Three sunrises after the Royal Summons arrived, a procession of banners bearing the Great Star of House Astraulf crested the hill overlooking Nexus Point. They advanced with the chill, methodical haughtiness of sovereign command, their polished steel plate and rich blue surcoats a stark contrast to the utilitarian grey and obsidian of the Synkar guards who manned the Ancestral Manor's outer gates.
At their head rode Duke Regulus Astraulf, Cousin to the Crown, his face a mask of bored impatience, his eyes sweeping over the formidable Synkar manor as if it were a particularly stubborn vassal in need of discipline.
Duke Regulus Astraulf sat astride his charger like a conquering general surveying freshly claimed territory, every line of his aristocratic frame radiating ingrained superiority. His close-cropped silver hair, meticulously styled to military precision, framed a face sculpted by generations of noble breeding - high cheekbones, a razor-straight nose, and lips permanently set in a faint sneer of permanent dissatisfaction. The famed Astraulf blue eyes, icy as winter glaciers, swept across the Synkar battlements with clinical assessment, missing no defensive emplacement or weakness in the manor's formidable facade.
His gilt-edged plate armor, masterfully forged, bore the Astraulf crest upon the breastplate - the Great Star encircled by sigils of royal authority. Beneath the armor's dazzling finish, woven from threads of enchanted silver that shimmered with restrained power, his sapphire surcoat looked almost black in the morning light, the cloth so richly dyed it seemed to drink the sunlight rather than reflect it.
The Duke carried no obvious weapon, but the air around his gloved hands thrummed with restrained force - the trademark Astraulf dueling magic humming just beneath his skin, awaiting provocation. Every measured movement, from the way he adjusted his riding gloves to the subtle tilt of his chin, spoke of a man who'd never questioned his right to dominion, whose veins carried the divine right of kings in place of common blood. Even his mount, a massive destrier bred from the royal stables, moved with unnatural precision, each hoof-fall precisely placed as if marching in parade formation.
He was met at the grand entrance not by the young Lord Synkar or his Seneschal, but by Captain Brandt Marek of the Core Guard, whose armored form seemed as immovable as the fortress walls behind him.
"Duke Astraulf," Marek greeted with a crisp, formal bow that held no warmth. "Welcome to the Synkar Ancestral Manor. Lord Rhyse is currently engaged in deep study and has left instructions not to be disturbed. Master Orrin Valerius, the Seneschal, will attend you shortly."
Duke Regulus's thin lips tightened in annoyance. A mere guard captain, however high-ranking, meeting him at the door was a subtle but clear slight. "My summons is from His Majesty, the King, Captain. It supersedes a boy's 'study'. Announce my arrival. We are to begin our escort to Skyfang Citadel."
"With all due respect, Your Grace," Marek replied, his voice a steady baritone, "my orders are from the acting Head of House Synkar, within his own domain. Master Valerius will clarify the situation."
Captain Marek stood like an unyielding monolith of Synkar steel, his posture the very definition of disciplined refusal - a physical barrier cloaked in protocol's respect.
The silent challenge in his stance spoke itself: even royal favor could not demand free passage within these ancestral halls. While both men were formidable Rank 5 combatants, where Duke Astraulf's power stemmed from noble bloodline and courtly duels, Marek's prowess had been tempered in the crucible of real battles beside the late Lord Corbin during the infamous Krellian Skirmishes. His reputation wasn't inherited but earned through a trail of shattered beastkin war clubs and scorched bandit fortresses across the northern marches - achievements that left no doubt about the lethal capability lurking beneath his formal Core Guard uniform.
That his family name carried no noble prefix mattered little when facing a man who'd held the Blood Maw Ravine against three waves of corrupted wyvern riders alongside his fallen lord.
Before the Duke could press the issue further, the grand entrance hall's towering double doors swung open with unnecessary force, revealing the unmistakable figures of Livia Hawthorne and her father Marius sweeping in with an air of urgency.
The morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows cast fractured patterns across Livia's sharp-featured face, which bore the carefully crafted expression of someone performing concern before an audience. Her jeweled fingers clutched at the expensive Hawthorne silk of her dress as she advanced, each click of her heeled boots echoing sharply against the marble floor.
"Captain Marek!" Livia's voice carried the precise blend of indignation and false solicitude that she'd perfected in merchant negotiations. "What disrespect is this? Summon Lord Rhyse at once - the Duke of Astraulf does not wait upon children's whims!"
Her gaze flickered momentarily to Duke Regulus before settling again on the unyielding captain, the subtle movements betraying her attempt to position herself as the intermediary in this delicate confrontation.
Captain Marek didn't so much as twitch at her dramatic entrance, his broad shoulders remaining squared precisely at parade rest as he replied in that same measured baritone, "The Head of House Synkar will grant audience when he deems appropriate, Lady Hawthorne." The weight behind his words made it clear he'd recognized Livia's theatrical performance for what it was - another gambit in the ongoing power struggle.
Marius stepped forward then, his round merchant's face flushing an unhealthy red beneath coiled silver hair, the massive Hawthorne signet ring on his finger catching the light as he gestured wildly. "You fool!" he hissed, spittle flying. "Do you comprehend the consequences of insulting the Duke? One word from His Grace and even Synkar loyalty won't save your head from the block!"
The Captain's hand drifted subtly toward the hilt of his magitech sidearm, the obsidian grip humming faintly with restrained energy. "This is Ancestral Synkar ground," he stated, each word deliberate as a drawn blade. "Not Astraulf territory, nor Hawthorne merchant halls. I answer to Synkar blood alone - and Lord Rhyse's authority is beyond question here."
Livia's carefully maintained mask slipped for just an instant, her mouth twisting into something ugly before she forcibly smoothed her expression and turned her most winning smile toward Duke Regulus. "Your Grace, please permit us to offer proper hospitality in our East Wing apartments while this misunderstanding is resolved." She extended a hand toward the vaulted corridor lined with glow-globes, the path to Hawthorne-controlled territory within the manor.
Duke Regulus's granite features contorted in barely restrained fury, his usual courtly demeanor shattered by the unprecedented defiance. With a swirl of his royal blue mantle that sent the Synkar banners rippling in its wake, he turned sharply toward the exit. "This," he bit out through clenched teeth, the venom in his voice making even the usually unflappable Livia pale, "is most certainly not over." The finality of the slamming manor doors echoed like a death knell through the suddenly silent hall.
The polished marble floors of the East Wing corridors resonated with the measured footsteps of the entourage, each footfall amplifying Livia Hawthorne's growing unease. As they reached the opulent sitting room of her apartments - a space dominated by Hawthorne-blue silk drapes and discreetly warded against eavesdroppers - the veneer of aristocratic composure finally cracked beneath the weight of impending disaster.
"Your Grace," she began, her cultivated merchant-house hospitality strained as she motioned the Duke toward an embroidered chaise, "we find ourselves confronting rather troubling developments." The crystal decanter in her hand trembled slightly as she poured Regulus's wine, the rich vintage suddenly seeming inadequate for what she must disclose. "Our primary asset within the Core Guard, Senior Lieutenant Borin, has unexpectedly disappeared from confinement."
Duke Regulus Astraulf's glacial gaze snapped to Livia with predatory intensity, the delicate stem of his wineglass threatening to shatter in his grip. "Elaborate." The single word carried the menace of drawn steel.
Livia's manicured nails bit into her palms as she leaned closer, her whisper barely audible over the ticking of the antique orrery clock. "The lieutenant was confined for punishment following the incident - nothing more than disciplinary protocol, or so it appeared. They had no reason to suspect him. But when my agents probed further..." Her breath hitched. "He disappeared. And his family was gone as well." Her throat tightened around the words. "Gone from their townhouse like phantoms. The neighbors recall nothing unusual."
From his agitated pacing by the hearth, Marius Hawthorne interjected with a frantic energy that sent his silk robes rustling. "Valerius has been conducting business with unprecedented efficiency these past days, Your Grace. Ducal orders bearing the Head's Signature flow from the study like water - mine inspections in the Krellian Deeps, orders to for Dawmoor, personnel rotations among the provincial guard posts, even petty allocations to minor trade outposts." His jowls trembled with realization. "All perfectly mundane administrative actions... precisely the sort of busywork that would keep a young heir occupied with governance while drawing no suspicion."
Regulus's facade of bored impatience shattered, replaced by a cold, venomous rage. He turned his glare on Marius. "You had one task. You were to secure the boy, or see him removed. Instead, you let him survive an expensive team of Rank 4 professionals, and now you have lost him entirely? You let Valerius run rings around you while you searched for a single, compromised lieutenant?"
"We tried to locate Borin!" Livia shot back defensively. "We received intelligence he was seen heading south on the merchant road. We sent agents, but he seems to have vanished."
The Duke's royal-blue mantle whirled like a stormcloud as he stood abruptly, his untouched wine forgotten on the side table. "You're telling me," he enunciated with frightening precision, "that while you chased shadows to the southern merchant road, that insolent child might have slipped his leash entirely? That your vaunted network within these walls failed to notice the Synkar heir vanishing from beneath your noses?"
The exquisite Hawthorne tapestry behind them seemed to mock their predicament with its woven scenes of mercantile triumph as undeniable proof of failure condensed in the air between them - thicker than the finest perfume, more bitter than the rarest coffee bean from distant Sorethi ports.
"A diversion," Regulus spat, the truth dawning on him with infuriating clarity as he paced the gilded chamber. His polished boots clicked sharply against the marble floor with each measured step. "A ghost trail, while the real target slipped through your fingers like sand. And you incompetent fools let it happen under your very noses!"
The Duke's pale eyes narrowed as they swept over the Hawthornes' stunned expressions, his aristocratic features hardening into something far more dangerous than mere anger. This wasn't just failure—this was betrayal of his explicit orders, compounded by staggering incompetence.
"We underestimated the brat. But that boy is still a child if he thinks this will be the end of it. Valerius will answer for this deception," he vowed, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper that carried all the quiet promise of a drawn blade. "In person."
With his patience thoroughly exhausted and the bitter taste of humiliation fouling his tongue, Duke Regulus Astraulf turned sharply and strode toward the chamber doors. His royal-blue mantle billowed behind him like storm-tossed waves, his mind already calculating how to extract the truth from the old seneschal—one way or another. Every measured footstep echoed with the implicit threat: House Astraulf did not tolerate being outmaneuvered, least of all by a grieving boy and his aging puppet-master.
The game had shifted. And now, he would play to win.
Master Orrin Valerius was composed upon meeting them. "Your Grace," he said with a deep, respectful bow. "My apologies for the delay. Lord Rhyse has been deeply immersed in his studies and duties, as I am sure you can appreciate."
"Enough of this farce, Valerius," Regulus sneered. "Where is the boy?"
Valerius's expression shifted to one of profound, practiced regret. "Unfortunately, Your Grace, the young master felt a deep sense of responsibility to his late father's plans. Shortly before His Majesty's summons arrived, he had already departed on a pre-arranged, discreet journey to the capital. A trip planned months ago by Lord Corbin himself. It is a matter of great personal importance to him.!
It was a masterful lie, delivered with unimpeachable sincerity. It explained Rhyse's absence without directly defying the Crown, framing it as the fulfillment of his deceased father's will.
But Regulus was not fooled. The timing was too perfect, the excuse too convenient. Rage, cold and absolute, flashed in his eyes. He had been outmaneuvered by a thirteen-year-old boy and his aging steward.
"You dare lie to me?" Duke Regulus hissed, and with a speed that belied his noble attire, he lunged. He was not just a politician; his hand moved with the practiced grace of a high-ranking duelist, aiming not to kill, but to incapacitate, to seize Valerius as a hostage.
But Valerius, while an administrator, was a Rank 5 Master Steward of House Synkar. He did not flinch. "An order is an order," Rhyse had told him. "Use the artifacts."
As Regulus's hand shot forward, a shimmering, multi-faceted shield of pure light erupted from an amulet around Valerius's neck – a Grade 8 Defensive Artifact. Regulus's strike impacted the shield with a concussive boom that echoed through the hall, sending arcs of contained energy sizzling through the air.
Simultaneously, two suits of ornate armor that had stood like statues flanking the main hall whirred to life. Their visors slid shut, glowing azure runes igniting on their obsidian frames. They were not mere decorations; they were Synkar Praetorian Golems, Grade 4 constructs, and they moved to interpose themselves between the Duke and the Seneschal, their heavy war-hammers raised.
"Treason!" Regulus roared, drawing his own elegant, rune-etched blade. "You dare raise arms against a representative of the Crown?!"
"We raise arms to defend the Seneschal of House Synkar, within the walls of the Ancestral Manor, from an unprovoked assault, Your Grace," Captain Brandt Marek's voice cut through the tension as he and a dozen more Core Guard members stepped forward, their weapons humming, forming a solid wall between the Duke and Valerius.
Regulus's face was a mask of fury. He was powerful, but he was deep within Synkar territory, facing two high-grade golems, an elite security captain of equal rank and even higher battle prowess, a dozen well-armed guards, and a seneschal now clearly protected by one of the legendary artifacts. It was impossible to know what else lay hidden in the Ancestral Manor. An open battle here would be costly, politically disastrous, and by no means guaranteed to succeed. The Synkar war-machine, even without its Lord present, was not to be trifled with.
The Duke forced himself to take a step back, his blade still held at the ready, his chest heaving with barely suppressed rage. "This is not over, Valerius," he spat, his eyes promising retribution. "The boy thinks he is clever, hiding in the wilderness. But the world is a small place for a runaway Duke. When I find him, his 'personal journey' will come to a swift and unfortunate end." He turned to Marius and Livia, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You have failed me. Find him. Find him before I decide your branch of the Hawthorne family is more trouble than it's worth."
Duke Regulus made no effort to hide his thoughts from those present.
With that, Duke Regulus Astraulf spun on his heel, his entourage of knights nervously closing ranks around him as they stormed out of the manor, leaving a trail of simmering rage and broken protocol in their wake.
Valerius finally allowed himself a slow breath, his hand resting on the still-humming amulet at his neck. Marek's Core Guard stood fast, a silent, imposing line of blue and obsidian. Lyra Meadowlight, who had appeared silently in a shadowed archway during the confrontation, gave a single, almost imperceptible nod towards Valerius before melting back into the darkness to continue her surveillance.
The wolf had been turned away from the door, for now. But he was now loose in the fields, and he was hunting. And Rhyse Synkar, their young lord, was already deep in the wilderness, heading straight towards another den of vipers.