the reins.

“It’s still following us,” he hissed. “You had to take it, didn’t you?”

Jonathan shot him a glare. “We left too many good people behind to let this slip away. When the next beast tide comes, we’ll need every advantage. This egg—” He clenched his jaw. “—might be key to protecting Castellio.”

Lucien’s tone hardened, panic laced through it. “It’s also key to getting us killed!”

Jonathan pressed low against his mount’s neck, feeling the thunder of its heartbeat. The wind carried a roar from overhead, too close for comfort. “We can’t outrun a wyvern forever. I have one last trick… but you’re not going to like it.”

“Oh, by all means,” Lucien barked, “surprise me.”

From his hip pouch, Jonathan withdrew a small sphere etched with swirling runes. He had hoped never to use it, for it was designed to warp space over a short distance—dangerous under normal circumstances, lethal in the wild essence of the Harrowlands. But the screeching behind them left little choice.

Without waiting for permission, Jonathan smashed the orb against his saddle’s pommel. Time fractured. Space twisted. Colors, sounds, and sensations merged into a maddening symphony as the artifact enacted its power. Jonathan felt as though invisible hands pulled him apart, only to rebuild him piece by agonizing piece. The wyvern’s screech warped into a shrill echo, then was swallowed by silence as the energy enveloped him completely.

When the wave passed, the Harrowlands and their winged pursuer were gone. Instead, Jonathan and Lucien found themselves in a tranquil glade. Evening sunlight slanted through tall grass. The air was cool and smelled faintly of dew. Their mounts, trembling but intact, pawed at the soft earth.

Lucien was the first to dismount, landing hard. “You—” He swallowed, voice still shaking with fury. “You could’ve killed us both. Teleportation in the Harrowlands? Are you mad?”

Jonathan breathed in, lungs burning with the strain of the jump. “And yet, we’re alive,” he managed, wiping sweat from his brow. The memory of lost companions and a relentless beast churned like a storm cloud in his mind. But the screech was gone, and for now, they were safe. “My father has to know what I found,” he added, sliding a hand toward the saddlebags where a wyvern egg nestled—an unhatched life that could be their salvation or their ruin.

Lucien glanced at Jonathan’s silent burden, then shook his head. “Your father?” he repeated with a bitter edge to his voice. “I’ve already risked my life enough. I’m heading to my family’s hold. Good luck convincing your old man that was worthwhile.”

Before Jonathan could muster a response, Lucien kicked his mount into a gallop, leaving him alone in the fading light. For a while, Jonathan just sat, clutching the reins. The egg’s faint warmth weighed on him—literal and symbolic. At length, he patted his trembling Aetherstride. “Come on, girl,” he murmured. “We’re almost home.”

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By twilight, Jonathan approached the sprawling gates of Castellio Manor. His return should have been triumphant, yet the sight of watchtowers lined with double guards and the hushed voices among the staff told him something was amiss. A sense of siege hung over the estate.

A senior guard shouted in recognition, “It’s Lord Jonathan! Open the gates!”

Once within the courtyard, stablehands hurried to tend his weary Aetherstride, though they cast curious glances at the battered rider. He offered them a stiff nod, ignoring the spike of pain in his shoulder from an old wound caught in the crossfire of the wyvern fight he fled.

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Jones, the manor steward, greeted him with a formal bow. “My lord, we had almost given up hope.” His eyes flicked to the bulging saddlebags but he said nothing. “The duchess has been preparing to depart for the Straits since yesterday.”

Jonathan’s heart lurched. “She’s traveling? She’s… almost due.”

“Yes, my lord, but the duke insisted she make an appearance to show Castellio’s unity.” Jones’s expression tightened with concern. “In truth, we feared you might not return in time to see her off.”

Jonathan felt a rush of urgency. He laid a hand on Jones’s shoulder. “Where is she?”

“In the east wing, finalizing arrangements with Captain Andreas.”

He thanked the steward and hurried down the corridor. The walls bore tapestries depicting centuries of Castellio’s martial legacy, proud scenes he had grown up admiring. Tonight, they looked more like silent witnesses to brewing unrest.

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Maria Castellio stood in the east wing’s reception room, conferring with Captain Andreas, the long-serving head of the ducal guard. She wore a travel robe tailored to accommodate her heavily pregnant form, her face etched with fatigue. Yet she still possessed an unwavering composure. Jonathan paused at the doorway, taking in the sight of her. Relief flooded him—he had half-feared she might be gone already.

At the sound of the floorboards, Maria turned, a smile lighting up her features. “Jonathan.” She quickly excused Andreas with a gentle nod. As the guard departed, a faint warmth passed between him and Maria in the brief moment their gazes met. Then he was gone, leaving mother and son alone.

“You’ve returned,” she said, voice soft with a mixture of astonishment and motherly scolding. “Two years… you look so much older.”

Jonathan took her hands, careful not to squeeze too tight. “I never meant to be gone so long. The Harrowlands… they’re changing, Mother. Creatures more vicious than before. Strange surges of essence.”

She placed a hand gently on his cheek. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

He hesitated. The weight of the wyvern egg in his bag felt heavier than ever. “I found something,” he said cautiously, “but it’s best if I keep it private for now.”

Maria nodded. “I trust your judgment. As for me, your father’s orders were quite clear. He wants me at his side in the Straits. The lords gather to discuss the future of the kingdom. Appearances must be maintained, no matter my condition.” A flicker of weariness darkened her eyes. “I pray we can avoid violence.”

“Then let me come with you,” Jonathan said. “Whatever father’s planning, I want to stand by your side.”

She shook her head, pressing her palm over her belly. “You’ve only just returned. Your father expects you to remain here, at least for a time, to—” She paused, searching for the right words. “—to gather your strength and guard the estate. There are rumors of roving beasts near our lands. Even the capital’s watchers can’t keep track of them all.”

He wanted to argue, to insist that he could serve her best by ensuring her safety. But Maria’s posture and the firm note in her tone told him the decision had been made. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said instead.

She offered a sad smile, pulling him into a gentle embrace. “Of course, my son. By the time this baby arrives, I want a peaceful Friengard waiting for him.”

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Even before the pink light of sunrise touched the horizon, the Castellio household was astir. Liveried servants loaded carriages with provisions, and a small detachment of knights prepared their horses. Maria sat on the manor’s steps, speaking quietly with Andreas, who organized the guard detail. Jonathan hovered nearby, wishing he could forbid the journey.

Finally, Maria stood. Though clearly exhausted, she wore dignity like a cloak. Jonathan approached, tension in every step. “The roads can be treacherous,” he said. “Bandits, beasts… or worse.”

A wry curve touched her lips. “I know. Yet your father asked this of me, and so I go.” She brushed a stray lock of hair from his face. “Stay vigilant. We will see each other again soon.”

Before she climbed into the carriage, Jonathan squeezed her hand. “Give Father my greetings,” he murmured, “and tell him I’m ready for whatever comes next.”

With that, Maria allowed Andreas to help her into the enclosed coach. The door shut, and the caravan rolled onto the dirt road. Jonathan stood at the manor gates, watching until the figures faded into the gray morning. The foreboding in his chest refused to subside.

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The first day of travel passed without incident, but by the second morning, leaden clouds blanketed the sky. A cold wind rustled through the tall pines lining a lonely stretch of road. Maria had drifted into a fitful doze, lulled by the carriage’s swaying. Andreas rode nearby, scanning the pale tree canopy for threats.

Suddenly, the lead rider motioned for the convoy to halt. A strange hush fell across the forest. No birds, no insects—only the dull roar of distant wind.

The hush shattered with a deafening screech. A wyvern—dark-scaled and with membranous wings that glistened like onyx—burst through the treetops. Its roar sent the horses into a frenzy. Knights scrambled to form a defensive circle as the beast swooped low, claws raking the air.

Andreas shouted commands. Arrows streaked upward, many glancing off the wyvern’s armored hide. The creature unleashed a spray of toxic venom. Soldiers reeled, some collapsing with screams of agony. Wheels splintered on the closest carriage, flipping it. In the midst of the confusion, Maria felt the carriage shake violently as the driver fought to keep the horses under control.

“High-level threat!” a guard yelled. “Hold formation!”

Andreas spurred his mount, sword aflame with mana, driving at the wyvern’s flank. The beast howled, spinning in midair to deliver a whiplash from its barbed tail. Andreas parried, but the force knocked him backward.

A second shriek rang through the swirling mist—another, smaller wyvern. It darted toward the central carriage, tearing into the paneling with savage force. Wood shards flew. Maria cried out as it ripped open the side wall, a wave of cold air striking her face.

Within seconds, the creature’s talons closed around her. Pain burst through her shoulder, and she found herself wrenched into the open air.

“Duchess!” came a strangled shout from one of the guards. Andreas lunged, but the smaller wyvern beat its wings, carrying Maria aloft. He threw a dagger that embedded in the beast’s hind leg, causing it to lurch off-course, but it did not let go of its captive.

Maria’s vision blurred with shock and pain. She heard the muffled clamor of knights and the sickening roar of the larger wyvern below. Her pregnant body felt unbearably heavy in the monster’s grip, and each breath came in shallow, desperate gasps.

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Time lost meaning as the smaller wyvern streaked across the sky, flapping heavily through roiling clouds. Maria slipped in and out of consciousness, the agony of the talons overshadowed by a deeper, more urgent pain that seized her abdomen. The baby—the contractions had begun in earnest.

After what felt like hours, the wyvern descended, crashing onto a ledge near a cave perched high in the Harrowlands’ most rugged cliffs. It dropped Maria like unwanted baggage before prowling farther into the cavern depths. She lay there, battered and trembling, a frigid wind tearing at her clothes.

Pain rippled through her in waves, and her vision swam. She knew labor had started, but the environment was far from merciful. The cave stank of decayed carcasses. Her eyes flickered toward the pale sky. If only Andreas or Jonathan… But no one was here.

With agonizing effort, Maria gathered the shreds of her strength. She had studied some magic for emergencies—small illusions, wards, basic healing. Yet all the knowledge in the world couldn’t dull the biting reality of childbirth. Her ragged screams mingled with the cavern’s howling wind. Moments blurred until, at last, a tiny cry pierced the gloom.

Her child, a boy, came into the world in that accursed cave. She held him close, tears spilling at the sight of life born into such peril. “You… deserve better,” she managed between gasps.

She felt the baby’s warmth against her chest, a fragile miracle. The wyvern lurked deeper in the cave, restless but not yet approaching. Desperation took hold of Maria; she could not fight or flee. One last idea flickered through her mind: a spell of teleportation. She had never cast it on another person, especially not a newborn, and never under the volatile magic of the Harrowlands.

Yet there was no alternative. She pressed her lips to the child’s brow, whispering, “I’m so sorry,” as she began tracing glowing runes in the air with a trembling hand. Essence crackled around them, unpredictably spiked by the Harrowlands’ corrupt flows.

A final contraction tore through her, nearly causing her to lose focus. Still, she forced the spell through. “To safety… to—”

The incantation fractured on her lips as raw energies flared. The baby vanished in a burst of light. For one breathless instant, hope flared within her: she had saved him. Then the feedback of the disrupted essence slammed into her, sending her sprawling onto the cold stone. Darkness closed in from the edges of her vision. Her last thought was of a future she would never see.

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Later—no one could say how long—the hollow cave rang with the echoes of armor. A party of armed Castellio knights, led by Andreas, arrived too late to save Maria. They discovered her motionless form and the smaller wyvern, badly wounded and still clinging to life. The men attacked with brutal efficiency, striking it down, but the victory felt hollow.

Andreas dropped to his knees beside her, cradling her head with trembling hands. Her eyes did not open. No child was found in the cave. The men stood in muted horror as their exhausted captain quietly closed her eyes for the last time.

A hush fell upon them, thick with grief. They covered her respectfully, but their expressions brimmed with questions. Where was the newborn heir? They could only guess at the final moments that had led to this sorrowful scene. At the cave mouth, hot tears slipped down Andreas’s cheeks. The swirling wind devoured any sound he might have made.

Far across the Harrowlands’ twisted labyrinth of essence, a tiny infant lay safe but unknown—teleported by a mother’s last act. And back in Castellio Manor, Jonathan paced, waiting anxiously for news of the ambush. He knew only that his mother had been taken. No rider had yet returned to confirm her fate.

With each passing hour, the dread coiled tighter in Jonathan’s heart. The wyvern egg in his bag remained hidden, untouched by any eye but his. He had meant to offer it as hope against future threats. Now, it seemed a bitter reminder of how quickly hope could be swallowed by tragedy.

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Out in the Straits, Duke Gabriel Castellio continued to meet with conspiring nobles and strategists, ignorant of the calamity that had befallen his wife and unborn child. Though he felt a gnawing sense of worry at her delay, he told himself travel was slow in the beast-ridden frontier. The swirl of intrigue kept him from seeking answers.

No one in that chamber knew how thoroughly Fate had moved her hand. No one suspected that Maria Castellio’s final moments had altered the kingdom’s course. The conspirators and rebels aimed to topple a king; the loyalists readied defenses. Farther north, Ashwynd braced for beasts. And in the shadows of Stormveil, monstrous hordes gathered strength.

Beyond them all lay the Harrowlands, which never ceased to churn in unpredictable essence flows. Within that fractured realm, a nameless infant—a lost heir of Castellio—slumbered under unfamiliar skies. The child’s faint cries would someday echo across Friengard, though no one yet guessed how. For now, only that lonely cave bore witness to Maria’s sacrifice and the child’s miraculous departure.

Jonathan Castellio, perched at the manor’s highest tower in search of any returning courier, had no inkling that the mother he yearned to save was already gone. Each hour that passed, his heart strained with worry. Soon, he knew, he might have to ride out himself. But for what outcome, he dared not guess.

A realm away, conspirators schemed, and kingmakers poised to act. The seeds of chaos were sown. Though many believed a single moment defined a man’s worth, the truth lay in uncounted decisions rippling through time. The fate of Friengard would turn on both monstrous tides and hidden acts of love and loss. Only the watcher of this tragedy could know that Maria Castellio’s final choice had ensured her baby lived—and that the future of the kingdom might someday hinge on the boy no one even knew to look for.