The Redrun river shimmered with a reddish hue as Rose rode along its banks, her eyes fixed on the towering spires of the Redven estate. The iron-rich waters flowed from the Wolken Mountains, painting the river with a rust-colored twinkle that had given Redrun its name. The city, nestled at the foot of the mountains, buzzed with activity, a stark contrast to the somber thoughts that clouded Rose's mind. The hustle and bustle of Redrun's markets, the clamor of smithies, and the distant echo of merchant calls seemed almost alien against the grim backdrop of her return.

She dismounted her horse as she reached the estate's grand entrance, her red eyes blazing with fury and grief. The stone walls of the castle loomed high, a fortress built during the Age of Runeria, its battlements adorned with moss and creeping ivy. The banners bearing the Redven crest—an ominous red teardrop—hung limp in the still air, their vivid hue a stark contrast to the gray stone of the walls. Her clothes, a blend of practical leather and noble embroidery, were travel-worn, dust mingling with the intricate patterns, making her appear both battle-hardened and noble.

Rose stormed through the hallways, her long red hair flowing behind her like a banner of flame, a symbol of her fierce resolve. The grand hall, with its high vaulted ceilings and polished marble floors, was adorned with tapestries depicting heroic battles and the Redven family’s storied past. Ornate suits of armor, relics of past victories, and priceless heirlooms lined the walls, their presence a silent testament to the Redven legacy. Servants bowed and scurried out of her path, their faces etched with sorrow. The news had spread quickly: Reginald Redven, the formidable lord of the house, was dead.

In the dimly lit chamber where her father lay, Rose’s breath caught. Reginald, the man she had idolized, now a lifeless shell. His once imposing figure, with rippling muscles and a red beard, was reduced to a crumpled mess. The sight filled her with rage. This was not the death he deserved—a death on the battlefield, sword in hand, not this. She knelt beside him, her fingers trembling as she touched his cold hand. "Father," she whispered, her voice breaking, "you deserved better than this."

"Lady Rose," came a soft voice from behind her. Wester, the elderly servant who had been with the family for as long as Rose could remember, stood at the doorway. His face was lined with grief, but there was urgency in his eyes. "Your uncle, Mander, has arrived."

Rose stood, her grief momentarily set aside as fury and suspicion took over. "Mander? Here?" she asked, her voice sharp. "What does he want?"

Wester hesitated. His coattails bristled. "He claims to have urgent matters to discuss. If I may offer my opinion… it seems more than just a coincidence, my lady."

Rose clenched her fists, the fire within her ready to explode. "Prepare a room for him. I will see what this is about.” Wester bowed and left, leaving Rose alone with her father for a moment longer.

Rose simply sat at the edge of the bed, her undercloth staining with his blood. Slowly, the sunset, and Reginald’s face disappeared in the darkness. She leaned down, pressing her forehead against his. "I will make sure you are avenged, Father."

Minutes later, Rose entered the grand hall, her head held high, her face a mask of determination. The hall was a cavernous space, decorated with priceless tapestries depicting the Redven family’s storied history. Elaborate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow on the intricately carved wooden panels. An array of Redven treasures, including ornate weapons and priceless relics, lined the walls, their gleaming surfaces reflecting the dim light. The air was heavy with the scent of old wood and polished metal.

Mander was already there, a tall, wiry man with dull reddish-brown hair that seemed to mock the vibrant red of the true Redven lineage. He wore a finely tailored black coat, exuding an air of smug superiority. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the room with practiced disdain.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"Rose," he greeted, his voice smooth and insidious. "My condolences on your loss. Reginald was... a great man." His face was blank as he inspected a nearby Redven treasure, a ceremonial sword with intricate gold inlay.

Rose's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Mander? Why are you here?" As she spoke, her hands involuntarily glowed red, the manifestation of her anger barely contained.

Mander smiled, a cold, calculating grin. "I came as soon as I heard. Family should be together in times of loss, don’t you think?" He stepped closer, his presence unsettling.

"Cut the pretenses," Rose snapped. "You were never one for family. What are you really here for?"

Mander’s smile widened. "Straight to the point, as always. Very well. I am here to claim what is rightfully mine." As he spoke, he gestured around him to the treasures of the Redven Grand Hall, his motion a deliberate display of his intent.

Rose’s heart pounded in her chest. "What are you talking about?"

"The ancient law," Mander said, his tone almost gleeful. "The Imperial Succession Law of Aethelred. It allows a male relative to challenge the inheritance of any female heir through a battle of wits, and I intend to invoke it."

The servants that populated the hall let out an audible gasp. Whispers started to pass through the crowd. Rose felt herself lose balance, as if the ground itself was shifting beneath her feet. "You can’t be serious."

"Oh, but I am," Mander replied. "This estate, these lands—they will soon be mine." Mander paused before turning to Rose. “But don’t worry, I’ll leave you a parcel of land on the south coast. A small beach and a tiny house to live the rest of your life out in peace.”

Rose stood stunned, there was too much going on. Seeing that she needed help, June stepped forward from the shadows. His short-cropped blonde hair and muscular frame created an imposing figure. His stance, although professional, conveyed a palpable tension as he approached Mander. "This is absurd," he growled. "Reginald chose Rose as his heir. You have no right to challenge that."

Mander waved him away dismissively. "Ah, the loyal watchdog. Stay out of this, June. This is a matter of law and bloodline."

June's fists clenched, but Rose placed a hand on his arm. June’s presence was enough to help her gather her resolve. Starting a fight here wouldn’t help. "Enough, June. Let him speak."

Mander's eyes gleamed with triumph. "The noble council will gather to judge the debate. I am confident they will see reason and justice on my side. I expect the debate to occur within Autumnsend. Twelve days should be enough for you to prepare." With that, Mander turned and left, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow. Rose watched him go, her mind racing. She turned to June, who looked at her with a mix of anger and concern.

"This is madness!" June said. "We can’t let this debate happen; you know as much as I do about the sway he holds with them. Not to mention how much they hated your father!"

Rose nodded, her eyes steely. "I know. But I don’t know if we have a choice. It doesn’t look like he’s going to give us the time to challenge this. Avaria is at least a two-week journey and Wintersfall has already started. The snow will freeze Edmund’s Chasm before we even get to the capital."

June placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We will fight, Rose. And we will win. No matter what it takes." Rose smiled back at June, but her confidence was a fragile veneer. In just one day, her life had come crashing down. This was planned, prepared for, and executed perfectly. She was a strategist, and she could tell when she had fallen into a well-crafted trap.

As they stood together in the grand hall, the weight of their task settled heavily upon them. The grandeur of the estate, with its imposing tapestries and cold stone walls, felt like a suffocating prison. Outside, the city of Redrun continued its daily routines, oblivious to the brewing storm within the Redven estate. The river, ever flowing, seemed to mock their predicament, its rust-colored waters reflecting the blood that would soon be spilled—not on the battlefield, but in the cruel arena of political machinations.

Rose felt a deep, sinking dread. The realization that she was ensnared in a meticulously set trap gnawed at her. The prospect of facing Mander, with his extensive influence and the relentless pressure of the noble council, was almost unbearable. Her father's legacy hung in the balance, and the odds seemed insurmountable. With June's words of encouragement echoing hollowly in her mind, Rose braced herself for the fight ahead. There was no room for hope, only the grim resolve to defend what remained of her family's honor. The game had begun, and Rose knew that she would face it alone, with the weight of her father's memory as both her burden and her drive.