For five days, the Duke secluded himself in his opulent private office, the weight of the world pressing upon his broad shoulders. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a crackling fire in the marble hearth. Heavy drapes, drawn tightly, separated him from the outside world.

He pored over every document he could find, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and the faint aroma of cedarwood from the burning logs. In his isolation, he learned much. First and foremost, the Great Kingdom of Enphaebel, though its name brought to mind the very idea of weakness, it was one of the strongest powers on the Visara Continent.

The kingdom, nestled like a jewel in the land, sat within a continent shaped like a distorted ellipse—resembling a sleepy eye. The Duke had no doubt that this ancient map was little more than a guess as the shape was too… simple.

Still, while it was no google maps it told all the information he needed. There were mountains that flanked the north and south, they stood as impassable barriers of rock and snow. These were unclaimed lands with highly disputed borders that were only glanced at because they were rich in iron and gold. However they remained underutilized due to the treacherous terrain.

The Duke leaned back in his leather-bound chair, the material groaning softly under his weight. Thirty years ago, the Drakon Kingdom, formerly the Gracewell Kingdom, had risen from the ashes of a military coup. It swallowed up the surrounding nations and lead to the rise of the Drakon Empire, more widely known as the Empire of the Immortal Dragon. This had shattered the fragile peace held together by treaties and political marriages, plunging the Visara Continent into chaos.

Now, two powerful nations stood silently opposed: the Empire of the Immortal Dragon, with its relentless ambition, and the Great Kingdom of Enphaebel, steadfast and resilient. To the west lay the Union of Free Kingdoms, safe from the Empire’s reach due to Enphaebel’s protection. Though the small collective force was technically allied with Enphaebel, they were little more than a vassal state, harboring ill will toward both the Great Kingdom and the Empire.

A deep sigh escaped the Duke as he drained a glass of water. He glanced at the liquor shelf, tempted by the thought of whiskey, but held off. He told himself he was waiting until he felt more grounded, more aware of his new life. With a small click of his tongue he set the glass down with a soft thud, the silence of the room swallowing the sound. Ten years of stalemate had culminated in a ceasefire, but the tension between the three great powers was palpable, like the charged air before a storm. One wrong move and the fires of war could burn the continent down.

Over the years, the Dukedom of Gravestone had willingly entered into vassalage under the Enphaebel Kingdom, bound by a strict contract that allowed it to maintain its autonomy while providing defense and military support to the kingdom. On paper, they were part of the Grand Kingdom, but in reality, they were simply adhering to a simple defensive pact—one that would be re-evaluated should the Empire fall. In fact most of the territory the Kingdom gained from the conflict would be easily lost with the empire and the duke had a plan of his own. Indeed, seventeen iron mines had already opened in the northern mountains within the past five years.

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A soft knock echoed through the room, breaking the Duke's train of thought. He refilled his glass and called out, “Enter.” The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing the butler. The man entered with practiced grace, his movements quiet and deliberate as he approached the Duke’s desk, causing Maxwell to stiffen slightly.

To this day, the Duke hadn’t confirmed whether the butler’s name was truly Sefton. However, he had recently learned that "Mombas" referred to humans who carried the essence of creatures—specifically, "Rasselan" was the overarching term for such humans, and a "Mombas" carried the essence of a snake. It fit him—sharp, professional, with a hint of poison behind his gray eyes.

The Mombas were reputed to possess unique abilities, including halting their aging around the age of twenty. Maxwell often wondered if a bad case of acne would last forever but hummed at the silly thought, a variant of the same curiosity that popped into his head whenever he saw the man now. Still, Mombas were also known for their intelligence and cunning, more feared than respected. A reputation was likely due to Harken Marabas, perhaps the only infamous Mombas in recorded history.

Still, Sefton was rigid and dependable, so the warnings of history be damned, Maxwell would accept the man even if it killed him. Though, to be fair, he didn’t have much choice.

“Your Grace, the young Miss Maygold has arrived. I’ve prepared tea and coffee in the parlor,” Sefton announced, his voice smooth and measured.

Maxwell nodded absentmindedly, his thoughts initially drifting to the rich taste of Sefton's coffee—a small indulgence he often looked forward to. The man could ruin Starbucks with just a single store. He could already smell the lingering scent of roasted chestnuts, but something clicked in his head.

“Miss Maygold is here?” Maxwell asked, surprise breaking through his usual composure. “Wasn’t that rather fast? I thought it would take months.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sefton replied with unwavering calm. “There was a delay because the young miss was reluctant to leave her family home. However, she finally calmed down enough to meet with you.”

Wait, they were trying to get her here sooner? Oh god, poor girl. Well, it’s not like she knows what happened to dear old mom and dad… hopefully. Maxwell swallowed heavily, stood, and smoothed the front of his tailored waistcoat with a nervous hand. “Very well, let’s meet this young miss, shall we?”

They exited the office, the door closing with a soft click behind them. The echo of their footsteps on the marble floor accompanied them down the hallway, a rhythmic sound that matched Maxwell's heartbeat as he mentally prepared for the encounter.

The Parlor was a room designed for receiving renowned guests. It was steeped in rich and vibrant decor, each detail meticulously chosen to reflect the power and wealth of its owner. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the grand tale of the Gravestone family. Heavy burgundy curtains flanked tall windows that invited light from the outside world.

Maxwell’s gaze swept over the room, settling on the figure of a young girl seated on one of the ornate couches. She looked out of place amidst the grandeur, her wide blue eyes darting nervously as they locked onto the men entering the room, doubling in size as she quivered. Her charming blonde hair framed a face as delicate as porcelain, and the white and blue dress she wore added to the image of a tiny fairy caught in a nobleman’s trap.

At least, that was how Maxwell saw it. As he approached, the girl’s eyes locked onto him, her fear palpable. In that moment, Maxwell understood something troubling, a realization that chilled him more than the cool air of the parlor ever could.

I know this girl… “Error Elf,” he mumbled.