...

Household names of nobles often carry the weight of forgotten histories—echoes of legends that shaped the world yet slipped through the cracks of time. In Moorgrel, where noble titles other than Knights were forbidden due to the intricate politics of Mal-Gil, titles became symbols of pride and honor among the select Moorgrelian Knightages. Their significance resonated only within their exclusive circle, a secret language of legacy and lore.

Take Leonandra, for instance. Bestowed by one of the prior Emperors, Leo—Nandra meant happy in an ancient tongue spoken by an exceptional beast-kin whose name history failed to record. It was a sarcastic choice, for Fenrir's battles ended with him brutally slaughtering his enemies, his laughter echoing hauntingly across the battlefield. Legends whispered that the Emperor delighted in these savage combats, spurring him to ascend to a skill's Grandmaster Tier.

Fenrir and his brilliant wife, Aetherfang, received the titles Prime Beastlord and Architect of Warfare, respectively, within Moorgrel. Their names became synonymous with ferocity and tactical genius, a power couple etched into the annals of history.

Close to them was Cold-Snout—a name initially an insult hurled at a Lord from the Leonandra Household who had an affair with a commoner, bringing a bastard into the world. The pup was severely mistreated by the Lady, abused until he could bear it no longer. Breaking away, he vowed such cruelty would never happen again—a new household was born.

Due to certain tendencies and overarching acceptance, the first Cold-Snout Lord, Valric Cold-Snout, built a sprawling harem—now known as the oldest and most stable in history—with strict separations of power between the Lord and his wives. This made it the only household where gender roles were crucial.

After centuries, they gained acceptance. Valric carried the title The Blade of Silent Accord due to his outstanding swordsmanship and rather meek standing within his own household. His first Lady, Evelyne Cold-Snout, led the harem and estate, her unyielding strictness earning her the title The Matron of the Inner Order—a grim designation, especially after rumors of Valric's mistreatment of rape and other forceful conduct circulated beyond their walls.

Nine-Fire emerged from Huxia's fearsome reputation. In her full power, the [Energy] she wielded around her resembled a beautiful flower garden engulfed in a devastating inferno. Her nine tails, each capable of unleashing catastrophic flames, could obliterate entire landscapes. Back then, her [Energy] was a blazing catastrophe, tinged with [Wild Demonic Energy] from her relentless incursions into what was now called Moorgrel.

The earliest titles honored the mistress alone, dubbing her the Mistress of Bloom and Blight, as her flames consumed the masses in a deadly dance of beauty and destruction. On the other hand, the Lord, known only as The Whisper, remained an enigma—his actual name lost to shadows—a master of intelligence and strategy who oversaw the underworld and led countless assassinations.

Silver-Tail separated from Nine-Fire due to Huxia's extensive blood-and-steel approach. The First Lady at the time, Lysenna Silver-Tail, concentrated intensely on diplomacy, expanding economic influence, and pursuing intimate cooperation among all Guard Households.

Their household name played on the human saying silver tongue, initially meant as an insult toward Lysenna's exceptional bargaining skills. She embraced it, earning the title The Argent Arbiter. One of her first retainers and later husband was a poor boy named Kael, seen as cursed for transforming into the wild demonic beings he consumed—once properly groomed, an unstoppable force.

Though he received nobility, acceptance was slow, and slander followed them everywhere. He was dubbed the Tail-Eater, suggesting he would only bring downfall. The offspring with this specific [Divinity Line] gained acknowledgment only after generations. From then on, they embraced the derogatory term out of spite and to honor their humble beginnings.

Heart-Fire was as straightforward as names came. The household of Cerberus produced heirs whose abilities centered on fire and the emotional destabilization of enemies for eons, making the name apt.

Emerging from them were two households. One was Iron-Claw, a haven for heirs seen as faulty due to their [Divinity Line], which prevented them from using [Energy]. They relied solely on immense physical prowess. The name was strikingly literal, and only the Lord or Lady could earn the title of Titan—like the First Lord Eirik Iron-Claw, the only one able to triumph against the three founders of the Guard Households.

The second household that split from Heart-Fire was Feather-Paw. The First Lady became disgusted by Cerberus's conduct, similar to Fenrir's and Huxia's—unconditional eradication that made countless towns and cities vanish, innocent lives snuffed out without mercy. The insurmountable bloodshed broke her.

This First Lady was Althea Feather-Paw, a doctor of immense importance, possessing unbelievably strong healing [Divinity Line] and exquisite non-lethal combat abilities.

One day, during a campaign, she fell in love with a boy—her future husband, Draziel Feather-Paw. He suffered from his own [Divinity Line]—[Wild Demonic Energy] that spawned diseases, often backfiring and causing pain to himself and others.

Althea treated him with compassion, hoping to alleviate his curse. But when Cerberus discovered this, he sought to use Draziel as a weapon. An escalation followed, ending with Althea threatening suicide if they weren't left alone. Granted permission to establish her own household, she devoted herself and her new lineage entirely to medicine, psychology, and charity. She became known as The Hand of Mercy, and he as The Wretch of Pestilence.

Throughout history, many of these titles—derogatory as they might have been—garnered respect as their bearers mastered their exceptional abilities, passing them on beside the nobility. Despite its outstanding talents and Knights, Feather-Paw remained one of the quietest households, and for good reason.

...

The central city of the Feather-Paw household was Coyoteteeth, a vibrant mosaic of life and architecture. Divided into grids and built of bricks, stone, limestone, and wood, it was a wild patchwork of colorful and chaotic structures adorned with arches and pillars. Densely packed and lively, it was a testament to excellent administration and the indomitable spirit of its people.

At the city's heart stood the Feather-Paw estate. Humble compared to others and far less fortified, it possessed an undeniable charm—a fairy tale brought to life with vines sprawling on walls and colorful flowers blooming in every nook.

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In the center was a quaint but endearing garden, home to a white pavilion. The paint flaked slightly to reveal the wood beneath, adding to the provincial allure rather than detracting from it.

Isabella stood in the pavilion, hands clasped behind her back. Her posture was straight and unwavering, her well-groomed tail still, glistening—dressed in a simple yet elegant gown, her golden hair cascaded down her back like a river of sunlight.

Before her sat her father and mother, sipping tea under the gentle warmth. Her younger brother and sister nestled on their laps, giggling as they enjoyed the afternoon treats. The scent of blooming jasmine mingled with the aroma of freshly baked cakes, but the idyllic scene did little to calm the storm brewing within her.

She awaited their answer, her heart pounding like a distant drum. She had expressed her wish with all the compassion and reason she could muster—Alexander had to be supported by all necessary means and, if possible, guided and taught by her.

"Bella, dear, don't be so high-strung," her father's voice was soothing—almost melodic—as he fed a piece of cake to her sister. His sapphire eyes met hers briefly before returning to caress the puppy's cheek, a playful smile on his lips. "We've agreed to the charities and the school, even promising to waive any taxes. If everything runs smoothly, we'll also financially support the boy's endeavors in our fief."

Isabella's eyebrow arched ever so slightly, her ears twitching in irritation. She struggled to maintain her stoic facade, knowing that displaying too much emotion would weaken her position. "Father, you must understand that I do not simply desire the mana skills that the boy will provide me with. While I trust such a gracious person to honor his promise without expecting anything in return, my main reason to join him is that I don't want him to falter in his campaign."

Her mother, still focused on wiping a crumb from her brother's cheek, interjected softly, "Don't believe everything he says, dear. Alex is Scarlet's grandson, and you're aware of that household's eccentricities. I'd prefer to avoid more contact than necessary."

A flicker of frustration crossed Isabella's face. She couldn't fathom such swift judgment, especially when Alexander had proven himself a valuable ally through his actions. 'Is it because of Father?' she wondered, recalling how her father, Pomeran Feather-Paw, had been part of Scarlet's grueling training. Twenty-five years of relentless hardship had left him scarred but also elevated him to rival the Iron-Claw Lord in prowess. Whatever they thought of the Leonandras, their success was undeniable.

Taking a deep breath, she met her father's gaze. "I didn't want to resort to this, but if you don't grant me any support, I'll proceed on my own, taking as many soldiers with me as I can," she declared, her voice steady but laced with a hint of desperation.

Her words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown. She was well within her rights; at twenty-six, with merits and exceptional talents in combat and medicine, she needed no permission and already had an array of loyal subjects to call upon. In two years, after the grand ball in central Mal-Gil, she intended to join Scarlet for training, dedicating thirty years to becoming someone akin to Bartholomew or Marisia. From then on, she would claim a title, whether it was her fief or another—ambitious and unrelenting in pursuing her ideals.

Pomeran set down his teacup with deliberate calmness. His blond hair and prominent coyote ears—marked with nicks and scars—caught the sunlight. But his eyes—those piercing sapphires—sent a chill down her spine. "My dearest daughter," he began, his voice a blend of tension and sweetness, "this family has never regarded friendships as invitations to join bloodbaths."

Isabella responded instantly, "It's not as if we're risking our lives—"

He cut her off, a hint of sarcasm lacing his tone. "I meant, obviously, all the others." Gently setting her sister beside him, he rose and approached her. His aura shifted; something unnaturally sterile and sharp emanated from him, making the very air feel thin. She resisted the urge to step back, her resolve hardening.

"Since the beginning, we've only supported the Count through his brutal campaigns because it was necessary," he continued. "Every human we tore apart, every dwarf we skinned, every elf we beheaded was for survival. But what does he aim to do, tell me, Bella?"

Isabella felt her heartbeat quicken, but she stood her ground. "He saved the refugees the Count mistreated," she replied, her voice unwavering. "Now, he's striving to eliminate a group of hateful enemies by allying with adversaries and distant friends. There's no better way to resolve the ongoing feud and build a future with less bloodshed and fewer orphans."

Was her train of thought cold and calculative? Perhaps. She hated that it had to be, but Alexander was working toward peace and prosperity—less desperation and misery, less poverty and preventable deaths. If a more amicable relationship could be established with the Essence Alliance while bringing the Eros Alliance into the mix, they could reduce suffering and forge a long-lasting pact.

Her father's gaze hardened. "And you believe his path leads to peace?"

"I believe it leads away from senseless slaughter," she retorted. "Isn't that what we've always wanted?"

Her mother sighed softly, finally looking up. Her indomitable purple eyes met Isabella's, the simplicity of her pink hair tied in a ponytail contrasting with the complexity swirling within them. "Bella, your arguments are sound," she conceded, "but what if you're wrong?"

Isabella tilted her head slightly, a strand of golden hair slipping over her shoulder. "What if I'm wrong?" she echoed. "What if he intends to continue conquering and eradicating more?"

She felt a twitch at the corner of her mouth, a strange thrill bubbling up inside her—something deep down wished for him to do so, to make their ideals a reality through sheer force. Before she could suppress it, her father was suddenly in front of her, his finger pressing lightly against her lips. "That crazed smile," he murmured, concern etched in his features.

She blinked, realizing too late that her facade had cracked. She wanted to stop it, but her father suppressed her [Energy], forcing her to hold onto that expression. A flush crept up her neck as he continued—his tone gentle but firm. "You were barely ready back then to join the southern excursion, and you're less ready now."

He withdrew his finger, and she stepped back, regaining her composure. 'Damn it,' she cursed inwardly. The [Divinity Line] coursing through her—[Wild Demonic Energy]—was seen as a curse within their household, the emergence of a beast thirsting for blood. Unlike other Guard Households that celebrated such inheritances—Feather-Paw regarded it with dread.

She glanced between her parents, reading the resolve in their expressions. It was clear they wouldn't offer the support she sought. 'Great... now I have to approach Alex on my own,' she mused, frustration and determination warring within her.

She had delved deep into Alex's projects—the charities, the schools, the progress he had made. He embodied all the traits her family valued, what she valued, coupled with the fierce stubbornness of the Leonandras—a perfect combination, in her eyes. She would undoubtedly pursue him if he weren't already engaged or a Cold-Snout.

However, there was a little problem—literally—Alexander was still young and could be easily influenced. Letting the more unscrupulous members of other households encircle him could exploit his opinions and mindset, something she couldn't allow. He was perfect as he was.

Taking a deliberate step backward, she made her decision. If Alexander failed or wasn't properly guided, he might become the new Nightmare—a bloodthirsty beast without mercy. If he stayed the same, it would be a triumph for Moorgrel as a whole. But what if he had even more potential to become something greater? A benevolent force for good? She could make it happen by protecting such genius from tarnish and pushing him onto a path that brought peace.

As she turned to leave, a sudden sting pierced her back. Her body went numb, sensations slipping away like water through her fingers. 'What...?' Confusion clouded her mind as darkness edged into her vision. She tried to reach out, but her limbs wouldn't respond.

The last thing she heard was her mother's voice, soft and sorrowful. "I'm sorry, dear, but we cannot allow you to support a bloodthirsty beast..."

The world faded, leaving only the lingering scent of jasmine and the distant echoes of her siblings' worried voices.