Footsteps rang out on the cold stone flooring of the castles hallway. Art stormed ahead of his escort, making his way to the hall where his father would undoubtedly be sat in his throne waiting for him.

Two knights stood at the end of the corridor guarding the enormous wooden double doors to the hall. Their armour was black Mauritanian alloy, a common choice among the armed forces due to its strength and light weight.

Each piece was adorned with white inlay around its edges, then etched with intricate swirling patterns across its width. The chest plate served as an artistic centrepiece, featuring an awe inspiring artistic depiction of the symbol of the House Beaumont, the wild Ruzel Bat. Their dark armour was complimented by a pristine white cloak latched onto the front of the right shoulder, then fixed on the rear of the opposing shoulder.

One of the knights stepped back and pushed against the door, slightly bowing as he went. Art shoved past him and stormed into the room.

"What is it now, father?" He shouted, "Tell me, what was so urgent that you had me dragged across the city in the middle of the night?"

Jorin Beaumont stared down at his son. One hand rested on the arm of his throne, the other gripped the hilt of his sword, its point drove into the grey stone floor. His expression was un-moving, he did not break eye contact, there was not a hint of anger on his face. Anyone would think that Jorin did not care in the slightest for his sons existence, that was how he had always been though - forever the stoic figure.

"Kneel." Jorin's voice rang out against the walls of the hall, its sound only slightly dampened by the pristine white banners scattered about.

Art stared up at his father, contempt adorned the lines of his face. Still, he did not move.

The Duke of the Beaumont duchy cast a glance at his guard Captain, then gave a slight nod of his head. The captain moved a step closer to Art and stamped down on the back of his calf.

"Fuck, Milton!"

Art let out a groan as he fell down onto the untouched leg. He looked up at his father from the ground. The Duke had made sure the entirety of his court was present in the hall for this spectacle. Every minor noble stared at him as his eyes scanned the room, still grimacing from the pain.

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"I have had enough - more than enough, in fact - of your behaviour." The words slid off his tongue with icy indifference.

"Father-"

"You will address me as 'My Lord'."

Realisation crept across the younger mans face as he grasped the impending words. Art had never expected this day to come. He had hoped for it, certainly, but not once did he think his father had the resolve to do it.

"Did you think you could continue this way forever? That you could deny me and have your pockets continue to fatten whilst you drink and whore away your years? Well, let me give you one final gift, boy. Life waits for no one, not even a Beaumont. You have run from me for long enough."

Art stared up at the Duke of House Beaumont, his jaw clenched with anger, yet he said nothing.

"Hear these words, let them ring through every street in my domain. You are no longer a son of this house. From this day forth you are stripped of your title, all of its holdings and privileges..."

Gasps resounded from the observers in the hall. Even some of the guard wore stunned expressions behind their helmets, the shock visible even from just their eyes. Art still stared up at his father, his face was only anger now, no sadness or tears.

Jorin rose up from his throne. He cut a tremendous figure, his brown hair spattered with grey streaks, towering over the hall in his ceremonial armour, coated in the house colours and wielding his sword as a cane. He spoke again as he slowly walked down the steps.

"By all rights, I make you one of the common folk."

"You think my brother can inherit your title? Stupid old man. He would make an even more spectacular blunder of it than me." He restrained his voice as best as he could, he would not dream of giving his father the satisfaction of seeing his feelings overtake him.

"His flaws are no fault of his own. Yours, however, are entirely self-induced." Jorin was right in front of Art now, only inches from his face.

He stared into his sons eyes and smiled, "No matter though, I am a young man still, what is another decade or two to make another son?"

"No fiery words for me? Nothing at all?" He held an expression of mock surprise as he spoke, "How amusing, you seem to have found restraint only when I no longer require it of you."

"Well, no matter."

He swung around and began walking back to his throne.

"As is custom, any man stripped of his identity will bear the name Rain, you will take no other as long as you live, you will pass this name to your sons and them to theirs."

"I will never forgive you for this, father."

"Father? Are you deaf, boy? There is no son of mine here. Now, you are no one, this house will treat you as I would a stray dog. As such, your lack of status allows that I may command you like any other."

He spoke quicker now, the urgency in his voice betrayed his desire to be done with this messy affair.

"You will go to the Borderlands, perhaps they may find some worth in you."