Empress Serkai sat upon the ceremonial throne in the grand public hall, its obsidian inlay pulsing faintly with a deep, rhythmic glow, a living symbol of the Empire’s fusion of magic and technology. The throne itself was a masterpiece, carved from a single slab of black crystal veined with streaks of gold that shimmered softly in the ambient light. Encased within its armrests were slender conduits of energy, their faint hum barely perceptible but resonating with the steady power of the palace's vast magical grid.
The throne room was a place of awe and intimidation, a calculated display of the Empire’s grandeur. Towering crystalline columns stretched upward, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed in time with the energy flows around the room. The high vaulted ceilings formed a latticework of light and shadow, the intricate patterns shifting as the glow of the floating orbs above ebbed and surged like celestial bodies in a slow, cosmic dance.
Beneath her feet, the polished obsidian floor gleamed like a starless night, its flawless surface broken only by thin lines of energy coursing through engraved channels, the blue-white glow tracing the shape of ancient glyphs. These lines converged at the dais, where Serkai’s throne sat elevated, commanding the space with quiet dominance. Along the walls, silver panels inscribed with fine patterns of Umbralumaran script occasionally shimmered, responding to unseen commands from the palace's networked systems.
Today, however, Serkai’s sharp gaze was not fixed on the throne’s luminous panels or the intricate glyphs shimmering around her. Her focus was far from the carefully maintained pageantry of power.
Alden Fairwood had requested a formal audience.
The attendants charged with his care had been nearly breathless in their accounts of his transformation. A drastic and startling change, they had said, one that defied the boy’s recent state of listlessness and grief. Serkai’s first instinct had been to summon him privately, to judge this change for herself, to gauge his readiness for public scrutiny. But the formality of his request—and the precise adherence to the proper channels—left her wary. Such a move spoke of intent, perhaps even strategy.
She had onlly known Alden for the first few years of his life. Lucian, for all his eccentricities, had his family removed from the palace and the politics of court life when Alden turned five. The Duke’s reputation for power and prestige had shielded him from the ever-snarling "ankle-biters" of the nobility, but that would not protect Alden now. How much had Alden inherited of his father’s knowledge or cunning? And, more troublingly, how much might he have absorbed from some outside influence?
The boy had barely regained consciousness three months ago, but had been a hollow shell utill 2 days ago. Could he truly have recovered so completely? Or was there someone behind him, using his name as a tool to advance their own agenda?
Serkai’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the armrest of the throne. If Alden was a puppet—whether willingly or otherwise—she would expose it. Even if it meant shattering him in front of the assembled nobles, even if it meant a confrontation that would leave scars. The court’s murmurings were already reaching a fever pitch, their curiosity sharpened by the mystery surrounding the young Duke’s unprecedented request.
She sighed inwardly. The thought of being harsh with a boy still recovering brought her no joy. Yet she could not afford weakness, not here, not now.
***
Alden’s footsteps echoed sharply against the polished stone floor as he strode toward the grand doors of the throne room. Each step was deliberate, his stride confident, his resolve solidifying with every pace.
Beside him, Marla, the attendant who had been assigned to his care, hovered nervously. She clutched the edge of her apron with one hand, the other darting forward occasionally to fuss over his attire. “Your collar, Your Grace—it’s just slightly crooked. There, let me fix it.” Her fingers deftly adjusted the fabric, smoothing it until it was flawless.
“Thank you, Marla,” Alden said evenly, his tone patient despite the subtle distraction.
The words he had spoken to the Marla two days prior still echoed in his mind, startling even in memory. It had been a bold declaration, almost foreign to his ears, yet it had felt undeniably right.
She stepped back for a moment but then seemed to reconsider, her brow furrowing. “And your cuffs—are they too tight? Do you feel comfortable? You shouldn’t feel constrained, not when—”
“Marla,” Alden interrupted gently, his green eyes meeting hers. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” His words were calm, but there was an unmistakable firmness in them, a quiet authority she hadn’t heard from him before.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he intended to achieve in this audience, but he felt the fire of purpose burning within him. Lysandra and Vaelus were gone—their whispers of guidance silenced—but their essence lingered in him, carved into the black and white etchings that spiraled along his right arm and peaked below the cuff Marla had just been fussing about. They showed above his collar too, running up his neck to just below the jaw line. With no way to hide them, Marla had selected a black and white ensemble that accentuated them.
Marla hesitated, her gaze darting from his face to his attire, as though searching for some imperfection. “I just want you to look your best, Your Grace. You’ll be standing before the Empress, and the court—well, they can be...” She trailed off, wringing her hands.
Alden allowed a faint smile to touch his lips, a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise composed demeanor. “I know. And I appreciate it. Truly.”
The ache that he hadn’t even known haunted him since that night at Fairwood Manor had vanished when he found the will to move forward. More than vanished, it had been replaced by something that felt almost… alive. It wasn’t restorative magic in the conventional sense; Alden knew enough to recognize that. It was something deeper, something tied to the knowledge and instincts that now surged to the forefront of his mind.
Marla nodded, though her hands still hovered uncertainly near the hem of her apron. She followed him as he resumed his measured stride, her concern radiated in every gesture, her anxious presence both endearing and a reminder of the weight of expectation that hung over him. Alden tolerated it, understanding that her fussing came from a genuine desire to see him succeed.
In the brief two days since his request, Alden had thrown himself into action. He had combed through the paperwork and decisions made in his name as the new Duke of Fairwood, adjusting and rewriting as necessary. Most matters had been handled well enough by the stewards, but a few required his correction. He had canceled the budgeting for the manor’s rebuilding outright. What would become of Veilwood and its ruins, he didn’t yet know, but until he decided, it would remain untouched save for the investigators.
The tact and knowledge he wielded seemed far beyond his years, far beyond what he had learned during his father’s isolating tutelage. Vaelus had once told him, “My knowledge is yours now,” and it was true. The insights he had once begged from Vaelus now came unbidden, summoned with a mere thought. And Lysandra—she was there, too. Not as a voice, but as a subtle touch in his perception of others: the way their words bent under pressure, the faint shifts in their expressions, the unspoken emotions behind their politeness.
Alden had wielded both gifts over the past two days, testing their limits and growing more confident with each passing hour. And now, as the great doors to the throne room swung open, he intended to push them further.
As they neared the towering double doors of the throne room, Marla slowed, her footsteps faltering. “Your Grace,” she began hesitantly, “are you sure you’re ready? I mean, I know you’ve been preparing, but this is…” She gestured vaguely toward the doors, her voice tinged with nervousness. “You’re still just a boy,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “They’ll see that, no matter how determined you look.”
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Alden tilted his head slightly, a faint smile flickering across his lips. “Maybe they will,” he said. “But I think they’ll see something else, too.”
Marla’s lips pressed into a thin line, her nervous energy keeping her rooted in place. She wrung her hands again, her unease palpable.
Alden adjusted his sleeves one final time, then reached out to place a hand lightly on her elbow. “Thank you, Marla. For everything.”
Her eyes widened slightly at the gesture, and she opened her mouth to respond, but he gently cut her off.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Wait here for me.”
Marla blinked, clearly caught off guard, but after a moment, she nodded. “Of course, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Alden turned toward the towering doors of the throne room, the golden light spilling through the crack where the attendants were already beginning to push them open. But just before he stepped forward, he stopped and glanced back at her.
“Marla,” he said, his voice softer now, the faintest trace of vulnerability breaking through his calm exterior. “Wait for me?”
Her throat tightened as she nodded, her hands clasping tightly in front of her.
He stepped through the threshold, his figure framed by the morning light streaming through the tall windows behind him. The court’s murmuring hushed instantly, their gazes locking onto the young Duke. Alden felt the weight of their scrutiny, but he did not falter. His shoulders were squared, his chin held high, his green eyes sharp and unyielding.
As he moved toward the throne where Empress Serkai waited, Alden let the heat of their stares wash over him like fire. It did not burn; it steeled him.
Alden’s footsteps rang against the polished obsidian floor of the throne room as he crossed the expanse with deliberate precision. The towering columns and vaulted ceiling seemed designed to dwarf those who entered, but Alden walked with unyielding purpose. Each step was calculated, his stride steady, his shoulders squared.
Vaelus’s voice, not as a sound but as a memory, guided him in every detail. Dukes may approach no closer than ten paces from the throne unless summoned. Your bow must be deep, but you do not kneel—your station forbids it. Make your words measured, your tone steady.
When Alden reached the base of the dais, he halted precisely at the correct distance, his movements deliberate. He inclined his head in a deep, respectful bow, holding the gesture for a moment before straightening.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” he began, his voice calm, carrying across the room with quiet authority. “Duke Alden Fairwood requests the honor of addressing you.”
The court’s murmurs fell into a tense silence, the gathered nobles and ministers turning their gazes to the young Duke. Alden stood resolute, his green eyes fixed on Serkai’s sharp blue gaze. The silence stretched for a moment before Serkai spoke, her tone neutral yet threaded with curiosity.
“Duke Fairwood,” she said, her gaze lingering on him. “It is good to see you standing before us, restored to health. We were greatly concerned for your recovery.”
Alden inclined his head again, his expression calm, but Lysandra’s lingering instincts within him caught the faint undercurrent beneath her words. The Empress’s formality was required by the setting, but Alden could feel her genuine care behind the veil. A soft warmth, like sunlight breaking through a frost, touched his response.
“Your Majesty, I am deeply grateful for the care and protection you extended to me in my time of need,” he said, his voice softening just enough to acknowledge her compassion. “Without it, I would not be here today.” He allowed the faintest flicker of emotion to surface, sincere but contained. “Your generosity has not gone unnoticed, nor will it be forgotten.”
A subtle ripple passed through the court. Alden could feel the tension in the air, the faint irritation radiating from a few nobles who stood near the edges of the room. Lysandra’s empathy sharpened his perception further. They see me as a child, unworthy of the title I hold. Some of them would rather see my name stripped from the records.
Serkai’s expression remained carefully neutral, though her gaze seemed to assess every word and movement. “It is our duty to care for all within the Empire, most of all those who have suffered such loss,” she said evenly. “Your return to strength is a credit to your resolve.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Alden replied, his tone steady, but his words deliberate. Vaelus’s guidance surged forward, a reminder of the weight of this moment. Acknowledge your loss without diminishing your strength. Let them see neither brokenness nor arrogance.
“I have spent the past weeks reflecting on that loss,” Alden continued, his voice firm but measured, “and the responsibilities it has left me with. It is those responsibilities that bring me here today.”
The Empress tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharpening. “And what responsibilities compel such a formal request for audience, Duke Fairwood?”
Alden held her gaze, allowing a brief pause for his words to settle. He could feel the court watching him, their skepticism sharp, their curiosity palpable. He spoke with precision.
“To safeguard the legacy of my house,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of resolve, “to serve the Empire faithfully as my parents did before me, and to address matters that require the attention of the throne itself.”
A faint murmur swept through the gathered nobles. Alden caught a flicker of doubt in their faces, their dissatisfaction like faint ripples on a still pond. Lysandra’s insight allowed him to catch the faint tightening of jaws, the subtle glances exchanged. Some believe I am overstepping. Others wonder if I’m a pawn. Let them wonder.
Serkai regarded him in silence, her expression unreadable. Then she spoke, her tone steady. “Speak plainly, Duke Fairwood. What is it you wish to address?”
Alden straightened slightly, letting the moment stretch for just a heartbeat. “I would request a private audience with Your Majesty,” he said, his voice calm yet firm. “As is my right by title and station.”
The silence that followed was heavy, fractured only by the sudden, sharp intake of breath from one of the ministers.
“Your right?” Minister Darsen’s voice cracked through the room like a whip, shattering the quiet. He stepped forward, his robes swishing sharply, his face flushed with indignation. “You insolent—” He caught himself just short of profanity, his fists clenching at his sides. “This is no backwater estate, boy! You do not make demands of the Empress as though she were a village magistrate! You will know your—”
Serkai’s lips parted, the faintest narrowing of her eyes signaling her intent to intervene, but Alden’s voice cut through before she could speak.
“Minister Darsen,” Alden snapped, his tone razor-sharp and laced with a weight that seemed to press against the room itself. The weight of it struck like a physical force, silencing not just Darsen, but the entire room. Alden turned and took a step toward the minister, his green eyes locking onto Darsen’s with a cold, unrelenting intensity.
“I am Duke Alden Fairwood,” he continued, his words deliberate and biting. “I hold the title of my house, a title given not by your approval, but by the law and the bloodline of my family. My father, Duke Lucian Fairwood, died in service to this Empire. My mother gave her life for this Empire. And you dare to interrupt me in my petition to the Empress?”
The nobles shifted uncomfortably, glancing at each other with unease. The wards embedded in the walls remained inert, but the air itself seemed to hum with an unspoken power. Alden’s voice was not laced with power—not in any way that could be quantified—but it struck nonetheless, resonating with a force that pressed against the bones of everyone in the room.
“If you think I am a child unworthy of my title,” Alden continued, his tone colder now, “then take it from me. Petition this court to strip me of my Dukedom. But know this, Minister.” He paused, his words falling like stones in the silence. “You will have to pry it from my lifeless hands. And if you fail, you will never rise again.”
Darsen’s mouth worked soundlessly, his face pale and his hands trembling slightly at his sides. The pressure in the room remained oppressive, the stillness deafening.
Alden turned his gaze to the assembled nobles, letting it sweep across the room. “I am here to address the Empress as is my right by title,” he said, his voice steady once more. “If anyone else wishes to question my station or my intent, step forward now.”
No one moved.
Satisfied, Alden turned back to Serkai and inclined his head again, the tension in the room breaking as the weight of his presence seemed to lessen. The Empress worked hard to conceal the smirk that had been forming since Alden had verbally lashed the minister. Worry sat in the pit of her stomach that the boy was still being coached, but if he could pull off this performance, then perhaps whoever held his strings was not a threat.
“Your Majesty,” he said, his tone respectful but firm, “I await your decision.”
Serkai studied him in silence, her sharp gaze searching his face for any hint of deception or weakness. The court remained frozen, every noble holding their breath as they waited for her response.
At last, she rose from the throne, her crimson coat trailing behind her like a living flame. “Duke Fairwood,” she said, her voice carrying the cool authority that silenced the hall completely. “I grant your request for a private audience. The court is dismissed.”
The gathered nobles hesitated for a heartbeat before moving to obey, their murmurs subdued as they filed out of the room. Minister Darsen lingered for a moment, his face ashen, but one sharp look from Serkai sent him retreating with the rest.
When the heavy doors closed, sealing the two of them in the vast throne room, Serkai descended the dais. She stopped a few paces from Alden, her piercing gaze fixed on him.
“You have my attention, Alden,” she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. “Now tell me—what is it you wish to say?”