The sound of thunder rolled across the battlefield, but it wasn’t from the sky—it was the relentless roar of cannon fire. Smoke hung thick over the fields of Waterloo, obscuring the once-brilliant green hills now churned into mud by the marching of thousands of feet. The acrid stench of gunpowder filled the air, mingling with the cries of the wounded and dying.
Caelan stood amidst it all, though his presence felt weightless, detached. He was not truly there—not in the way the soldiers were. It was as if he were watching through the eyes of a phantom, an observer bound to relive the carnage of that day.
Before him, his past self—Napoleon Bonaparte—stood atop a slight rise, his greatcoat billowing in the wind. The once-proud emperor’s face was etched with the weariness of a man who had fought too many battles. His sharp gaze, however, betrayed no surrender. Commands flew from his lips, carried by aides-de-camp who rode off into the chaos below.
It was a scene Caelan knew intimately, every detail seared into his memory. He had read about it, studied it, and, in his previous life, lived it. The Battle of Waterloo. The turning point that ended his empire and shattered his dreams.
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The battle unfolded before him with a horrifying clarity.
French columns surged forward, their banners snapping in the wind. They advanced against British and Prussian forces entrenched on higher ground. At first, the soldiers moved with discipline, their muskets firing in coordinated volleys. But then the tide shifted.
From the far flank, the Prussian forces—Blücher’s men—arrived in force. They poured down onto the battlefield like an unstoppable flood, smashing into the French lines. Chaos erupted.
The orderly columns dissolved into panicked knots of men, many breaking ranks and fleeing. Artillery was overrun, the great cannons that had once been the pride of Napoleon’s army silenced. French cavalry charges failed to break the British squares, the disciplined rows of red-coated infantry holding firm like walls of steel and bayonets.
Caelan felt the despair seeping into him as he observed his past self from a distance. Napoleon, seated atop his horse, was still barking orders, his voice commanding yet desperate. It was clear to anyone watching: the battle was lost.
“No…” Caelan muttered, though no one could hear him. His hands clenched into fists as he watched the inevitable unfold. He wanted to shout, to warn his past self to retreat, to salvage what he could—but the dream held him mute and powerless.
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As the battle drew toward its grim conclusion, the perspective shifted.
Napoleon now sat in his field tent, his once-brilliant uniform sullied by dirt and sweat. His hat rested on the table beside him, untouched. His posture was slouched, his head bowed, and his hands rested limply on his thighs.
Caelan stood outside the tent, watching from the shadows as the scene played out. The sound of battle still rumbled in the distance, but it was growing fainter.
Inside the tent, Napoleon raised his head slowly. His face, weary and lined with defeat, turned toward Caelan.
Though it was impossible, the gaze of his past self met his own. The dream took on a surreal, otherworldly quality as Napoleon’s dark eyes locked onto Caelan. They seemed to pierce through the veil of time and existence itself.
“You will face the same,” Napoleon said, his voice a low growl that echoed unnaturally. “Betrayal. Resistance. The weight of your own ambition.”
Before Caelan could react, the scene changed.
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The damp walls of a room replaced the battlefield tent. St. Helena.
Napoleon lay on his deathbed, his face pale and gaunt, his breathing labored. The room was sparse, the once-proud emperor reduced to a prisoner of history.
Yet his eyes still burned with a strange intensity as they turned once more toward Caelan. The words came again, weaker now, but still clear.
“Beware,” Napoleon rasped. “Beware the cost of your dreams. You may escape my fate—but only if you learn from it.”
The sound of his breathing grew shallower, the rise and fall of his chest slowing. His gaze lingered on Caelan for what felt like an eternity before the light faded from his eyes.
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Caelan jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat upright in bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his eyes darted around the room.
The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting faint shadows across the furniture. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, and his hands trembled slightly as he ran them through his hair.
It was just a dream, he told himself, though the vividness of it lingered in his mind like a specter.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the cool floor as he tried to steady his breathing. His gaze fell to the clock on the bedside table. Midnight. There were still hours before dawn.
Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. The memory of the dream replayed in his mind—the despair of the battlefield, the weight of his past self’s gaze, the warning spoken from the deathbed.
“What does it mean?” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room.
Doubt crept into his thoughts like a shadow. Was he repeating the same mistakes? Was his ambition leading him down the same path of ruin?
He shook his head sharply, banishing the thoughts. “No,” he said aloud, his voice firmer this time. “This is different. I will not make the same mistakes. I will not fail.”
The words felt hollow, but he clung to them as a lifeline. Standing, he moved to the window, gazing out at the darkened estate. The dream unsettled him, yes, but it would not deter him.
“I’ll learn,” he said softly, his reflection faintly visible in the glass. “I’ll do what I must to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”
With that, he returned to bed, though sleep did not come easily. The clock ticked steadily in the background as his mind churned with thoughts of the dream and the days ahead. Whatever challenges awaited him, he resolved to face them with unyielding determination.
The mistakes of the past would not define him—of that, he was certain.
A soft knock at the door stirred Caelan from his dreams. His eyes blinked open slowly, the dim haze of sleep still clouding his mind. He groggily turned his head toward the bedside clock, its hands clearly showing it was well past 8 a.m.
His brows furrowed as realization dawned. I overslept, he thought. It was unlike him to let his guard down so much, especially given the weight of his ambitions and the events that had unfolded the day prior. Yet, after that unsettling dream and the hours spent tossing and turning, it seemed his body had finally succumbed to exhaustion.
The knock came again, soft yet insistent. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his tousled hair before calling out, his voice slightly hoarse, “Enter.”
The door creaked open on cue, and in stepped a young woman dressed in the crisp uniform of the household staff. She carried herself with a practiced grace, and as she stepped into the morning light filtering through the windows, Caelan immediately recognized her as the same maid he had seen upon first waking in this new world.
Her auburn hair was tied back neatly, and her bright, attentive eyes carried a warm sincerity that softened the sharpness of his early morning grogginess. Despite this familiarity, however, Caelan couldn’t, for the life of him, recall her name.
The maid curtsied, her voice soft but clear. “Good morning, my lord. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but Lady Émilie, your mother, has requested your presence.”
Caelan nodded slowly, his mind shaking off the remnants of sleep. “Where is she now?” he asked, his voice steadier as he stretched and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“She is in the conservatory, my lord,” the maid replied, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “She has a guest with her.”
This caught Caelan’s attention. “A guest?” he asked, tilting his head. “Who might that be?”
The maid hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t know, my lord. I was sent to fetch you before the guest arrived. However, I did notice the carriage bore the royal family’s seal.”
At that, Caelan’s eyes narrowed slightly. A visitor from the royal family? His mind immediately began running through possibilities. The king himself was unlikely to travel so far for a simple visit, especially without prior notice. That left someone else—perhaps a member of the royal court, or even one of the king’s children.
The timing seemed suspicious. The eastern lords were clearly stirring, and tensions were bubbling beneath the surface of the kingdom’s politics. Could this visit have something to do with the shifting tides of power? Or was it merely a coincidence?
Pushing the thought aside for the moment, Caelan gave a brief nod. “Inform my mother that I’ll be there shortly. I’ll need a moment to get dressed.”
The maid curtsied again. “Of course, my lord.” She turned to leave but paused as she reached the door.
Caelan’s voice stopped her. “Wait.”
She turned back, her expression curious yet polite.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with genuine interest.
The maid’s lips curved into a small, shy smile. “Elise, my lord.”
“Elise,” he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue. It suited her—elegant in its simplicity, yet carrying a quiet strength. He nodded again. “Thank you, Elise.”
Her smile widened slightly at his acknowledgment. “You’re most welcome, my lord,” she replied softly before turning and slipping out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Caelan sat still for a moment, staring at the door. Something about her presence lingered in his mind—a sense of familiarity he couldn’t quite place. Shaking off the thought, he rose to his feet and began dressing for the day. Whatever awaited him in the conservatory, he would meet it head-on, as always.
Caelan moved to the basin by the corner of the room, splashing cool water on his face to chase away the remnants of sleep. The sensation shocked his senses awake, and as he grabbed a towel to dry off, his mind wandered back to the royal seal Elise had mentioned. A guest from the royal family? It could mean many things. Rarely did the crown involve itself directly in matters of his family’s duchy unless there was something significant at play.
Once his face was dry, Caelan ran a comb through his dark hair, smoothing out the disheveled mess from the restless night. He slipped into a clean shirt and tailored jacket, ensuring his appearance was polished—royal visitors, no matter their rank, expected a degree of formality. His mind raced with possibilities as he buttoned his jacket, wondering who had arrived and why. Was this guest connected to the murmurs of unrest in the east? Or was it something closer to home?
I’ll know soon enough, he thought, giving himself a final look in the mirror before stepping out of his room.
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The corridors of the Forneaux estate were alive with the soft hum of morning activity. Servants moved quietly, tending to their duties with practiced efficiency. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting patterns of light and shadow across the polished wooden floors.
Caelan’s boots echoed faintly as he made his way toward the conservatory, his stride deliberate but unhurried. He passed through the hallways that had become so familiar to him since his arrival in this world, but his thoughts lingered on the dream from the night before. The warning from Napoleon—his past self—still clung to the edges of his mind, an uncomfortable reminder of the stakes he faced.
He descended the main staircase, his sharp eyes noting a few servants bowing slightly as he passed. Though he acknowledged them with a brief nod, his focus remained on his destination. As he reached the ground floor, he crossed the marble-floored atrium and turned toward the east wing, where the conservatory awaited.
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The conservatory was a grand space, designed to showcase the estate’s splendor while offering a serene retreat. The glass ceiling arched high overhead, allowing sunlight to pour in and bathe the room in a warm glow. Exotic plants and flowers from across the duchy lined the walls, their vibrant colors and subtle fragrances creating an atmosphere of quiet sophistication.
Lady Émilie de Forneaux sat at a small table near the center of the room, her elegant posture a reflection of her noble upbringing. Her long dark hair was coiled into an intricate braid, and her emerald green dress, accented with gold embroidery, spoke of her refined taste. Despite her composed exterior, there was an alertness in her eyes as she sipped delicately from a porcelain teacup.
Seated across from her was a figure whose back was turned to Caelan as he entered. The guest wore a finely tailored coat, the dark fabric accented with gold trim and a high collar that hinted at wealth and status. Beside the table, a servant stood silently, their presence a testament to the formality of the visit.
Caelan stopped just short of the table, clearing his throat softly to announce his presence. Both his mother and the guest turned to look at him.
“Ah, Caelan,” Émilie said, a warm smile gracing her lips. “There you are. I was beginning to think I’d have to send Elise up again.”
Caelan inclined his head politely, his gaze flickering briefly to the guest. “Good morning, Mother. You sent for me?”
“Yes,” she replied, setting her teacup down gently. “We have a visitor. I thought it important for you to join us.”
The guest stood, turning to face Caelan fully. As they did, the golden crest pinned to their chest came into view—a stylized crown encircled by laurels. It was unmistakably the symbol of the royal family.
The man was Lord Edric de Montclaire, one of the King’s closest advisors and a well-known figure in the royal court. His neatly trimmed beard and piercing blue eyes gave him an air of both authority and charm.
“Lord Caelan,” Edric said, offering a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Your reputation precedes you.”
Caelan returned the bow, his expression carefully neutral. “Lord Edric. The pleasure is mine. Though I must admit, I wasn’t expecting a visit from someone of your stature.”
Edric chuckled lightly, his tone amiable but measured. “The affairs of the crown often require discretion, Lord Caelan. I hope my presence hasn’t caused too much alarm.”
“Not at all,” Caelan replied, taking a seat at his mother’s gesture. “Though I’m curious as to the purpose of your visit.”
Émilie gave Edric a brief glance, her expression unreadable. Edric, however, leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped loosely on the table.
“My visit concerns matters of both politics and opportunity,” he began. “The King has taken an interest in the developments within your duchy—particularly the reforms you’ve been implementing.”
Caelan’s posture stiffened ever so slightly, though he maintained his calm demeanor. “I wasn’t aware my actions had reached the court’s ears so quickly.”
Edric’s smile widened. “The royal court has eyes and ears everywhere, my lord. Your efforts to modernize the military and your ambitions for the western port have drawn notice—not just from the crown, but from others as well.”
Caelan’s mind worked quickly, parsing the implications of Edric’s words. He had expected some level of attention from the court, but for someone like Edric to visit personally meant there was more at play than simple curiosity.
“I’m sure the King’s interest is flattering,” Caelan said, choosing his words carefully. “But I must wonder—what is it you seek to gain from this visit?”
Edric chuckled again, though there was a glint of sharpness in his eyes. “Straight to the point. I can see why they speak of your pragmatism.”
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. “The crown seeks stability, Lord Caelan. In times of change, it is those who act decisively that shape the future. The King wishes to ensure that your actions align with the interests of the realm.”
“And if they don’t?” Caelan asked, his tone steady but with an edge of defiance.
“Then,” Edric replied smoothly, “we’ll have a more difficult conversation. But for now, I’ve come as an ally, not an adversary. The question is—do you wish to ensure the same?”
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The conversation hung in the air, Émilie watching silently as Caelan weighed his response. The game had begun, and the stakes were higher than ever.
Caelan’s fingers tapped lightly against the polished surface of the table as he held Edric’s gaze. He recognized the delicate game being played here—one of subtlety and unspoken threats veiled behind cordial smiles. The crown was testing him, probing for weaknesses, and he could ill afford to appear combative or defiant, not at this stage.
“Of course,” Caelan said, his tone smooth and composed. “The stability of the realm is paramount. My actions have always been undertaken with that in mind. If the King has concerns, I would be more than happy to address them.”
Edric’s smile deepened, his sharp eyes studying Caelan intently. “It’s refreshing to see someone so willing to cooperate. Far too often, we encounter nobles who are... let’s say, resistant to the broader interests of the crown.”
Caelan inclined his head, choosing his next words carefully. “Resistance often stems from misunderstanding, Lord Edric. My reforms are not meant to challenge the balance of power but to strengthen our duchy’s position within the kingdom. A strong Forneaux duchy means a stronger Frankia overall.”
“An admirable sentiment,” Edric replied, his voice calm yet carrying a note of calculated curiosity. “And I trust that your ambitions are as noble as you present them. But as you know, ambition can be a double-edged sword. The crown merely wishes to ensure that such ambition does not... grow beyond its proper place.”
The warning beneath Edric’s words was unmistakable, but Caelan refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned back slightly, offering a polite smile. “The crown’s wisdom in guiding the realm is something I hold in the highest regard. My focus remains solely on strengthening my family’s lands and fulfilling my duties as heir.”
Lady Émilie, who had remained quiet until now, interjected with a voice as smooth as silk. “My son has taken to his responsibilities with great diligence, Lord Edric. I assure you, everything he does is in service to our duchy—and, by extension, the crown.”
Edric shifted his attention briefly to Émilie, nodding in acknowledgment. “It is always reassuring to see noble families committed to the prosperity of the kingdom. The King values such loyalty, especially in these uncertain times.”
Caelan resisted the urge to press for specifics about the “uncertain times.” He understood that Edric’s visit was as much about information-gathering as it was about delivering the crown’s veiled message. Pushing too hard for answers now could be seen as suspicious—or worse, ambitious in the way the crown feared.
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After a brief pause, Caelan spoke again, keeping his tone steady. “May I ask, Lord Edric, if the crown has any specific concerns regarding our duchy? Or is this visit more of a... preliminary discussion?”
Edric’s smile thinned slightly, though his demeanor remained polite. “You might say it is both, Lord Caelan. The crown is keeping a close watch on all regions of the kingdom, particularly those where significant change is underway. Your military reforms and plans for the western port are of particular interest.”
Caelan nodded slowly, his mind racing. The military reforms were obvious—any movement to strengthen an army would naturally draw the crown’s attention. But the western port? That was still in its infancy, barely more than an idea on parchment. The fact that the crown already knew of it was both impressive and unsettling.
“I see,” Caelan said carefully. “I hope that the crown sees our efforts not as a threat but as an opportunity. A more modernized military will ensure that the duchy can better fulfill its obligations to the realm. As for the port, its purpose is to increase trade and prosperity—not just for Forneaux, but for the kingdom as a whole.”
Edric steepled his fingers, leaning forward slightly. “A most agreeable perspective. However, any significant naval development inevitably draws questions—after all, such projects require not only resources but also strategic intent. A fortified port could be seen as a defensive measure... or as something more.”
“The sea is both a shield and a gateway, Lord Edric,” Caelan replied smoothly. “Fortifying it ensures the safety of trade routes and protects against potential threats. My father and I both understand the importance of keeping the western coast secure.”
Émilie added, her voice gentle yet firm, “You’ll find no disloyalty here, Lord Edric. Our family has always served the crown faithfully, and that will not change.”
Edric inclined his head, satisfied—for now. “Faithful service is what strengthens the bonds between the crown and its lords. I will, of course, relay your assurances to His Majesty.”
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The conversation turned briefly to more benign topics—updates on trade conditions and the current political climate in the capital. Despite the shift, Caelan remained vigilant, his mind dissecting every word Edric said for hidden meaning. The visit was less a courtesy call and more of a reconnaissance mission on behalf of the crown. The King—or at least his advisors—was clearly testing the waters.
Eventually, Edric stood, signaling the end of the discussion. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Émilie. Lord Caelan, it has been a pleasure speaking with you. I look forward to seeing how your plans unfold in the coming months.”
“As do I,” Caelan replied, rising to his feet and offering a polite bow. “Please convey our respects to His Majesty.”
“I shall,” Edric said with a faint smile, adjusting the collar of his coat. “Until next time.”
Émilie escorted Edric to the door, leaving Caelan alone in the conservatory for a moment. He stood still, his thoughts swirling. The visit had gone well enough—Edric hadn’t pressed too hard, and Caelan had avoided giving away too much. Still, the warning was clear: the crown was watching, and any misstep could bring their wrath down on the duchy.
When Émilie returned, her expression betrayed none of the unease Caelan felt. “He seemed pleased enough,” she said lightly, taking a seat.
“For now,” Caelan replied. “But we both know that was a test.”
Émilie nodded, her gaze sharp. “You handled it well. But tread carefully, my son. The crown’s favor is as fleeting as the wind.”
Caelan nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Don’t worry, Mother. I have no intention of challenging the wind—not yet, anyway.”
With that, he straightened his jacket and left the conservatory, his mind already turning to the next steps in his ever-growing plans.
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Caelan’s boots echoed softly against the tiled floor as he made his way through the long hallways of the Forneaux estate. The conversation with Lord Edric still lingered in his mind, though he was determined not to dwell on it for too long. I passed the test for now, he thought, but he knew the crown’s attention was not easily shaken once it settled on a target. The road ahead would demand more careful maneuvering than ever before.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
As his thoughts churned, a low growl interrupted them—a sharp reminder that he had neglected one crucial aspect of his morning routine. He hadn’t eaten. Between the unsettling dream, oversleeping, and the meeting, breakfast had completely slipped his mind.
He exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. What use is an empire-builder if he can’t even keep himself fed? he mused wryly. Now was as good a time as any to remedy that.
Changing direction, he turned toward the dining hall. Along the way, he flagged down a passing servant and issued quick instructions.
“Have someone prepare the carriage,” he said firmly. “I’ll need it ready shortly after breakfast. And call for Lucien—I’ll need him to accompany me.”
The servant bowed quickly. “At once, my lord,” they replied, hurrying off to carry out the orders.
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When Caelan stepped into the dining hall, the scent of fresh bread and morning coffee hung in the air. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, bathing the room in a golden glow. His eyes immediately landed on a familiar figure seated at the far end of the table.
Juliette, his younger sister, sat with her legs crossed delicately beneath her chair, a cup of steaming tea cradled in her hands. Her auburn hair, strikingly similar to Elise’s, was swept into a neat braid that trailed over her shoulder. She wore a light blue dress with subtle silver embroidery, and her expression was one of relaxed poise as she waited for her meal to arrive.
At the sound of his entrance, Juliette glanced up, her sharp green eyes locking onto him. A smile spread across her lips.
“Good morning, brother,” she said, her tone light but tinged with amusement. “I was beginning to think you’d stay hidden in your room all day.”
“Good morning, Juliette,” Caelan replied, a faint smile playing on his lips as he approached the table. “I’m afraid duty kept me occupied.”
“Duty, of course,” she said, gesturing to the seat opposite her. “Come, sit. You might as well join me before you collapse from hunger.”
Caelan chuckled softly, taking the offered seat as he waved to one of the maids stationed nearby. “Bring me whatever is ready—something light,” he said. “And coffee, if it’s fresh.”
The maid curtsied quickly. “Yes, my lord,” she said before hurrying off to the kitchen.
As the maid disappeared through the side door, Caelan turned his attention back to Juliette, leaning back in his chair slightly. “And what about you?” he asked. “How are you finding your new position? I trust it hasn’t been too overwhelming.”
Juliette arched an eyebrow, setting her tea cup down carefully. “You mean managing the estate’s finances while you march around giving orders to the rest of the duchy?” she asked, her tone teasing but not without a hint of pointedness.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Caelan replied, though his smile didn’t waver.
“Mm,” Juliette hummed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “To answer your question, it’s been... manageable. I’m starting to see why Father had so many gray hairs, though.”
She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand. “There’s no shortage of paperwork, you know. Trade agreements, taxes, managing expenditures—it’s not exactly glamorous. But I suppose someone has to keep this house running while you’re off playing general.”
Caelan let out a low chuckle. “I’ll take that as a sign you’re handling things well. It’s no small task, Juliette, and you’re more than capable of it. But if there’s anything you need—resources, personnel, anything—you only have to ask.”
Her gaze softened slightly at his words, and she sighed. “I’m managing, Caelan. Truly. But it’s... different now.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Father used to oversee all of this himself. Now that I’ve taken on some of his responsibilities, it’s... strange, I suppose. I’ve always looked to him for guidance, but now he looks to me for results. I just hope I’m doing enough.”
“You are,” Caelan said firmly. “You’ve always been sharp, Juliette. And Father wouldn’t have entrusted you with the estate’s affairs if he didn’t believe in your abilities.”
Juliette’s smile returned, faint but genuine. “You’re far too kind, brother. But I appreciate it.”
Before the conversation could continue, the maid returned, setting a plate of freshly baked bread, butter, and preserves in front of Caelan, along with a steaming cup of coffee.
“Thank you,” Caelan said with a polite nod. As the maid curtsied and retreated, he picked up the cup and took a slow sip, the rich aroma and warmth immediately invigorating him.
Juliette tilted her head slightly, watching him with mild amusement. “So, what grand scheme has you rushing off this time?” she asked. “Another meeting with the soldiers? Or perhaps the blacksmiths?”
“The soldiers,” Caelan replied. “I need to finalize some of the tactical changes with Marshal Valran and observe the initial training sessions for the new formations. The sooner we can establish discipline and cohesion, the better.”
Juliette arched an eyebrow, her expression curious. “Discipline and cohesion, hm? You’re starting to sound like Father.”
“Father’s methods were effective,” Caelan said with a faint smirk. “Though I’d like to think I’m a touch more... progressive.”
Juliette chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Whatever you say. Just don’t overwork yourself, Caelan. You’ve been running yourself into the ground lately. Even Napoleon needed rest, you know.”
Caelan froze for the briefest moment at the mention of his former name, though Juliette’s tone was light and teasing, clearly unaware of the deeper significance.
“Rest can wait,” he said smoothly, recovering quickly. “There’s too much to be done.”
As they continued to chat, Caelan found himself relaxing, if only slightly. Juliette’s sharp wit and natural charm had a way of easing the weight on his shoulders, even as his mind remained focused on the tasks ahead.
But in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder. The royal visit, Juliette’s remark about Napoleon, and the stirring unease of the dream—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle he had yet to fully grasp.
One step at a time, he reminded himself. For now, breakfast was enough.
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The rolling countryside flew past as the carriage rumbled steadily toward the military barracks nearest the capital of the Forneaux duchy. Inside, Caelan adjusted the brass buttons of his uniform, the deep blue coat accented with red piping on the cuffs and lapels, and the gleaming brass buttons that ran down the center. His white trousers and polished boots completed the ensemble. The uniform had been one of the first samples prepared by the tailoring guild, a precursor to the full production line, and though he had worn it only briefly before, it felt natural.
Across from him, Lucien sat comfortably, his own attire far simpler but still bearing the distinct markings of a knight and bodyguard. His sword rested against his leg, and his ever-watchful eyes studied Caelan’s expression as the carriage jolted along the uneven road.
“You look the part, I’ll give you that,” Lucien remarked with a faint grin, gesturing to the uniform. “The soldiers might even believe you’ve spent your life leading them.”
Caelan smirked, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve. “If they don’t, they will by the time today’s done.”
Lucien leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “You’re really going all in on this, aren’t you? Personally overseeing training isn’t something most nobles would bother with.”
“This isn’t about appearances, Lucien,” Caelan replied, his tone calm but resolute. “The soldiers need more than discipline—they need purpose. They need to feel like they’re part of something greater, something worth fighting for. If I want them to trust me, to follow me, I can’t just sit behind a desk giving orders. I have to show them I’m one of them.”
Lucien nodded thoughtfully, his respect for his friend deepening. “Fair enough. Just don’t expect them to make it easy for you. Some of these men have been using the same tactics and weapons their grandfathers used. They’re bound to push back.”
“I’m counting on it,” Caelan said, his smirk returning. “Resistance is the first step to growth.”
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The barracks came into view as the carriage crested a hill. Rows of modest wooden buildings surrounded a large training field, and beyond them, a small armory and supply depot stood under the watchful eye of guards. Soldiers moved about the grounds, their movements brisk and purposeful. Some carried matchlock rifles slung over their shoulders, while others practiced with pikes and swords in small groups.
The carriage rolled to a stop near the center of the compound, and as Caelan stepped out, the sound of a whistle cut through the air. Soldiers and officers alike turned toward him, their expressions ranging from curiosity to uncertainty. A group of officers hurried over, their polished boots crunching against the gravel.
Marshal Geoffrey Valran led them, his stern face unreadable as he saluted sharply. Behind him, several senior officers mirrored the gesture, their eyes flickering over Caelan’s uniform with mixed reactions.
“My lord,” Valran said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “Welcome to the barracks. The men have been informed of your visit.”
“Thank you, Marshal,” Caelan replied, returning the salute with practiced precision. “I trust everything is in order?”
“As much as can be expected,” Valran said, his tone even. “The soldiers are ready for inspection, and the officers have been briefed on your plans for today.”
“Good,” Caelan said, his sharp gaze scanning the assembled troops in the distance. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”
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The soldiers stood in loose rows on the training field, their matchlock rifles resting on their shoulders. They ranged from seasoned veterans to fresh-faced recruits, their mismatched uniforms a stark contrast to Caelan’s pristine attire.
Caelan strode to the center of the field, flanked by Lucien and Valran. The officers followed a step behind, their presence lending an air of formality to the occasion.
Stopping before the formation, Caelan took a moment to observe the men, his hands clasped behind his back. The murmur of conversation among the soldiers faded as his presence commanded their attention.
“Men of Forneaux,” Caelan began, his voice steady and clear. “Today marks the beginning of a new chapter for this duchy, and for each of you. The challenges ahead will not be easy, but they are necessary. We will not merely adapt to the times—we will set the standard for what an army can achieve. And that begins here, with all of you.”
The soldiers exchanged uncertain glances, but the tension in the air was palpable. Caelan could see the doubt in their eyes, the unspoken questions about why the young heir was standing before them in a uniform, speaking of reforms that many likely saw as unnecessary.
“But talk is cheap,” Caelan continued, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Words alone won’t make you better soldiers. So, I’m not here to lecture you. I’m here to train with you.”
A ripple of surprise passed through the ranks. Even Valran raised an eyebrow, though he remained silent.
“I’ll show you what discipline, precision, and unity can accomplish,” Caelan said. “And by the end of the day, you’ll understand why these changes are necessary. Marshal Valran, assemble them into columns.”
Valran hesitated for only a moment before barking orders. “You heard him! Form up in four columns! Move it!”
The soldiers scrambled into position, their movements uneven and disorganized. Caelan’s sharp eyes took in every misstep, every lack of coordination. These men were raw, unrefined, but they were not beyond saving.
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Standing before the first column, Caelan began with the basics.
“Attention to detail is the foundation of any great army,” he said, his voice firm but not harsh. “You will learn to move as one, to think as one. Formation is not just about appearance—it’s about survival. If you cannot hold the line, you cannot hold the field.”
He demonstrated the proper stance for holding a matchlock rifle, ensuring the soldiers understood the importance of stability and balance. Then, he walked down the line, correcting their postures one by one. Some grumbled under their breath, but none dared voice their complaints aloud.
Once the basics were established, he moved on to marching.
“Step in unison,” Caelan instructed. “A disorganized formation is a target. A disciplined formation is a weapon.”
The soldiers stumbled at first, their steps out of sync and uneven. Caelan’s sharp corrections echoed across the field as he called out the rhythm.
“Left! Right! Left! Right! Keep your spacing—do not crowd the man next to you!”
Gradually, the lines began to stabilize. The soldiers found the rhythm, their steps falling into alignment.
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Next came the firing drills. Caelan divided the soldiers into two groups—one to fire and the other to reload.
“You will learn to fire in volleys,” he explained. “One group fires while the other reloads. This ensures a constant stream of fire against the enemy, forcing them to retreat or break.”
He demonstrated the technique himself, taking up a matchlock rifle and loading it with practiced efficiency. The soldiers watched intently as he explained each step in detail, from pouring the powder to ramming the ball and priming the pan.
When he fired, the sharp crack of the matchlock echoed across the field, followed by the faint wisp of smoke. He turned back to the soldiers, his expression calm but commanding.
“Now, your turn,” he said. “Group one—fire! Group two—reload!”
The first volley was ragged, the timing uneven and the smoke obscuring the field. Caelan did not scold them but instead offered precise corrections, repeating the drill until the rhythm improved. By the third round, the volleys were sharper, more coordinated.
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As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, Caelan addressed the soldiers one final time.
“Today was just the beginning,” he said, his voice carrying over the field. “You have much to learn, but you also have much to gain. The Duchy of Forneaux is counting on you—not just to defend it, but to make it stronger. Together, we will achieve greatness. Together, we will stand as one.”
This time, there was no hesitation in the soldiers’ response. They stood taller, their faces marked with determination.
As Caelan stepped away, Lucien clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll admit it,” he said with a grin. “You might just turn them into soldiers after all.”
Caelan smiled faintly. “This is just the beginning.”
After overseeing the drills and observing the composition of the forces, Caelan estimated that the barracks housed approximately 400 soldiers at full capacity. These men included a mix of:
* 200 infantry equipped with matchlock rifles and pikes.
* 100 reservists, who were primarily trained militia called upon during emergencies.
* 50 cavalry, mostly light horsemen with basic training for scouting and rapid response.
* 50 support personnel, including blacksmiths, medics, and quartermasters to maintain the logistical backbone.
These numbers represented a typical regional barracks close to the capital. Based on the scale of the Forneaux duchy, Caelan knew that there were likely 8-10 such barracks scattered throughout the duchy, with some being larger or smaller depending on the region’s strategic importance.
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The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow over the training field. The drills had come to an end, and the soldiers were dismissed, their weariness visible but matched by a newfound sense of pride. The officers had gathered near the barracks’ command building, their expressions ranging from satisfaction to quiet contemplation as they awaited Caelan.
Marshal Valran stood at the head of the group, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His stern demeanor had softened slightly after witnessing the day’s progress. Beside him were the senior officers, men seasoned by years of service who had initially regarded Caelan’s involvement with skepticism. Now, though, there was a faint glimmer of respect in their eyes.
Caelan approached them with an air of calm authority, his uniform immaculate despite the long day. He stopped just short of the group, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Gentlemen,” he began, his voice steady. “Today has been an important step forward—not just for the soldiers, but for the future of this duchy’s military. None of this would have been possible without your cooperation.”
The officers exchanged brief glances, their pride evident but muted by their discipline. Valran spoke first, his tone gruff but sincere. “The men performed better than I expected, my lord. They’ve got a long way to go, but I’ll admit—they’re starting to take to the new drills.”
Caelan inclined his head. “That’s thanks to your leadership, Marshal. The soldiers respect you, and that respect carries weight. Continue to set an example, and they’ll follow.”
Another officer, Captain Armand, stepped forward. He was a wiry man with sharp features and a no-nonsense demeanor. “My lord, the matchlocks present limitations we can’t ignore. They’re slow to reload, and their reliability in wet weather is questionable. Are the reforms you’ve mentioned going to address this?”
“They will,” Caelan replied, meeting the captain’s gaze. “The Weapons Bureau is already working on prototypes for flintlock rifles. Once we have them, these drills will shift to incorporate the advantages of the new weapons. But until then, we adapt. Discipline and formation will compensate for the limitations of our current armament.”
The officers nodded, murmurs of approval rippling through the group.
“Each of you plays a critical role in this transition,” Caelan continued. “Your men look to you for guidance. Ensure they remain focused and motivated. And remember: this is just the beginning. What we build here will shape the future of the Forneaux duchy.”
Valran stepped forward and saluted. “You have our support, my lord. The men will be ready.”
Caelan returned the salute with a nod. “Thank you, Marshal. I’ll leave the details of tomorrow’s drills in your capable hands. Dismissed.”
The officers dispersed, their spirits bolstered by Caelan’s words. As they left, Valran lingered for a moment, his sharp eyes studying the young heir. “You’re making an impression, my lord,” he said gruffly. “Let’s hope the rest of the duchy follows suit.”
“They will,” Caelan replied, his confidence unwavering. “It’s only a matter of time.”
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The carriage creaked softly as it rolled away from the barracks, the dim light of evening bathing the countryside in shades of gold and crimson. Inside, Caelan leaned back against the cushioned seat, his uniform jacket unbuttoned at the collar for comfort. Across from him, Lucien sat with his arms crossed, his gaze drifting lazily out the window.
Caelan, however, was far from relaxed. His mind was busy tallying numbers, drawing conclusions, and formulating plans. The barracks he had just visited housed approximately 400 soldiers, but that was only one piece of the duchy’s military force.
If there are 8-10 barracks across the duchy, each housing a similar number of soldiers, he thought, that gives us roughly 3,500 to 4,000 men in total.
These numbers included both professional soldiers and reservists, but the true fighting force—the men trained and ready to march at a moment’s notice—was smaller. Perhaps 2,500 at most, with the rest scattered across the duchy’s borders and towns, acting as guards or garrison troops.
He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket, flipping to a blank page. Using a pencil, he began sketching a rough map of the duchy, marking the locations of known barracks and garrisons.
The capital’s barracks held 400 men. The western port city, still under development, likely housed another 300. The northern frontier, near the mountain passes, would require a larger presence—likely closer to 500. The eastern border, where the duchy’s territory met that of the rival houses, was another critical area, with an estimated 600 soldiers spread across various fortifications.
That leaves the southern towns and villages relatively undermanned, Caelan noted, frowning slightly. The south was less vulnerable to external threats but still required a basic defense force to maintain order.
He tapped the pencil against his chin, considering the duchy’s budget. Expanding the military too quickly would stretch resources thin, potentially crippling the economic reforms he had already set in motion.
We need a balance, he thought. A force large enough to defend the duchy without overburdening the treasury.
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Caelan closed the notebook, resting it on his lap as he gazed out the window. The glow of the setting sun painted the horizon in shades of orange and violet, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the beauty of the scene.
His mental tally was clear:
* Current standing force: Approximately 4,000 soldiers, with 2,500 active and ready.
* Target standing force: A well-trained, professional army of 5,000 soldiers spread evenly across the duchy, supplemented by a militia reserve for emergencies.
This target would allow for strong defenses without overextending the duchy’s resources. But achieving it would require careful planning—training programs, improved logistics, and, most importantly, the flintlock rifles and artillery that would give the Forneaux military the edge it needed.
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Lucien’s voice broke the silence, drawing Caelan’s attention. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Let me guess—you’re planning something again.”
“Always,” Caelan replied, his tone light but his eyes sharp.
Lucien chuckled softly. “Try not to plan yourself into the grave, will you? The soldiers did well today. You’ve earned a break.”
“I’ll rest when the duchy is ready,” Caelan said with a faint smile. “For now, there’s still too much to do.”
Lucien sighed but didn’t press further, leaning back in his seat as the carriage rolled on toward the estate.
As the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky, Caelan closed his eyes briefly, allowing his mind to drift—not to sleep, but to the future he was determined to build.
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The carriage rattled softly as it continued its journey back toward the Forneaux estate, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels lulling Lucien into a state of near relaxation. The countryside had grown darker, the faint silhouette of the estate just barely visible on the horizon as the first stars began to pierce the night sky.
Caelan, however, remained deep in thought, the notebook still in his lap. His calculations had been thorough, his strategy clear—but the weight of the dream from the night before, and the veiled warnings from Lord Edric earlier in the day, lingered in the recesses of his mind. Something about it all felt... off.
The soft neigh of horses and the crunch of gravel underfoot were interrupted by the driver’s sharp voice. “Whoa! Stop the carriage!”
The abruptness jolted Caelan and Lucien from their respective states of focus and relaxation. Lucien immediately reached for his sword, his instincts honed by years of training. Caelan straightened, his sharp gaze turning toward the front of the carriage.
“What is it?” Lucien called out, his tone tense but controlled.
“There’s something blocking the road, my lords,” the driver replied. “Looks like a fallen tree. Came out of nowhere.”
Caelan frowned. A fallen tree this close to the estate? It was unusual but not impossible. Yet, as he leaned to glance out the carriage window, a faint unease prickled at the back of his neck.
Lucien was already moving. “Stay here,” he said firmly, sliding the carriage door open. “I’ll take a look.”
“No,” Caelan said, his voice low but commanding. “We’ll look together. This could be more than just an accident.”
Lucien hesitated, then nodded. “Stay close.”
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The two stepped out of the carriage, the cool night air carrying an eerie stillness. The driver remained on the seat, his eyes darting nervously toward the tree that lay sprawled across the narrow road ahead. It was a sizable oak, its branches sprawled out like skeletal fingers, blocking their path entirely.
Lucien moved first, his sword drawn and his posture alert. Caelan followed close behind, his sharp eyes scanning the edges of the road for any signs of movement. The forest that flanked the path was dense, its shadows deepened by the fading light of the sun.
“It’s too clean,” Lucien muttered, pointing to the trunk of the tree. “See that? It’s been cut. This didn’t fall—it was placed here.”
Caelan’s frown deepened. “An ambush,” he said softly, his mind immediately racing through possibilities. Who would dare attack him this close to the estate? Bandits? Unlikely. This was too precise, too deliberate.
As if on cue, the faint rustle of movement came from the treeline. Lucien’s head snapped toward the sound, his sword raised defensively.
“Show yourselves!” Lucien barked, his voice carrying authority and challenge.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, from the shadows, figures began to emerge.
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They were clad in dark, nondescript clothing, their faces obscured by hoods and masks. There were six of them, each armed with a mixture of blades and primitive matchlock pistols. They moved with the fluidity of men who had done this before, their formation loose but purposeful as they fanned out across the road.
“Step aside,” one of them growled, his voice muffled by his mask. “Leave the carriage and walk away. We have no interest in your lives—only what you’re carrying.”
Caelan’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, his presence commanding despite the odds. “You know who I am?”
The man hesitated, his grip tightening on his pistol. “Doesn’t matter. This is nothing personal. We’re just here for the goods.”
Lucien let out a derisive snort. “The goods? You think robbing the heir of Forneaux will go unnoticed? You might as well sign your own death warrants.”
The leader of the group stiffened but didn’t back down. “Enough talk. Drop your weapons and step aside, or we’ll—”
His words were cut off by a sharp crack, a sound that split the night and sent a jolt through the air. One of the masked men fell backward, clutching his shoulder as blood bloomed through his tunic.
The remaining bandits whirled around in shock, their weapons raised. From behind the carriage, a figure stepped into view—Elise, holding a matchlock pistol in her steady hands. Her expression was calm, though her eyes gleamed with a sharp, calculated intensity that Caelan had never seen before.
“Enough talk, indeed,” she said coolly, her voice steady.
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For a moment, everyone froze, the bandits clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in their advantage. Caelan turned to Elise, his surprise evident.
“Elise?” he asked sharply. “What in the name of—how are you even here?”
Elise kept her pistol leveled, her expression steady. “Lady Émilie sent me to follow your carriage, my lord,” she explained quickly. “She had her suspicions about the safety of your journey and thought it wise for me to stay close.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Follow us? You mean you were shadowing the carriage this whole time?”
“Precisely,” Elise said without missing a beat. “I kept my distance so as not to interfere, but when I saw the ambush forming, I knew I had to act.”
Before Caelan could respond, the leader of the bandits cursed loudly and barked an order. “Take them out! Now!”
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Lucien surged forward without hesitation, his sword flashing in the moonlight as he deflected a clumsy strike from one of the attackers. Caelan grabbed a fallen blade from the ground, his movements calculated and deliberate as he parried a second assailant.
Elise fired a second shot, forcing another bandit to dive for cover. Her aim was precise, her calm demeanor unnerving even in the chaos.
The skirmish was quick and brutal. Lucien dispatched three of the bandits with practiced efficiency, while the others fled into the woods, their cowardice outweighing their loyalty.
When the dust settled, Caelan stood with his sword lowered, his sharp gaze turning back to Elise.
“You handled that weapon well,” he said, his tone calm but laced with curiosity. “Too well.”
Elise met his gaze steadily, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve had practice, my lord.”
“And where, exactly, did you acquire that practice?” Caelan pressed, his tone sharp but not unkind.
Elise hesitated briefly, her expression unreadable. “That’s a story for another time, my lord. For now, let’s get you back to the estate.”
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The clatter of hooves and wheels resumed as the carriage began its journey once more, leaving the scattered bodies of the defeated bandits and the blocked road behind. This time, the atmosphere inside the carriage was far from serene.
Caelan sat on one side, his military uniform still pristine but his expression tense with curiosity and unease. Lucien sat beside him, his sword sheathed but resting against his leg, his sharp eyes fixed on Elise, who now sat opposite them.
Elise appeared unperturbed by the tension. She sat with a composed posture, her hands folded neatly on her lap, the matchlock pistol she had used earlier safely tucked away. The faint flicker of lantern light from the carriage interior highlighted her auburn hair and calm expression, but there was a quiet intensity in her eyes—a clear indication she was aware of the scrutiny directed at her.
Caelan leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but edged with curiosity. “Elise, I believe I deserve an explanation. How did you manage to follow us without being detected? The road was clear when we left, and neither Lucien nor I noticed anyone trailing us.”
Elise’s lips curved into a faint, almost apologetic smile. “You wouldn’t have noticed, my lord. I ensured my presence remained... unobtrusive. Lady Émilie instructed me to follow at a distance and remain out of sight unless it was absolutely necessary to intervene. I was simply carrying out her orders.”
Lucien frowned, his arms crossed. “That still doesn’t answer how you managed to keep up with the carriage. We weren’t exactly crawling along the road.”
Elise turned her gaze to Lucien, her tone still calm. “I anticipated the path you’d take, Sir Lucien. The route from the estate to the barracks is predictable, and I know the area well. I took a more direct path through the woods on horseback, staying parallel to the road. The undergrowth slowed me down, but I made sure to keep pace with the carriage.”
Caelan raised an eyebrow, studying her closely. “And the matchlock pistol? You don’t strike me as someone who carries weapons regularly, at least not openly.”
Elise hesitated for a fraction of a second, her composure flickering ever so slightly before returning. “It was a precaution, my lord. Given the state of the roads and the rumors of unrest in the duchy, I thought it prudent to arm myself in case of an emergency.”
Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “You handled that pistol like you’ve done this before. That wasn’t luck or basic training. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
Elise’s expression remained calm, though a flicker of amusement danced in her eyes. “I’ve had some practice, Sir Lucien. Lady Émilie has tasked me with many responsibilities over the years, some of which required me to be... prepared for unexpected situations.”
Caelan leaned back slightly, his sharp gaze never leaving her. He was used to reading people, a skill honed from years of navigating the intricacies of court and military strategy in his past life. Elise’s answers were measured and precise, revealing enough to satisfy surface-level inquiries but carefully withholding anything deeper.
“You’ve been trained,” Caelan said, his tone more a statement than a question. “Not just as a maid, but as something more. You’re not telling us everything, are you?”
For the first time, Elise’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. “With all due respect, my lord, some things are better left unsaid. My duty is to serve House Forneaux, and everything I do is in pursuit of that duty.”
Lucien’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, though he didn’t draw it. “A bit convenient, don’t you think? A maid who can shadow a carriage undetected, navigate the woods, and shoot like a seasoned marksman? I’m finding it hard to believe you’re just another member of the staff.”
Elise met his sharp gaze without flinching. “Believe what you will, Sir Lucien. But I assure you, my loyalty to House Forneaux is unwavering. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t have risked exposing myself to protect Lord Caelan tonight.”
Caelan raised a hand, signaling for Lucien to ease off. “Enough, Lucien. She’s right about one thing—if her loyalty was in question, she wouldn’t have intervened. Whatever her background, she acted in the best interests of this house.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly, leaning back in his seat.
Caelan turned his attention back to Elise, his expression softer but still probing. “Very well. I won’t press further—at least not tonight. But I’ll be expecting full transparency when the time comes. Understood?”
Elise inclined her head respectfully. “Of course, my lord.”
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The rest of the journey passed in relative silence, the only sounds coming from the steady clatter of the wheels and the occasional neigh of the horses. Caelan’s mind churned with questions, but he knew better than to push too hard now. Elise was clearly more than she appeared, and her connection to his mother only deepened the mystery.
As the carriage approached the gates of the estate, Caelan cast a final glance at Elise. She sat quietly, her composure unshaken despite the tension in the air.
Who are you really, Elise? he wondered. The question would remain unanswered for now, but Caelan was certain of one thing: she would play a far greater role in the days to come than he had previously realized.
End of the Chapter