Lord Alaric Eisenklinge emerged from the towering main family castle, his footsteps echoing with purpose across the polished marble floors. Every guard stationed throughout the corridors instinctively straightened at his approach, their hands trembling as they offered hurried bows. Some stammered greetings, overwhelmed by the crushing weight of his presence.
Alaric was a man of few words, but his very existence commanded absolute respect. The air itself seemed to thicken around him, heavy with his authority.
He was headed to Beatrix's residence. When he finally arrived at the elegant manor reserved for his beloved concubine, Junia spotted him immediately through the ornate windows. She rushed to the entrance, her face flushed with nervous excitement.
"W-Welcome, Master Alaric!" she stammered, dropping into a clumsy curtsy that nearly sent her sprawling.
Alaric's obsidian eyes swept over her briefly. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "Where is Beatrix?"
Junia's hands wrung together nervously as she struggled to find her voice. "M-Master Alaric, Lady Beatrix should be... she's nursing young Master Ares in her chambers."
A barely perceptible softening crossed Alaric's features as he stroked his strong jaw thoughtfully. "Hmm. May I see them?"
The request—so uncharacteristically gentle from the fearsome lord—caused Junia's eyes to widen in surprise. "Of course, Master Alaric! Please, this way."
She led him through corridors and past windows that overlooked gardens where rare flowers bloomed. They arrived at Beatrix's private chambers, where the soft glow of afternoon sunlight painted everything in warm, golden hues.
There, seated in a chair, was Beatrix herself. Her auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders like liquid fire as she cradled little Ares against her breast. The infant nursed contentedly while his mother gazed down at him with an expression of pure, maternal love that could have melted the hardest heart.
Matilda, the head maid whose years of service had taught her to read every nuance of noble behavior, immediately recognized Alaric's presence. She rose from her corner chair with practiced grace, offering a deep bow that spoke of decades of loyal service.
"Welcome, Master Alaric," she said with quiet dignity.
Alaric acknowledged her with the slightest nod—a gesture that, coming from him, was practically effusive praise. As he moved toward Beatrix with measured steps, Matilda caught the unspoken message in his posture. With remarkable efficiency, she grasped the still-gawking Junia by the ear and whisked her from the room, despite the younger maid's obvious reluctance to miss whatever was about to unfold.
"Thank you," Beatrix whispered, her voice soft as silk as she looked up at him with emerald eyes that held no trace of bitterness or resentment—only pure, unconditional love. "Because of you, I will have a full month with my Ares."
As she spoke, her embrace around the infant tightened protectively, as if she could shield him from the cruel realities of their world through the sheer force of her maternal love.
Alaric nodded slowly, his usual mask of stern authority cracking just enough to reveal the man beneath. He reached out with hands that had wielded swords in countless battles, hands that had commanded armies and crushed enemies—yet now they moved with infinite gentleness as he caressed Beatrix's face.
His touch was feather-light against her soft skin, a stark contrast to the callused palms that spoke of a lifetime spent in combat. Then, with movements that seemed almost reverent, he leaned down and captured her lips with his own.
The kiss was tender, passionate, and filled with all the words they could never speak aloud in public. It lasted an eternity and ended too soon, leaving them both breathless in the golden afternoon light.
When they finally parted, Alaric's voice carried an emotion that few would ever hear from the legendary lord. "Beatrix... I love you. I always have, and I always will."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of political impossibility and genuine devotion. His obsidian eyes searched her face as if memorizing every detail, as if he wanted to say more but couldn't find the words to express the depth of his feelings.
Beatrix's own eyes glistened with unshed tears as she felt the warmth of his touch lingering on her cheek. "I know you do, my love. Please... do everything in your power to protect our son."
Alaric's lips curved into the faintest smile—an expression so rare that most would swear he was incapable of such tenderness. Without another word, he turned and left the room, carrying with him the image of his beloved and their child, wrapped in golden sunlight and perfect peace.
---
Lord Alaric Eisenklinge had been born into the Eisenhart bloodline—one of the five purest lineages within the vast Eisenklinge dynasty. From his earliest memories, he had carried the crushing weight of expectation on his shoulders. His family's legacy stretched back through centuries of conquest and glory, and they would accept nothing less than absolute excellence from their heir.
He had clawed his way through political intrigue and bloody warfare, each victory carving another notch in his legend. Through sacrifice, cunning, and raw power, he had ascended to the rank of Ascendant—a level of magical mastery achieved by only the most exceptional individuals. When the former family head had passed, Alaric's strength had been undeniable, his claim to leadership absolute.
The Eisenklinge family was a vast network of eighteen distinct houses, five of which maintained the pure bloodlines that had founded the dynasty. The remaining thirteen were branch families who had married into the name or proven their worth through exceptional service. Even among these lesser houses, if someone possessed power comparable to Alaric's, they could potentially rise to become High Duke of Eisenklinge—though such ascension was extraordinarily rare.
Lost in these thoughts, Alaric made his way through the winding streets of the family compound. The setting sun painted the ancient stonework in shades of crimson and gold, while shadows began to lengthen across the cobblestones. Suddenly, he stopped mid-stride, his battle-honed instincts detecting a familiar presence lurking nearby.
"What is it?" he asked the empty air, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed instantly.
The shadow beneath his feet began to ripple and writhe like liquid darkness given life. From this impossible pool of shadow stepped a figure that seemed to materialize from the very essence of night itself.
The man possessed short, curly obsidian hair that caught the dying light, and wore a mask that covered his features from the bridge of his nose downward, leaving only his eyes visible. Despite his slender build, the aura radiating from him marked him unmistakably as a Grand Master—one of the elite warriors whose power could level mountains.
He dropped to one knee in a gesture of absolute submission, one fist pressed against the cobblestones in the traditional salute.
Alaric, recognizing both the urgency of the situation and the identity of his visitor, spoke before the traditional greetings could begin. "Malric, speak. You are the commander of an order—you don't need to prostrate yourself like the others."
Behind the mask, Malric's lips curved into a smile that mixed affection with grim purpose. "Well, cousin," he said as he rose fluidly to his feet, "I come bearing unfortunate news."
The wind picked up as he spoke, causing his midnight-black cloak to billow dramatically—a stark contrast to the pristine white robes that Alaric favored. The juxtaposition was intentional, a visual reminder of their different roles within the family structure.
Malric's voice carried the weight of coming storm as he delivered his report. "One of the eighteen houses has broken our most sacred commandments."
Alaric's expression remained unchanged, though those who knew him well might have detected the slight tightening around his eyes that indicated deep thought. After a moment of contemplation that seemed to stretch into eternity, he spoke with deadly calm.
"Which house?"
Malric released a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of inevitable bloodshed. "Isenkral."
The revelation brought no surprise to Alaric's features. If anything, he looked almost resigned, as if this news had been expected for some time. "I see. Norian has always been an ambitious man—perhaps too ambitious for his own good."
The pause that followed was pregnant with dark possibilities as Alaric weighed his options. When he spoke again, his words carried the finality of an executioner's blade.
"Send for Kaelen immediately. He should take his Ibex battalion and obliterate that entire family. Deploy your Panthers to ensure that none of their bloodline survives—not the elderly, not the children, not even the distant cousins who might seek revenge in years to come."
The brutality of the command would have shocked most, but Malric simply nodded with professional acceptance. This was the price of betrayal in their world.
Alaric continued, his voice as cold as winter steel. "Also ensure that any family members currently serving in our ranks formally denounce the Isenkral name. If they refuse, execute them as well—they could become problems in the future, and I will not have sleeping vipers in our midst."
Having delivered his death sentence with the casual efficiency of someone ordering dinner, Alaric's expression never wavered. There was no regret, no hesitation—only the cold calculation of a leader who understood that mercy was often more dangerous than cruelty.
"I will convene the Eisenklinge Council to select a new leader for the Frostbarrow territories," he added, already moving past the destruction he had just ordered to focus on the practical matters of governance.
With his commands issued, Alaric turned back toward his castle, his white robes flowing behind him like wings of judgment. The dying light of the sun cast his shadow long across the cobblestones, a dark harbinger of the blood that would soon flow.
Malric bowed one final time, his voice carrying the absolute obedience that had made him invaluable to his cousin. "I hear and obey, my lord."
With those words, he melted back into the shadows from which he had emerged, becoming one with the darkness that would soon swallow an entire family line.
As Alaric's footsteps echoed through the compound, a single thought crystallized in the evening air: a revolution was coming to Klingeheim, and this brutal execution was merely the first wave of a tide that would reshape the very foundations of their domain.
The Eisenklinge dynasty had spoken, and blood would answer.