Location: Silverrest Citadel, Capital of Selvanis
Time: Day 201 After Alec's Arrival
The halls of Silverrest gleamed like coin freshly pressed.
Polished black marble. Sapphire banners hanging like the mouths of noble serpents. Light cast by crystal braziers, enchanted only by wealth, not magic. And at the heart of it, lounging like a lion in silk, sat Duke Armand of Selvanis.
His boots were carved leather. His cloak a shadow-dyed deep blue. His features were too symmetrical for nature, too expressive for sincerity. When Armand smiled, you felt it like heat — welcome, seductive… but never safe.
He read the latest courier dispatch aloud, half-laughing:
"Midgard's duchess has enacted a formal census. Standardized script. Naval Guard commission. Infrastructure oversight. Reforms attributed to one 'Alec Castellan.'"
He let the letter drift from his fingers like an afterthought.
"Alenia," he repeated. "Unknown house. No crest. No history. And now a duchess's right hand."
His younger brother, Dervan, shifted in his seat. "You think he's dangerous?"
"I think," Armand said, rising from the silk couch, "he's unsanctioned power. And that is always dangerous."
🥂 Armand's Court
He moved through his private gallery like a conductor passing his orchestra. A hand here, a smirk there. Women glanced up. Men stepped aside. Even his advisors spoke in lower tones around him.
He approached the balcony.
From there, one could see the Midgard border, misted in the far hills.
"A duchess too clever by half," he murmured. "A daughter being sharpened. And now a foreign mind shaping their world like clay."
He didn't sound threatened.
He sounded… entertained.
🎭 Armand's Dinner with Foreign Traders
That evening, he hosted three merchant-princes from the western provinces. They came for trade. They stayed for his wine.
But Armand had only one question:
"What do you know of Midgard's new man?"
One spoke up, nervous. "He restructured the ducal guard in less than a month. Refuses bribes. Speaks like a scholar. Commands like a general."
Armand smiled.
"And yet," he said, "he has no noble claim. No lands of his own."
"He's building something."
"Yes," Armand said, swirling his wine. "And when he's finished, he'll think he owns it."
He set the glass down.
"I wonder if he understands what it means to rule in a world that never wanted him."
🗡 Behind Closed Doors
Later, in his study, Armand leaned over a desk covered in sketches of Midgard's trade routes, updated border patrol rotations, and copied Company insignias.
He spoke quietly to his steward.
"Send an envoy to the Archbishop of Velbrunna. Tell him I'm concerned about the spiritual erosion of our eastern neighbor. And send a copy of this 'Alec Alenia' charter to the royal court."
"You mean to petition the king?"
"No. I mean to warn him."
🌑 Final Reflection
Armand stood before his mirror, running a thumb down the edge of his jaw.
"A man like that," he murmured, "either dies in fire... or starts one."
And he smiled.
Like someone already smelling smoke.