The countryside of the Aster domain was bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon sunlight, casting shadows over the golden wheat fields and the rolling hills. Birds chirped lazily as the wind stirred the tall grass, and the faint murmur of a distant stream added to the scene’s serenity. Yet, the peaceful atmosphere was soon broken by the rhythmic pounding of hooves on the dirt road leading toward the estate of Marquis Kailem Aster.
A lone rider galloped through the meadows, his cloak billowing behind him like a dark banner in the wind. The herald, clad in royal blue and silver, the colours of the crown, approached the grand estate with haste. His sleek and strong horse snorted as it slowed to a canter before the iron-wrought gates of the marquis’s manor. Two guards in chainmail crossed their spears before him, but upon seeing the royal insignia on his chest, they quickly parted, allowing the herald to enter.
He rode through the wide courtyard, dismounting in front of the grand entrance where an old steward awaited. With a curt nod, the herald announced, “A royal writ for the Marquis Kailem Aster.” His voice rang with formality, though there was an underlying weariness from his journey. He had visited many estates, and many more awaited.
The steward gestured for the herald to follow, and as they passed through the dimly lit hallways of the estate, the herald could sense the weight of age and tradition pressing upon him. By the time they reached the marquis’s study, the air was thick with the scent of old books and burnt wood. Marquis Aster sat behind his desk, his sharp gaze already fixed on the herald, as though he’d anticipated the arrival.
Marquis Aster was an old man, his once-black hair now a stark white, his beard trimmed short but neat. His pale blue eyes held the sharpness of a hawk’s gaze, though lines of weariness creased his face. As the herald was led into the study,
The herald bowed slightly and presented the scroll, sealed with the silver gryphon crest in crimson wax. “By order of the crown, I present you with this writ, my lord.”
Marquis Aster eyed the scroll with disdain, his frown deepening as he took it. He had anticipated this—the whispers of a royal gathering had reached his ears days ago. No doubt another pompous meeting of the high lords, or worse, some trivial demand from the king. His mood soured further.
“More games from the capital,” he muttered, more to himself than to the herald. He tore the seal open with a swift motion. “Very well, you’ve done your duty. You may leave.”
The herald gave a stiff nod, turned, and exited the room, his footsteps fading down the corridor. The moment the door closed behind him, the marquis’s displeasure spilt over. He cursed aloud, slamming the scroll onto his desk.
“My mole told me there’s a three-month’ notice for a royal summons... What are these Remington scum scheming now? Does that bastard Leifstein think we’re dogs to come at his beck and call?” His voice echoed off the stone walls, laced with suspicion rather than the fury of urgency. He paced the room, muttering under his breath, “Three months to prepare for another pointless gathering. With tensions rising across the borders and rebellions inside Amberfell, who the hell has time to waste on these idle games?”
His thoughts wandered to the other nobles. Some would obey the writ without question, ever loyal to the crown. Others, however, would not be so easily cowed. He could imagine the alliances already forming in the shadows, the defiance brewing in the hearts of those who would not yield. A meeting like this—so sudden and widespread—reeked of a larger scheme.
Finally, with a grunt of frustration, Aster snatched the scroll again and unrolled it, preparing to scan its contents and confirm his mole’s words. But as his eyes moved down the page, his expression shifted from anger to confusion. The further he read, the deeper his frown became. His breath caught in his throat as he reached the end.
A smile—unexpected, almost disbelieving—slowly crept across his face. The scowl that had darkened his features moments before was gone, replaced by something close to triumph. He lowered the writ, his eyes flicking to the bottom of the scroll where an unfamiliar crest was stamped: a phoenix, its head severed by a gleaming sword.
“This day has finally come,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His old hands trembled as they held the parchment, and he sank back into his chair, lost in thought. Whatever he had expected, this was not it.
He gazed at the crest for a moment longer, then looked toward the window, where the sun was beginning to set beyond the hills. His foul mood was gone, replaced by an eager energy. Plans that had long lain dormant in the back of his mind began to stir once more.
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Over the next few weeks, similar scenes unfolded in the grand halls and keeps of Amberfell's nobility. A myriad of reactions played out upon the reception of the news. The royal writs had spread like wildfire, and where some welcomed the summons as a mere formality and found nothing out of place with the writs they were provided with, others found their contents far more surprising.
The writ was met with silent suspicion at Lord Brandar’s keep in the northern hills. Brandar’s brow furrowed as he read the letter, his fingers tracing the crest at the bottom. He glanced at his advisors, who exchanged cautious glances, unaware of the real message behind the writ.
Lady Margaux of House Eronne ripped open her writ in the eastern forests only to stop dead upon reading its contents. Her expression shifted from indifference to confusion, and then a smile curled her lips as she glanced at the strange crest. This was different from the typical royal demand she had expected….
But not all nobles took the news with grace. In the heart of the city of Zoladit, Count Vayne raged in his hall, the writ crumpled in his fist. “A plot!” he shouted to his gathered knights. “The king means to cull us! Prepare the men. We’ll not be caught like sheep at the slaughter. We won’t be heeding the summons.”
Chaos brewed. Whispers of conspiracy swept through noble circles. Some nobles prepared their armies, fearing betrayal, while others made secret alliances, hoping to benefit from whatever upheaval might come.
One truth stood firm amidst the growing tension: Due to the carefully prepared writs, Amberfell's nobility had fractured into four distinct camps. Those fiercely loyal to the crown stood resolute, ready to defend the throne at any cost. Opposing them were those who conspired against the monarchy, plotting in the shadows to bring it down. Between these extremes lay the neutral factions—silent, watchful, unwilling to commit until the winds of change became clearer. And then, there were the opportunists, relishing the chaos, waiting for the perfect moment to seize whatever power and wealth might be left in the aftermath of the coming upheaval.
The air was thick with distrust. Amberfell, once a symbol of unity and power, now teetered on the edge of civil strife. Each faction moved carefully, like pieces on a chessboard, poised for a game that promised nothing but blood and broken crowns.
Yet, amidst the confusion, a sense of foreboding gripped the land. A few writs, though dressed in royal language, carried with them the weight of something far more evocative—a shift in the balance of power, a hidden hand stirring the pot of nobility.
And as Marquis Kailem Aster sat in his study, still staring at the crest of the beheaded phoenix, he whispered to himself again, “The Young Lord is finally back. The time of cleansing this kingdom has finally come.”
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To the southeast of Amberfell, the bustling city of Larbreck lay nestled at the base of a towering mountain range, its peaks jagged and imposing against the horizon. A Selénolithos mine, carved into the ragged rock of the mountains, gleamed with veins of white ore—pale as moonlight—being extracted with precision and care.
The mine was a hive of activity, with workers emerging from the dark tunnels coated in dust, the ore glittering in the carts they pushed. Torches lined the steep paths, casting flickering light on the constant flow of miners moving in and out. The air was thick with the sounds of clinking shovels and pickaxes echoing off the mountains, the creak of wooden carts, and the low murmur of conversations between overseers as the operation continued under Kie Takahara’s vigilant eye.
Kie stood at the entrance of the mine, supervising the operation with her sharp gaze. Her presence commanded respect, and her kimono wrapped tightly around her as she moved with practised efficiency. The operation was progressing well—too well, perhaps, for it had drawn the attention of unwanted eyes.
A miner approached her, his steps hurried. He leaned close, whispering something into her ear. Kie’s expression shifted instantly, her eyes narrowing as a curse slipped from her lips.
“Those fucking bastards again…” she muttered under her breath before turning sharply.
“Stay sharp, all of you,” she ordered the workers. “I’ll handle this.”
She stormed down the path leading to a group of men waiting at the edge of the mine’s perimeter. Their stiff postures and haughty demeanour marked them as men of Duke Monley Remington. One of them, a well-dressed man with an air of smug superiority, stepped forward. His smile was sickly sweet as he greeted her.
“Ah, Lady Takahara,” he began, his voice smooth as silk. “Such a grand operation you’re running here. I commend your efforts. However, there are… concerns.”
Kie crossed her arms, her gaze cold and unmoving. “Get to the point.”
The man’s smile widened. “Of course. You see, the Duke is troubled by the lack of… cooperation. The taxes on mining operations are steep, we understand. But... well, we haven’t received any tax from you, despite it being quite some time now. The Duke is concerned if the things are running smoothly. Perhaps you cold offer us some additional ‘fees’ to ensure that everything is handled efficiently?”
“Assistance?” Kie’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling in disdain. “We own his mine, and we don’t need your protection, and we sure as hell don’t need your taxes. Tell Monley if he wants money, he can come pick up his bribes himself. We’ll be waiting.”
The man replied back with a stiff smile, “Umm, Lady Takahara, you shouldn’t make a decision so soon, there’s also the matter of trade restrictions. The Duke has influence over the major trade routes, and it would be a shame if your shipments for tools and other materials were… delayed.”
Kie’s expression darkened as he continued, his voice dripping with veiled threats.
“If you’re willing to cooperate, we can ensure your mine avoids any… unfortunate setbacks. The Duke has considerable influence over the trade routes. A delay here, a miscommunication there, and suddenly your shipments are held up at the border. Accidents happen, Lady Takahara—tools break, fires spark unexpectedly, goods disappear, people disappear…”
The man continued with a smug smile, “The Duke simply wants to prevent such... inconveniences. As you know, he’s a man of great power. With ease, he could monopolise the Selénolithos ore market. You wouldn’t want to be in a position where you're forced to sell at a… less favourable price, would you?”
His eyes gleamed with malice, clearly enjoying his own words. “Not to mention,” he added with a smirk, “rumours travel fast in noble circles. A bad reputation can cripple even the finest enterprise.”
Before the man could say another word, Kie’s hand shot out, striking him across the face with a sharp slap that echoed through the clearing. He stumbled back, eyes wide with shock.
“Listen closely,” Kie said, her voice cold and dangerous. ““If I find any of Monley’s dogs sniffing around here again, it won’t be the wild beasts that devour you. It’ll be me.
She continued with a cold smile, “And I’ll make sure you suffer long before that.Do you understand?”
The man’s hand hovered over his reddened cheek, his composure shattered. He glanced at the other men with him, all of whom looked uneasy, especially at the sight of the Soulweavers stationed around the mine, their presence a clear threat. Despite their bravado, fear crept into their eyes.
“We won’t forget this,” the man spat, his voice venomous as he straightened up. “Duke Monley will hear of this insult.”
“Tell him whatever the hell you want,” Kie retorted, unbothered. “Now, fuck off.”
With that, the men quickly turned and marched away, though they threw a few vicious words over their shoulders as they departed.
Kie watched them disappear, her temper simmering. She was about to return to her duties when the same man from earlier approached her again, looking far more anxious this time.
“Now what?” Kie snapped, clearly irritated.
The man leaned in again, whispering something in her ear. But this time, Kie’s expression softened instead of anger, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
“Regina?” she asked, her tone suddenly lighter. “Where is she?”
The man pointed toward the entrance of the mine, and Kie turned on her heel, making her way toward the edge of the operation where Regina had just arrived.
The simmering frustration drained from Kie’s chest. Only Regina could shift her mood so swiftly, her calm authority always a balm to the chaos around them.
Regina stood tall, her presence commanding yet calm. Her bluish-silver hair caught the light of the torches as her eyes swept over the bustling operation, sharp as ever. She took in the movement of workers, the glint of Selénolithos in the carts, and the careful handling of the precious ore. It was her nature to understand everything within moments of arriving.
She greeted Kie with a warm smile as the latter approached her. Kie, on the other hand, felt a rare sense of relief upon seeing her.
“Regina,” Kie said, almost apologetic, “I’m sorry for calling you here.”
Regina waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t apologise. I’m here to help. I’ll oversee the mine while you handle your personal matters.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I brought some trustworthy Soulweavers with me,” Regina interrupted gently. “They’ll assist you. You never know what might happen in times like these.”
Kie’s eyes widened in surprise. “Regina, I—”
“I insist,” Regina said firmly, her smile unwavering. “These are dangerous times. You can’t afford to be caught off guard.”
Kie hesitated, weighing her options before finally nodding. “Fine, I’ll take them,” she agreed, though a hint of reluctance clung to her voice. “Oh, and one more thing—Monley’s men are trying to extort us. They think we’re just going to sell the ore for a tidy profit, throwing threats around like they have any power here.”
Regina’s laugh was soft yet laced with amusement. “Ahh… the arrogance of small minds. Isn’t there a saying from your continent? ‘Frogs at the bottom of a well can’t fathom the height of the sky.’ Seems perfectly fitting for those fools who believe themselves clever.”
Kie’s smile broadened, her tone darkening. “Well, I’m still here for a few days, If they push too far, I’ll gladly lead a march to Monley’s estate and deal with it personally. Nothing solves a problem like a blade to the neck.”
Regina chuckled lightly. “Patience, my dear Kie. There’s no rush. Let’s see how things unfold first.”
The two women exchanged a knowing look, understanding the weight of their shared responsibilities. Kie turned to return to her duties, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. With Regina at her side, trusted allies in place, and the Selénolithos mine secure, she was ready to carry out her role in the larger, carefully woven plan. This was just another step toward the greater goal, and Kie would ensure it succeeded.