Previously~
Edward smiled faintly, brushing his son's hair back before rising.
"Theodore!" he called.
The man appeared without delay.
"Everything is ready, my lord."
Edward gave a final glance back at the bedroom door—then nodded.
"Let's begin."
—----------------------------------------------------------
Outside the Felgris palace, knights clad in solid armor aligned themselves in rows. Awaiting their lord.
STEP!
Sir Kalem stepped onto the stage. His boots thudded against the wood, echoing across the tense silence.
"My soldiers. My comrades." His voice rang clear. "Steel yourselves."
He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle.
"We all know we're walking straight into a trap..."
He glanced at the crowd—faces weathered, eyes burning with loyalty.
"...but the Tigranclaw never bows."
A murmur ran through the ranks.
"We live to protect our lord. Our duchy. Our people."
He clenched his fist and raised it high.
"We are tigers, my men. Burn it into your bones—we. don't. back. down!"
A roar began to rise, hearts igniting with fire.
Then, with one final motion, he lifted his hand again.
"What are our commandments?!"
Shouts echoed throughout the estate,
"Honor in loyalty!"
"Glory in battle!"
"Death before disgrace!"
STEP!STEP!
The roar of the troops slowly died down as Edward ascended the stage.
He looked over his soldiers—not just warriors, but the lifeblood of Tigranclaw. He waited. Silence fell.
Then, he spoke—not loud, but every word carried weight.
"Look at you… soldiers of Tigranclaw. Even the empire would cower at your roar."
He paced slowly across the platform.
"They say we march into a trap. That we walk into death's jaws."
"Perhaps we do. But let me ask you this—when have we ever turned away from the jaws of death?"
His hand curled into a fist.
"We face it head on. With steel. With fury. With honor."
He paused. His gaze sharpened like drawn steel.
"I stand before you not as your Duke—but as a man who will bleed beside you. I will not stand behind walls while you fight. I will charge beside you."
He placed his hand over his heart.
"Because this land—this duchy—was not built on cowardice. It was built on sacrifice. And I will not let it fall."
He raised his voice now, the quiet burn igniting into flame.
"Let the church plot. Let the emperor cower. Let them come with their monsters and their legions."
"We will meet them at the gates of hell—and we will make them regret ever stepping foot on our soil!"
The crowd surged with energy, voices rising—
And finally, Edward raised his hand in salute.
"For the duchy. For your families. For Tigranclaw."
Location – Glowhaven Inn, Duskrane County
As Viole, Pinky, and Vincent reveled in their lavish meal, enjoying roasted lamb and fine wines, a knock interrupted their moment of indulgence.
"My lord, may I enter?" The voice was slow, age-worn, yet respectful.
Vincent's brow arched, the bite of lamb halfway to his mouth. "You may."
The door creaked open, revealing an elderly man with a neatly kept beard and formal attire. He was the owner of the Glowhaven Inn, his age evident in his slow movements, but his posture was still straight and dignified.
"What happened?" Vincent asked, his voice muffled as he chewed, barely lifting his eyes from his meal.
"I apologize for the intrusion, my lord, but a messenger has arrived for you…" The innkeeper's words were carefully chosen, a hint of discomfort in his tone.
Vincent's gaze narrowed. "And?"
The innkeeper hesitated before continuing, "He says he has urgent news, under the orders of Lord Henry Duskrane."
Vincent's brow furrowed deeper. "Aah..." He motioned casually with his hand, "Bring him in."
A cloaked figure entered, his face concealed by the hood. He whispered something in Vincent's ear, the words soft and urgent.
A silence fell over the room. Vincent's eyes flashed with something dark, then, without warning, his lips curled into a maniacal grin. He covered his face with his palm, but his eerie laughter erupted through the room, resonating like a twisted melody.
"Hahahahahaha… hehehehe..." His laughter rattled the walls.
Just as quickly as it started, it stopped. Vincent dropped his hand from his face, his expression going completely blank. With an unsettling calm, he turned to the messenger.
"Go back." His voice was cold, clipped, and full of finality.
The messenger bowed deeply, then, with a flicker of magic, vanished into thin air.
Vincent stood, signaling for Pinky and Viole to follow him. They did, though Pinky seemed to be contemplating a second helping.
"Finish your meal, and take your vacation," Vincent said, giving a wave of dismissal. He turned to the innkeeper. "Put this on my tab."
The innkeeper bowed low, eyes filled with respect. "As you wish, young master."
Vincent stepped out of the inn, the cool evening air biting at his skin. A shriek echoed across the snowy landscape.
FLAP!
A brilliant blue phoenix swooped from the sky, its wings sparkling with an ethereal glow as it landed gently on Vincent's forearm. The cry of the phoenix was sharp and fierce, like the scream of a dying star.
With practiced hands, Vincent tied a note to its talons. "Go to ????," he murmured, his voice calm, despite the weight of the message.
The phoenix let out another shriek, a resonating call that seemed to vibrate the air around them. With a powerful beat of its wings, it soared into the sky, vanishing into the distance with a burst of fiery light.
Vincent chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and anticipation. He turned, making his way toward Duskrane Castle, the cold wind nipping at his heels as he disappeared into the night.
Location – Duskrane Castle, Duskrane County
Orianne paced the floor of her study, her steps quick and sharp as she bit her lip, eyes darting toward the door. Her hands trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of what she expected. Her thoughts were a storm, and she couldn't still them—until Vincent's silhouette appeared in the doorway.
The moment she saw him, her breath caught. A flood of relief swept over her. She rushed to him, throwing her arms around him, the stress of the past few minutes melting away.
"Vincent, where have you been?" Her voice cracked, and before he could respond, she pulled him closer, tightening her grip. "Please, today... stay in your room. Don't question why. Just... please."
Vincent, ever the calm one, whispered softly, "Okay."
Together, they stepped into the hall, where the eyes of the family greeted them—concern etched on every face. Olivia, usually so composed, hurried forward, her hands trembling as she checked Vincent for any signs of injury.
"Vinnie, stay in your room today. Please," Olivia pleaded, brushing his hair back gently, but insistently.
Before Vincent could respond, Thomas's voice rang out, sharp and loud. "He won't!"
Olivia turned, wide-eyed with disbelief.
"Thomas!" She snapped, her face flushing with anger. "This isn't about simple training. His life could be in danger!"
Thomas gave a short laugh, his tone cutting. "What danger? That boy is the strongest of us all." His voice softened slightly. "He's untouchable."
Olivia stepped closer, her posture stiff with anger. "Thomas," she said, her voice low and deliberate, "can you take responsibility for your words? I won't let my grandson throw away his life on false hope. I won't risk him."
Vincent's eyes scanned the room, a sense of urgency in his gaze. "Where's Father?" His voice was steady, but a flicker of concern passed through his tone.
Orianne stepped forward, holding out a blank sheet of parchment. "He left... leaving only this."
Vincent's eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. As he reached for the note, his gaze met Thomas's. A strange, knowing grin spread across Thomas's face, and that small gesture sent a chill through Vincent's spine.
In one swift motion, Vincent tore the parchment, his fingers ripping through the paper with a violent, swift motion that seemed to echo in the room.
"Vincent!" Orianne gasped, her voice sharp with shock.
"Please wait, mother," Vincent's tone was unnervingly calm as he stepped back, eyes focused on the air around him.
Without another word, a sphere of light began to shimmer into existence before them. The room seemed to hum with energy as Henry's voice echoed from the sphere, clear and commanding.
"Greetings, mother, father, Vincent, and... Orianne. Where am I? Father knows the answer. My orders? As the current count, I order Vincent and Orianne Duskrane to deal with any disturbances on the estate while I command Thomas Duskrane to ascend the mountain with the shadows, should an assault launch from there." There was a slight pause. "Olivia Duskrane... no, mother, please trust me and Vincent."
The sphere shimmered again and then flickered out of existence, leaving an eerie silence in the room.
The cold tension lingered, and for a moment, no one moved.
Thomas was the first to speak, his grin widening ever so slightly. "So, we have our orders."
Olivia crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. "This isn't over."
Vincent's eyes met his mother's, his expression unreadable, but the weight of the situation bore down on him. He knew the path ahead would be perilous—his own family was caught in the storm, and their loyalty was now split.
Location- Rugard Palace, Leonhart Duchy
Alexander readied himself. His armour shone under the candlelight and his Lunar Sword was tightly kept in a sheath around his waist.
"Let's go." he motioned to a man in similar armour. The man's ashen hair hid his left eye.
"Yes, my lord." The man bowed slightly before following.
Outside, Sophie, Leon and Elise were waiting for them. Worry and concern etched on her face.
"Don't worry." Alexander leaned in to kiss Sophie on the forehead. Sophie caressed his cheek.
"Return quickly."
Alexander chuckled before crouching between Leon and Elise.
"Leonatus! I leave mother and Elise in your hands… Make sure not a single scratch wounds them."
Leon nodded in response. "Yes, father."
Elise hugged him softly. "Can't father take me too."
Alexander let out a small laugh, "I will, but once my little cub turns into a lioness."
"I am grown up!" Elise huffed.
With a sad expression, Alexander rose. He turned to Sophie,
"I leave them in your care."
He motioned to the man with ashen hair, "Kayden, let's go."
Kayden nodded.
Location – The Church of Ashen Order, Capital City
The grand hall of the church stretched far beyond the sight of most eyes, the stone pillars soaring upwards like giants reaching for the heavens. The air was thick with incense, and the low murmur of prayers echoed in the distance. But in the inner sanctum, behind thick velvet curtains, the leaders of the church gathered in secret, their faces concealed in shadows.
At the head of the long, circular table sat Cardinal Anselm, the Supreme Pontiff's right hand. His sharp, calculating eyes watched the gathering with an almost predatory calm. The flickering candlelight caught the edges of his face, highlighting the sharp lines of age, but none of it softened his presence. His gaze never wavered, as if he could see through the very walls that separated them from the world outside.
The room was filled with high-ranking members of the clergy, each one a player in the intricate game that was the empire. Among them were Archbishop Garrick, a man whose piety was well-known but whose ambition simmered just below the surface, and Father Elias, a seasoned diplomat whose influence had quietly stretched into every corner of the empire. They all had one thing in common: a loyalty to the church, but a loyalty shaped by power, by the fragile threads of influence they each wielded.
Anselm leaned forward, his voice smooth as silk but heavy with authority. "The Emperor has fallen under our sway, but the time has come to pull the strings tighter."
Father Elias, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. "You mean the situation with the Duchies? The vassal kingdom that Edward is negotiating with? I don't see how this directly serves the Church."
The Cardinal's lips curled into a smile, though it was a smile void of warmth. "It serves us more than you know. The Duchies are unstable. And Edward—" He paused, weighing the name as if savoring the taste of it. "—Edward is far too dangerous to leave unchecked."
Archbishop Garrick frowned slightly. "We know he has secrets. But how do you propose we use those against him? He's loyal to the Emperor."
Anselm's eyes gleamed. "Loyalty is a malleable thing, my dear Archbishop. What if I told you that Edward's loyalty can be turned into a weapon?"
A murmur of intrigue passed through the room, but no one spoke. Anselm's words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking deeper into their minds.
"It's simple," Anselm continued, his voice unwavering. "We sow discord between him and the Duchies. We fan the flames of suspicion about his dealings with other kingdoms, and we make sure the Emperor believes him to be a threat." He paused, leaning back in his chair. "Then, we send Alexander to the capital, a man whose honor we know will blind him to the true nature of his orders."
Father Elias looked skeptical. "And how does this help the Church?"
Anselm's lips twisted into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We use the distraction. While the Duchies are away, we send our Divine Order military to Duskrane County. The relics hidden there will be within our reach, and with the monsters we unleash from the mountains, we'll clear the land of heretics."
A heavy silence followed. The faces around the table were unreadable, but there was a shared understanding in the room that the plan was not just about power—it was about securing their place in the empire, ensuring the Church's dominance for generations to come.
Father Elias was the first to speak, his voice soft but firm. "And what of Edward's family? What of his son? His actions could lead to chaos in the Duchy."
Anselm's expression hardened. "Sacrifices must be made. If Edward is forced to choose between his duty to the Duchy and his love for his family, he will make the right choice."
The Archbishop leaned in, his hands clasped in front of him. "But will we be able to control the aftermath? What happens if Alexander refuses the Emperor's orders? He is known for his blind obedience."
Anselm's smile returned, but this time there was an edge to it, like a blade sharpening against stone. "Let us hope that Alexander's sense of honor outweighs his sense of reason. Let us hope that he will not question his Emperor. And should he do so…" He let the implication linger in the air like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. "...he will have no choice but to stand against the very force he swore to serve."
The others at the table exchanged glances, the weight of Anselm's words sinking in. The Church's plan was more than a political maneuver—it was a calculated effort to break Edward, to bring down the Duchies and any who opposed them. The relics would be a powerful weapon, but the real prize was control over the Emperor, and with that, control over the Empire itself.
Anselm stood, the movement smooth and deliberate, as if marking the end of their discussion. "The wheels are already in motion. The Divine Order is ready, and the Emperor will not question our actions once they have been set in motion. The Duchies will be forced into a corner, and we will have our victory."
As the clergy members around the table rose to depart, there was a sense of finality in the air. The plan was set in motion, and none could afford to turn back now. The tension was thick, and each member of the Church knew that the game was only beginning. Their next moves would determine the future of the Empire—and the future of their faith.
A lone figure knelt before the Cardinal, his posture stiff with respect and reverence, yet there was an unmistakable tension in his movements. The shadows of the dimly lit chamber seemed to gather around him, adding to the ominous weight of the moment.
"Sir Cardinal, the preparations have been completed. The Divine Order is ready for the task ahead," the man's voice was calm, but his words carried a certain sharpness, as if the gravity of the mission weighed heavily on him.
Cardinal Anselm, seated in his high-backed chair, regarded the figure with a gaze that felt as if it could pierce through to the very soul. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest, each tap a reminder of the control he held over everything within the Church's reach. He did not move for a moment, as though letting the anticipation hang in the air like a thick fog.
Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth yet laced with a quiet, powerful command. "Then move out the Templars. This is the will of Aerithar himself."
The man rose slowly, bowing his head before standing tall. His eyes gleamed with a fierce devotion, and with a swift motion, his palm struck the center of his chest in a salute—a gesture of unwavering loyalty to the Church and its higher purpose.
"As you command, Sir Cardinal. For the Ashen Pantheon !" he declared, his voice rising, resonating within the sacred walls of the chamber. It echoed through the hall, as if to summon the very will of the God Aerithar himself.
"For the Ashen Pantheon ," the Cardinal repeated, his voice a soft but resonant whisper. The words hung heavily in the air, their power growing with each syllable, like an incantation or a sacred oath.
Outside the Church, in the cold light of the early morning, the sound of armor scraping against stone echoed across the courtyard. Rows upon rows of knights, clad in polished white armor, stood in complete and unbroken discipline. Their faces were hidden behind gleaming helms, and the very air seemed to hum with the tension of their readiness.
A contingent of knights stood armed with massive greatswords, their shoulders squared and their postures taut with anticipation. Behind them, archers in matching white armor stood with their longbows at the ready, their eyes fixed firmly ahead. Further back, a small yet imposing squad of figures, draped in long, flowing white robes, stood in solemn silence, each wielding a staff of polished white metal, the staff heads crowned with shimmering symbols of Aerithar's divine power.
A tall, commanding figure emerged from the shadows of the Church, stepping into the open. His eyes were cold, his face chiseled with severity, yet there was a fire in them—an unwavering conviction that left no room for doubt or mercy. The figure raised his hand, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he signaled to the ranks of soldiers.
The sound of armor and weapons shifting grew louder as the knights stirred in response. A low murmur of approval rippled through the crowd, but it was quickly drowned by the booming voice of the commander.
"Our God Aerithar has bestowed upon us the divine task of purging the heretics," he proclaimed, his voice carrying across the assembled knights, his tone filled with both righteous anger and cold precision. His hand shot upward in a commanding gesture, and the knights, as if responding to an unspoken call, stood even straighter, their focus narrowing to the singular purpose before them.
The commander's eyes scanned the crowd—his gaze cold, merciless, and unyielding. "We march to bring about the reckoning. Do not leave anyone alive. Not a single one, for the seeds of evil lie within even the women and children. Spare no one." He drew in a deep breath, his chest swelling with fervor as he spoke the final words. "Destroy everything. Leave nothing but ruin in your wake."
A few of the soldiers stiffened, their eyes briefly flickering with uncertainty, but the commander's presence was like a force of nature—unyielding and absolute. The murmur of hesitation was silenced as the fervor of their leader's words took hold.
"For the Ashen Pantheon !" the commander shouted, his voice booming like a thunderclap across the courtyard.
The knights, their voices fueled by a feverish devotion, bellowed in unison. "For the Ashen Pantheon !" The chant rose like an unstoppable wave, crashing against the walls of the Church, carrying with it an aura of dread and divine wrath. It echoed down the streets, reaching the farthest corners of the city, marking the beginning of a holy campaign.
As the Templars began to march, their steps synchronized and their armor gleaming like a blinding light, a palpable sense of terror followed them. The ground beneath their feet seemed to tremble with each movement, as if the very earth recognized the weight of their mission. The city held its breath, knowing that the wrath of the Divine Order had been unleashed.
Within the Church, the Cardinal remained seated, his eyes watching the procession through the tall windows that framed the view. His lips curled into a satisfied, almost imperceptible smile. The plan was set in motion. The Duchies would soon be thrown into chaos, and with the power of the Templars at his back, the Cardinal would move one step closer to his ultimate goal: total control over the Empire.
The fate of the heretics was sealed. And there would be no mercy for those who stood against the divine will of Aerithar.