Count Marrowind, Viscount Edevane, and Viscount Thryne strode into the throne room of the Dukedom, the heavy thud of their boots echoing through the vast, hollow chamber.
Each man was clad in fur-padded coats, the fabric laced with the frost of a bitter morning ride. Their presence radiated cold authority, forged through years of command and conflict.
Towering marble pillars lined the hall on either side, rising from polished obsidian floors to the vaulted ceiling above. Between each pillar stood soldiers—silent, still, and stern—guardians of both tradition and power.
Tall arched windows stretched from nearly floor to ceiling, framing the walls like sacred murals. Sunlight spilled through the glass in golden streams, but the columns cast long, solemn shadows that broke the light into bands—half radiance, half gloom.
And at the end of the hall, seated upon the ironwood throne, was the man they had come to confront—Korah Mormont, first son of Duke Ohad. Draped in a dark cloak with the sigil of the bear etched across his chestplate, he sat with a quiet confidence that was quickly wearing thin.
Their eyes locked on him—stern, accusing, unwavering.
Duke Korah’s voice broke the silence, low and edged with disdain.
“Have you seen the result of your reckless decision, Korah? House Ashbourne has turned the tide of this war—and once they’ve finished mopping the blood from their blades, they’ll march on us. Of that, I have no doubt.”
We are not weak,” Count Marrowind snapped, his fur-lined shoulders rising defiantly. “The strongest heavy cavalry in the empire rides under our banner. If Duke Asher comes, we shall cleave through his forces and feed the soil with the blood of those wastelanders!”
A hush followed his bold words—until Korah leaned forward on the throne, his voice glacial.
“Is that foolishness I hear from a man of your reputation?” he said, the words cutting like a cold blade. “You, of all men, should understand: if Duke Asher could turn the tide against the United Army—crushing forty thousand men—he is more than capable of gutting this Dukedom and lighting it aflame.”
Count Marrowind scoffed. “We made you Duke. And what have you shown us? Weakness. Cowardice. We should’ve chosen your brother.”
“Enough!” Korah rose from his throne, his black cloak billowing behind him—only to pause, lips curling into a slow, bitter smile. Then he laughed. The sound was deep, humorless, and it echoed through the marble pillars like a warning.
“So…” he began, stepping down from the dais, “you three stand here, speaking of betrayal, while dancing with my father’s second concubine in the shadows. You really believe you have a future with Prince Aaron?”
Count Marrowind cleared his throat, feigning indifference. “Do not trouble yourself with our vision for the future. Your brother is already in motion. He rides east, to the Wilderness, to rally the barbarian horsemen. When he returns, House Ashbourne will lie in ruins.”
Korah stopped halfway down the stairs. Slowly, he sat back down—like a man surrendering to fate.
“Then go on,” he murmured. “When he comes—when Asher tears down our gates—I’ll plead with him to hang your heads beside mine on the city walls. A shared display of our foolishness.”
Their faces darkened.
“You speak like a man already defeated,” Viscount Thryne spat.
Korah’s eyes blazed.
“You want to fight the man who crushed forty thousand trained men in days. Who felled seventeen wyverns and scattered the Intis air fleet like ash. A man whose war machines spit thousands of arrows in the blink of an eye. Whose soldiers wear the finest armor, whose merchants control half the empire’s gold. Who rules the wealthiest Dukedom in this broken land.”
He stood again, this time slow and deliberate, his voice rising with conviction.
“You walk into your graves like blind men. But there’s still time. Join me. Reject this madness, and stop the fall of House Mormont.”
Count Marrowind’s lips twisted. “Unfortunately… we cannot side with the son who murdered his own father.”
At that moment, soldiers burst into the chamber, weapons drawn. Korah turned, stunned.
“What is this?!”
Count Marrowind unfurled a scroll, inked with careful handwriting.
“Your letter to the maid. We found it. Proof that you plotted Duke Ohad’s death.”
Korah’s eyes narrowed—but his gaze wasn’t on the noblemen.
They were on the woman just beyond the arched doorway—Jessica, the Duke’s second concubine. She stood calmly, a bloody dagger in hand.
Her voice was soft, venomous. “We must cleanse the empire of disgraceful spawn who not only conspired against their father… but dared claim dominion.”
Korah took a faltering step down the stairs, his voice a whisper.
“Did you… touch my family?”
Jessica’s lips curled. “I killed the traitors. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
Something inside Korah broke.
Suddenly, his head burst into flame. His sclera turned black. His pupils flared crimson like embers beneath a forge.
“You… did what?!”
The temperature surged, blistering heat sweeping through the chamber. The marble underfoot steamed. Guards reeled back. The noblemen staggered.
That flame.
That aura.
It was Duke Ohad’s flame.
Even in his wrath, even as flames licked his skin, the sorrow in Korah’s eyes bled through—the bottom of them turning a deep, mournful red.
“I loved that woman…” he whispered, voice trembling with fury. “And I let you kill her.”
His fists clenched.
“I loved my sister… yet I let you betroth her to that snake, Prince Aaron. All for your sake. For peace.”
He raised his head, tears evaporating on his burning cheeks.
“And yet…”
A broken chuckle slipped from his lips.
Then he gnashed his teeth—and his face twisted into something terrifying. It was not mere rage.
It was madness.
The air trembled. Heat shimmered off the marble as the banners hanging high above caught fire one by one. Soldiers wiped sweat from their brows, eyes wide with fear.
Korah stepped down from the throne like a ruthless lord descending to pass judgment.
“Come then,” he growled, voice booming with unshackled power. It rolled through the chamber like thunder from the depths of the earth—a voice that had been chained too long.
A spear of flame surged into existence in his hand, glowing white-hot.
He hurled it—faster than the eye could follow.
Count Marrowind barely had time to react. His body shimmered, skin transmuting to gold as he crossed his arms to shield himself.
The spear struck, erupting in a deafening blaze of fire—but the Count remained standing, though shaken, his golden form steaming.
“Korah… we shouldn’t do things this way—”
But Korah was already beside him.
Boom.
A single blow.
It sent Count Marrowind skidding backwards until he slammed deep into a pillar, sending dust and debris flying.
Jessica gasped, her face pale as ash. She spun around, her voice shrieking with urgency.
“Shut the door!”
The massive oak doors slammed shut with a thunderous boom, soldiers pressing their backs against the wood, muscles straining, as roars and screams echoed from within the throne room. Steel clashed, flames hissed, and the air itself trembled with violence.
Then came silence.
It was broken by heavy, synchronized footsteps—thud, thud, thud—as a hundred elite Immortals, the empire’s most feared guard, marched down the hallway in lockstep. Shields high, helms gleaming, they advanced like the will of a tyrant made flesh.
Their captain halted before Jessica, who stood poised in her velvet and pearls, the bloodied dagger now sheathed at her side.
“Shall we proceed?” he asked, voice cold beneath his iron helm.
Jessica gave a slight nod, her voice calm. “He’s a traitor.”
The captain turned. The doors groaned as they were pulled open again.
What they saw inside brought even the Immortals pause.
Bodies lay smoldering, armor melted into flesh. Pillars had crumbled. Banners lay in ashes. And at the center of the wreckage stood three bloodied noblemen—still alive only because of their strength as knights, but barely holding on, broken and scorched.
And then… the Immortals charged in.
Jessica waited.
Time passed. Long enough for doubt to take root.
When the doors creaked open once more, smoke rolled out. Heat poured into the hall.
And there, amidst the ruin, knelt Korah.
Around him—blackened steel, shattered shields, and the charred remains of the Immortals.
In his hand, he clutched the severed head of Count Marrowind.
His head was bowed—not out of reverence, but weakness. His body trembled, spent. He hadn’t fallen to sword or flame.
But to the exhaustion of battle.
Even Jessica, who had plotted this end, hadn’t anticipated such devastation.
Her nostrils flared slightly, but she composed herself. With slow, deliberate grace, she stepped over the corpses, heels tapping lightly on scorched stone.
She came to stand before Korah, who still knelt, breathing faintly.
Leaning close, she whispered into his ear, a smile spreading across her lips.
“Eventually… you’ve joined your father.”
Then she rose and turned to the others.
“Spread the word,” she declared, voice smooth and sharp as silk over steel. “The traitor and his cursed line have been slain. Yuna has been spared—she belongs to the prince now. Let it be known that our new Duke, my son has already journeyed to bring an end to the threats of the dominion. He should be praised above all his predecessors.”
Viscount Edevane and Thryne nodded, bloodied but obedient.
Jessica turned toward the throne, smoke still rising around its ruined steps.
She exhaled deeply. A whisper on her lips.
“Finally.”