Adeline's face froze as she processed Quentin's words, her breath catching in disbelief. Eldren blood—it was a term she had encountered in passing, always dismissing it as mere legend. But now, hearing Quentin speak with such conviction, she felt the weight of its reality.

"It might seem unbelievable, Your Grace, but it's true," Quentin said, adjusting his glasses.

"Four hundred years ago, before the Dark Lord's fall, King Mulzart of the Eldren died in battle," he began. "There's an old saying: When an Eldren king falls, his blood will scatter among the people for generations. Those with Eldren blood inherit rare traits like Lady Clara's golden eyes, any other features that are exceptionally uncommon, and the abilities that echo the king's own power. These abilities can be extraordinary but often untamed."

Adeline nodded, her mind racing. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. "If Clara holds such power, why did the Duke leave her with them back then?" she asked, her voice sharp with a mix of curiosity and concern.

Quentin was momentarily surprised by her knowledge. Until he realized it must be her abilities at work.

"Ah, I see," He smiled faintly. "House Branwen is not really known for cruelty. His grace, Eric trusted them for their warmth and hospitality. But after Lady Leone's tragic death during childbirth, they blamed Clara. They called her a monster who killed their daughter. It was absurd of course—an innocent child bearing such blame." 

His voice softened. "Duke Lucien must have thought Clara would be safer in Veridonia, far from Wintermere. After losing so much, he couldn't bear the thought of losing her too."

Adeline's chest tightened. Her thoughts drawn to Clara's bright golden eyes, now tinged with an unspoken weight. 

"Four years ago, when the Duke visited his niece in Veridonia, it didn't take him long to figure out the young lady's situation." Quentin began, his voice steady but laced with a hint of lingering unease. "I remember when the informant reported Clara's condition to him. He froze the whole room—literally. The air was so cold, I thought I'd freeze to death too! And his face..." Quentin shuddered dramatically. "Let's just say I wouldn't want to be the poor soul who crossed him that day."

"What happened after that?" Adeline asked, a small, nervous smile tugging at her lips

"With the evidence gathered by the informant, the Duke fought for custody of Clara. In the end, he won and House Branwen's reputation was shattered, and they were permanently exiled." Quentin shrugged. "Though it took Young Lady Clara a month to trust her own uncle after all she had been through. There was a time she escaped into the forest; all the knights were searching, and finally, Duke Lucien found her. However, when he returned, he had a bite wound on his shoulder, but Clara was unconscious in his arms."

"I see, that explains it," Adeline said, raising an eyebrow. "Do you think House Branwen deserves any pity?"

Quentin smirked, his tone playful but tinged with sincerity. "Pity? No, why do you pity a monster?"

Adeline lifted her hand, a sly grin spreading across her face. Quentin's eyes sparkled with amusement as he matched the gesture. Their palms met in a resounding high five.

"Well said, Quentin" Adeline voice carrying both pride and determination.

"I know right?!" He replied dramatically.

After a moment of giggle and silence between them, Adeline's smile faltered a little, as if wanting to say something more.

"Do you think Clara's mother ever regretted having her?" Her voice was soft, almost hesitant.

Quentin's eyes widened in surprise but quickly softened. He shook his head gently. "No, Duchess... I don't believe Lady Leone would ever regret that."

He paused, as if gathering his thoughts with a thoughtful expression. "I met her before, when she married the Duke's older brother, Eric. She was... remarkable. Strong-willed and full of life. There was a fearless, almost reckless charm about her. Though born a noblewoman, she was a well known warrior of Veridonia through and through. She carried herself with a tomboyish energy, yet there was a tenderness in her too. I remember hearing how, when she was pregnant with Clara, she would sing to her every night before bed. She was so careful, so protective of herself—everything she did was for her child. His Grace Eric was the same." His voice faltered for a moment, and his eyes filled with sympathy. "If there was any regret that comes from her..."

Quentin's voice broke ever so slightly. "It would be not being there to watch Clara grow. Not raising her, protecting her... or loving her like a mother could."

A heavy silence settled between them before Quentin spoke again, his voice firmer this time, as though daring anyone to challenge his conviction.

"If Lady Leone knew what Clara endured, the cruelty she suffered at the hands of her own family. There is no doubt that she would stand by her daughter without hesitation. She would have fought for her."

Adeline felt a lump rise in her throat, her chest tightening at his words. She glanced away, hiding the sting of tears threatening to spill, her heart aching.

"I kept reassuring the young lady about how amazing her parents are, and even Duke Lucien said the same. But somehow, despite all our efforts, Clara never seemed to believe us. I could see it in her eyes—the way she flinched at kind words, as if they were foreign to her. She still thinks it was her own fault." Quentin added.

Adeline's expression softened with a hint of sadness. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a small figure darting around the garden. Clara was running joyfully, her laughter ringing through the air as she played with her familiar and the two little dragons. A knight stood nearby, quietly keeping watch, and there is a faint smile on his face.

She's endured so much already. I won't let her carry it alone, Adeline thought, a sense of determination settling in her heart.

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Meanwhile, on the battlefield, Lucien swung his sword with deadly precision. Each strike was calculated, each movement lethal. With a single, fluid stroke, he severed an enemy's arm, silencing their attempt to cast a spell. Another slash followed swiftly, losing another limb of his enemy, the blade's tip stabbing cleanly across the enemy's throat, leaving the mage lifeless as their bodies crumpled to the blood-soaked ground. Around him, more corpses lay scattered—cultists with gaping chests, their crimson essence pooling like a little lake, and their monstrous creations was now reduced to lifeless heaps.

The knights he had saved stood frozen, their eyes wide with both awe and dread. Despite their admiration, the sight of their duke cutting down his foes without hesitation, his cold, unblinking gaze fixed ahead, was enough to make their knees tremble.

Lucien's sharp gaze swept across the battlefield, searching for any remaining threats. His sword, once gleaming silver, was now stained with crimson. A layer of ice enveloped the blade as the frozen blood flaked away, it revealed the pristine steel beneath, once again shining brilliantly in the dim light.

"Search the area for any remaining civilians," Lucien ordered, his voice low and measured, carrying an authority that brooked no argument.

The knights nodded quickly and dispersed, eager to obey his command. Lucien remained still, his sword was now resting on its own scabbard. Around him, the battlefield lay quiet, save for the distant groans of the dying. The weight of his deeds settled heavily on his shoulders, though his expression betrayed nothing. For all his skill, for all his power, he could not stop the whispers.

They called him a savior. In Veridonia, they called him a monster.

As he stood amidst the carnage, his expression remained unreadable, though the weight of his actions was not lost on him. His power and ruthless efficiency in battle were a stark reminder of why his marriage had been arranged in the first place.

He thought back to the day he had been summoned to the capital by the Emperor himself. Though the summons had come as a surprise, Lucien had quickly understood the true reason behind it. The emperor's voice echoed faintly in his head, pulling him back to another moment. His gaze swept across the lifeless bodies, but his thoughts drifted far from the carnage. The memory of that fateful audience with the Emperor rose like a specter, vivid and inescapable.

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The grand throne room of the Emperor's Castle was as imposing as ever. Tall, vaulted ceilings stretched upward, adorned with tapestries bearing the crest of House Valarion—a silver dragon with wings spread wide, symbolizing the House that ruled over all the realm.

Sunlight filtered in through the glass windows, casting colored beams onto the polished marble floor. At the far end of the hall sat the emperor, Emperor Darius Valarion, on his gilded throne, his presence alone was regal and commanding. A golden crown sat at the top of his head, adorned with emeralds and diamonds. His long blonde hair cascading down his back, facial features bore a striking resemblance to Lucien's, sharing the same sharp jawline and piercing gaze.

Lucien strode forward, his black coat fitting snugly over his broad shoulders, with a fur cloak trailing behind him. His sharp, cold gaze remained fixed ahead, not betraying a hint of his thoughts. Kneeling before the emperor, he bowed his head slightly.

"Your Majesty, I have arrived." His voice was steady, carrying the weight of duty.

The Emperor's emerald green eyes lingered on him. A slight nod acknowledged his presence. "Rise, Duke Valenhart."

Lucien stood, his stature nearly matching the emperor's height even from a distance. His fur cloak settled around him like the winter winds of Wintermere. Though the emperor's words had not yet come, Lucien could sense the gravity of this summons. He had been called from Wintermere, and it was not often that such requests were made.

A moment of silence passed, thick with anticipation. Finally, Emperor Darius spoke.

"I've summoned you here, to discuss a matter of great importance." His tone was even, but there was an undercurrent of authority that demanded obedience. "The time has come for you to take a wife."

Lucien's heart sank, though his face remained expressionless. He had anticipated many things—discussions of border skirmishes, perhaps a military campaign. But this? This was unexpected. Yet, he remained poised, choosing his words carefully.

"An arranged marriage to be exact, Your Majesty?" Lucien asked, his voice calm and measured.

The Emperor leaned back in his throne, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "Indeed. The Duke of the Eastern Duchy has a daughter of marriageable age. I believe such a union would be most fitting for you."

Lucien remained silent, though a flicker of frustration stirred within him. He had long anticipated this moment, a marriage arranged for political gain, but the reality of it still rankled. 

An arranged marriage to someone connected to another influential house—was this merely a way to tether my loyalty to the throne? Lucien thought, the idea gnawing at him.

The Emperor's gaze remained unyielding. "I am well aware of the rumors surrounding you," he continued, his tone shifting slightly. "Since you took up the mantle of Duke at such a young age, after the deaths of your father, brother, and my sister Selene—your strength has only grown more formidable. Your prowess in battle unsettles many. They fear you, Lucien."

Lucien's eyes narrowed slightly. He had always known his reputation preceded him, but he hadn't realized it had spread this far, even to the ears of the capital. Still, he kept his voice steady, refusing to reveal any emotion.

"You fear I may become a threat, Your Majesty?"

Emperor Darius tilted his head, regarding him carefully. "It is not fear, but precaution. Your power must be tethered, and an arrange marriage is a means of ensuring that."

Lucien exhaled slowly, his mind racing. He had no desire to be bound by a forced marriage, not to someone he had never seen nor spoken to. But outright refusal would be unwise. Instead, he chose another path.

"If it is an alliance you seek, then I would humbly request the freedom to choose my bride." His voice was firm but respectful. "Allow me to select from the noble women of Veridonia. That way, the bond between Wintermere and the rest of the kingdom will be built on something stronger than mere obligation."

The emperor raised an eyebrow, surprised at the suggestion. Lucien's request was unexpected, yet the logic behind it was undeniable. A strategic choice could foster more genuine alliances, rather than a forced union.

After a long pause, the emperor nodded. There is a faint smile playing on his lips. "Interesting," he mumbled under his breath.

"Very well, Lucien. I will grant you this. You may choose your bride. However, you will do so from among the noblewomen of Veridonia. I will not have you delay this decision forever. Once you have made your decision, I expect the wedding arrangements to proceed without delay in two days." 

He gestured to one of his attendants, who handed Lucien a scroll, tied with a silver ribbon. "This contains the names and details of the noblewomen eligible for marriage. Choose wisely, my nephew."

Lucien took the scroll, bowing deeply. "I will, Your Majesty."

As he turned to leave the throne room, the weight of the decision settled on his shoulders. He had bought himself time and a measure of control, but the emperor's watchful eyes would remain on him. 

His grip on the scroll tightened, the parchment crumpling slightly under the light pressure of his hand.

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Snapping out of his thoughts, Lucien swept his gaze over the horizon. It should have felt like a victory, yet there was no satisfaction—only a gnawing emptiness.

"They fear you, Lucien," the emperor's voice echoed in his mind.

Before he could take another step, a cold unlike his own abilities seeped into the battlefield, creeping along his skin like tendrils of shadow. His hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword.

His head snapped toward the far edge of the field. A figure stood there, cloaked in darkness, barely discernible. The air around him seemed to warp, a faint hum of dark energy vibrating in his chest.

Darvok.

"Instead of just appearing here out of nowhere, why can't you just face me here and now?" Lucien said, his voice low but carrying across the silence.

The figure didn't move, yet Lucien swore he felt the ghost of a smile in the air—mocking, and taunting. And then, as suddenly as it appeared, the presence vanished, like a shadow.

Lucien strode forward, but there was nothing. No trace, no sign. Only the faint scent of charred earth where the figure had stood.

"Coward" He muttered under his breath.