Chapter 20 — Ashes of the Grand Duke
Arion stood silent beside the door to the study, his breath uneven.
But before that—
He had returned to his chambers, hands trembling as he undid the straps of his armor. The moment the door shut behind him, the mask cracked.
He slid down.
Back against the cold wood.
And he cried.
"Father…"
"Father… sob… why…"
Tears fell freely, silently. No war had prepared him for this kind of loss.
He had always been the composed one—the strong one. But tonight, he allowed himself to mourn.
Just for a moment.
Then… he rose.
He bathed.
Changed into crisp dark garments, silver embroidery hugging the sleeves—a reflection of the title now carved into his fate.
Grand Duke Arion Elfeldore.
He descended the stairs, finding the butler in the hall, eyes weary.
"They haven't eaten, My Lord," the butler whispered. "Not since the news."
Arion's voice was hoarse but firm.
"Then call them."
In the quiet dining room, Athanasia sat like a glass figurine, her eyes hollow.
Adrion sat beside her, face pale, expression distant.
Arion broke the silence with gentle command.
"Eat."
They didn't speak, but slowly—painfully—they lifted their spoons, tasting warmth after days of cold.
When the meal ended, Arion stood and turned to Athanasia.
"With me. In Father's study."
She nodded.
Adrion followed.
The room still smelled like parchment, old ink, and the faint scent of cinnamon tobacco their father once favored.
And then—a golden glow.
Phoenix appeared, feathers shimmering with silent sorrow.
"You want the truth," it said. "Then hear it."
The Phoenix spread its wings, conjuring the memory in firelight. Images danced across the study walls—of the Grand Duke trembling in his chamber, dark sigils forming across his skin.
Curses. Symbols of black magic.
Arion watched, fists clenched.
Athanasia's lips trembled. She stepped forward, eyes filled with guilt.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice breaking. "I couldn't save him…"
"Yes," Adrion snapped, his voice sharp and bitter. "It's all because of you!"
Athanasia flinched.
"We had a way! You knew it, and you—you didn't do it!"
"Adrion—" Arion started, but his brother's voice cracked into sobs.
"We had a way. The curse needed a sacrifice. One… innocent soul."
Silence hung like a noose.
"I… offered mine," Adrion whispered. "But she stopped me…"
Arion looked at Athanasia, who had lowered her head.
"It wasn't right," she whispered. "The magic asked for innocence… not guilt. I thought… I thought if we found the one who cursed him, we could force them to undo it."
"But it was too late," Adrion muttered. "It was too late."
Arion closed his eyes. His shoulders dropped as if the world itself pressed down on him.
"Dark magic has never come without price," he murmured. "But we'll find the one responsible. And they will pay."
He stepped toward both of them, pulling Athanasia and Adrion into a gentle embrace.
"We were all just trying to save him," he said. "We failed. But we're still here. And now… we rise."
Outside the window, the moon rose behind storm clouds.
And the Grand Duke's children stood in the shadows of sorrow, side by side—scars deep, hearts broken, but still breathing.
The council room stood in silence, suffocating under the gravity of the loss. The air was thick, grief draped over every word left unsaid. Men in fine coats whispered behind silk gloves, eyes casting cautious glances at the new heir seated in his father's chair.
Arion von Rivellion sat still.
No tears.
No tremor in his voice.
Just stormcloud eyes staring dead ahead—calculating, controlled, distant.
"Grand Duke Arion," one of the elder councilmen cleared his throat, adjusting the golden crest on his robe. "As your father's passing has left the Northern Dukedom vulnerable—"
Arion raised a hand. Not to silence. Not to threaten. Just a flick of the wrist, but the room obeyed as though a commandment had been issued.
"I am not here to entertain hollow concerns wrapped in politics," Arion said, voice smooth, but lined with steel. "You speak of vulnerability, yet none of you stood beside my father when he bled for this land."
The man swallowed.
Another tried to step in, "Grand Duke, we must address the transfer of duties and—"
Arion stood.
Slowly.
His figure eclipsed the highbacked chair, long coat trailing, gold embroidery gleaming under the dim council chandeliers. He walked forward, stopping only inches from the man who spoke.
"You call yourself loyal, yet I've received no report on the dark curse that killed him," he said, tone clipped but ice-cold. "Was your loyalty too busy counting how many titles would fall into your laps when he died?"
The man flinched.
No one else dared speak.
Arion's aura now filled the room like fire barely held back. It wasn't the roar of a lion—it was the pause before the pounce.
"If you truly cared about the welfare of this Dukedom, you'd bring me leads, not bureaucracy. You'd stand by Adrion, by Athanasia, who have not eaten or rested since the death of their father."
He turned away, voice suddenly lower, but colder.
"This council is dismissed. Effective immediately. I'll summon individuals when I require them."
"But—"
"I said dismissed."
The chamber emptied like smoke fleeing flame.
When the doors shut, Arion finally allowed his shoulders to lower. His hand brushed the carved wood of his father's chair.
He whispered, "I will not let your legacy be devoured by vipers."
Dinner had been quiet.
Too quiet.
Arion sat at the head of the table like a carved statue of grief, motionless but radiating a quiet command that made even the butlers bow deeper. Adrion toyed with his untouched meal, while Athanasia tried to sip water but her hand trembled every time the glass touched her lips.
He watched them both.
The silence wasn't peace—it was pressure, like glass just before it shatters.
After dinner, she finally spoke.
"Arion," she said, her voice just above a whisper. "I have something… I need to tell you."
He looked up immediately, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. "Alright," he said gently. "Let's go to the study."
They moved down the corridor, her footsteps hesitant beside his assured stride.
Inside the Grand Duke's study, dust danced under the pale light of the chandelier. Arion gestured to the seat opposite his father's old desk but remained standing.
Athanasia hesitated near the fireplace.
"I… I…" she began, fingers twitching.
He exhaled, walking to the chair and sitting down. "It's alright," he said in that low, steady voice. "Take your time. I'm here."
She nodded slowly.
A breath in.
A breath out.
And then she raised her hand.
A flame flickered to life in her palm—but it wasn't golden or red.
It was dark.
A deep violet hue with streaks of black curling within the flames like ink in water.
Arion's eyes widened as he stood up abruptly, chair scraping the floor. "Athanasia—why is your flame… this color?"
"I… I don't know," she admitted, tears glimmering in her eyes. "It's been changing slowly. I didn't notice at first."
"Did you ask Phoenix?"
She shook her head.
"Call him," Arion ordered, voice sharp with urgency.
"But—"
"Athanasia," he said, louder this time, "Call him. Now."
Trembling, she closed her eyes and whispered Phoenix's name into the shadows.
With a burst of gold and crimson, he appeared—a tall figure cloaked in starlight, his eyes reflecting endless skies.
"You called—"
Before he finished, Arion cut in, voice tight: "What happens when an Aries flame changes from red to dark purple?"
Phoenix blinked.
Slowly.
Then turned to Athanasia. "Show me."
She lifted her palm again.
The dark flame roared to life, more chaotic than before. Her fingers trembled with the effort of holding it steady.
Phoenix stared.
Silent.
Too silent.
The weight in the room grew unbearable.
Athanasia's voice cracked. "W-what does it mean?"
Phoenix's eyes narrowed. For the first time in their history, his expression faltered.
"I…" he began, then rubbed his temple. "I don't know."
"What?" Arion's voice cut through the air like a whip.
Phoenix folded his arms, a flicker of frustration flashing across his usually calm face. "I've seen red flames turn blue, white, even gold… but never this. Never a flame decaying like this."
"Is it dangerous?" Arion asked tightly.
Phoenix didn't answer at first.
Then he said, quietly, "If we don't find the cause soon… yes."
Athanasia clutched her dress tightly.
"Your fire is your soul, Athanasia," Phoenix said. "And it's whispering to the dark."
Chapter 20 — Ashes of the Grand Duke
Arion stood silent beside the door to the study, his breath uneven.
But before that—
He had returned to his chambers, hands trembling as he undid the straps of his armor. The moment the door shut behind him, the mask cracked.
He slid down.
Back against the cold wood.
And he cried.
"Father…"
"Father… sob… why…"
Tears fell freely, silently. No war had prepared him for this kind of loss.
He had always been the composed one—the strong one. But tonight, he allowed himself to mourn.
Just for a moment.
Then… he rose.
He bathed.
Changed into crisp dark garments, silver embroidery hugging the sleeves—a reflection of the title now carved into his fate.
Grand Duke Arion Elfeldore.
He descended the stairs, finding the butler in the hall, eyes weary.
"They haven't eaten, My Lord," the butler whispered. "Not since the news."
Arion's voice was hoarse but firm.
"Then call them."
In the quiet dining room, Athanasia sat like a glass figurine, her eyes hollow.
Adrion sat beside her, face pale, expression distant.
Arion broke the silence with gentle command.
"Eat."
They didn't speak, but slowly—painfully—they lifted their spoons, tasting warmth after days of cold.
When the meal ended, Arion stood and turned to Athanasia.
"With me. In Father's study."
She nodded.
Adrion followed.
The room still smelled like parchment, old ink, and the faint scent of cinnamon tobacco their father once favored.
And then—a golden glow.
Phoenix appeared, feathers shimmering with silent sorrow.
"You want the truth," it said. "Then hear it."
The Phoenix spread its wings, conjuring the memory in firelight. Images danced across the study walls—of the Grand Duke trembling in his chamber, dark sigils forming across his skin.
Curses. Symbols of black magic.
Arion watched, fists clenched.
Athanasia's lips trembled. She stepped forward, eyes filled with guilt.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice breaking. "I couldn't save him…"
"Yes," Adrion snapped, his voice sharp and bitter. "It's all because of you!"
Athanasia flinched.
"We had a way! You knew it, and you—you didn't do it!"
"Adrion—" Arion started, but his brother's voice cracked into sobs.
"We had a way. The curse needed a sacrifice. One… innocent soul."
Silence hung like a noose.
"I… offered mine," Adrion whispered. "But she stopped me…"
Arion looked at Athanasia, who had lowered her head.
"It wasn't right," she whispered. "The magic asked for innocence… not guilt. I thought… I thought if we found the one who cursed him, we could force them to undo it."
"But it was too late," Adrion muttered. "It was too late."
Arion closed his eyes. His shoulders dropped as if the world itself pressed down on him.
"Dark magic has never come without price," he murmured. "But we'll find the one responsible. And they will pay."
He stepped toward both of them, pulling Athanasia and Adrion into a gentle embrace.
"We were all just trying to save him," he said. "We failed. But we're still here. And now… we rise."
Outside the window, the moon rose behind storm clouds.
And the Grand Duke's children stood in the shadows of sorrow, side by side—scars deep, hearts broken, but still breathing.
The council room stood in silence, suffocating under the gravity of the loss. The air was thick, grief draped over every word left unsaid. Men in fine coats whispered behind silk gloves, eyes casting cautious glances at the new heir seated in his father's chair.
Arion von Rivellion sat still.
No tears.
No tremor in his voice.
Just stormcloud eyes staring dead ahead—calculating, controlled, distant.
"Grand Duke Arion," one of the elder councilmen cleared his throat, adjusting the golden crest on his robe. "As your father's passing has left the Northern Dukedom vulnerable—"
Arion raised a hand. Not to silence. Not to threaten. Just a flick of the wrist, but the room obeyed as though a commandment had been issued.
"I am not here to entertain hollow concerns wrapped in politics," Arion said, voice smooth, but lined with steel. "You speak of vulnerability, yet none of you stood beside my father when he bled for this land."
The man swallowed.
Another tried to step in, "Grand Duke, we must address the transfer of duties and—"
Arion stood.
Slowly.
His figure eclipsed the highbacked chair, long coat trailing, gold embroidery gleaming under the dim council chandeliers. He walked forward, stopping only inches from the man who spoke.
"You call yourself loyal, yet I've received no report on the dark curse that killed him," he said, tone clipped but ice-cold. "Was your loyalty too busy counting how many titles would fall into your laps when he died?"
The man flinched.
No one else dared speak.
Arion's aura now filled the room like fire barely held back. It wasn't the roar of a lion—it was the pause before the pounce.
"If you truly cared about the welfare of this Dukedom, you'd bring me leads, not bureaucracy. You'd stand by Adrion, by Athanasia, who have not eaten or rested since the death of their father."
He turned away, voice suddenly lower, but colder.
"This council is dismissed. Effective immediately. I'll summon individuals when I require them."
"But—"
"I said dismissed."
The chamber emptied like smoke fleeing flame.
When the doors shut, Arion finally allowed his shoulders to lower. His hand brushed the carved wood of his father's chair.
He whispered, "I will not let your legacy be devoured by vipers."
Dinner had been quiet.
Too quiet.
Arion sat at the head of the table like a carved statue of grief, motionless but radiating a quiet command that made even the butlers bow deeper. Adrion toyed with his untouched meal, while Athanasia tried to sip water but her hand trembled every time the glass touched her lips.
He watched them both.
The silence wasn't peace—it was pressure, like glass just before it shatters.
After dinner, she finally spoke.
"Arion," she said, her voice just above a whisper. "I have something… I need to tell you."
He looked up immediately, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. "Alright," he said gently. "Let's go to the study."
They moved down the corridor, her footsteps hesitant beside his assured stride.
Inside the Grand Duke's study, dust danced under the pale light of the chandelier. Arion gestured to the seat opposite his father's old desk but remained standing.
Athanasia hesitated near the fireplace.
"I… I…" she began, fingers twitching.
He exhaled, walking to the chair and sitting down. "It's alright," he said in that low, steady voice. "Take your time. I'm here."
She nodded slowly.
A breath in.
A breath out.
And then she raised her hand.
A flame flickered to life in her palm—but it wasn't golden or red.
It was dark.
A deep violet hue with streaks of black curling within the flames like ink in water.
Arion's eyes widened as he stood up abruptly, chair scraping the floor. "Athanasia—why is your flame… this color?"
"I… I don't know," she admitted, tears glimmering in her eyes. "It's been changing slowly. I didn't notice at first."
"Did you ask Phoenix?"
She shook her head.
"Call him," Arion ordered, voice sharp with urgency.
"But—"
"Athanasia," he said, louder this time, "Call him. Now."
Trembling, she closed her eyes and whispered Phoenix's name into the shadows.
With a burst of gold and crimson, he appeared—a tall figure cloaked in starlight, his eyes reflecting endless skies.
"You called—"
Before he finished, Arion cut in, voice tight: "What happens when an Aries flame changes from red to dark purple?"
Phoenix blinked.
Slowly.
Then turned to Athanasia. "Show me."
She lifted her palm again.
The dark flame roared to life, more chaotic than before. Her fingers trembled with the effort of holding it steady.
Phoenix stared.
Silent.
Too silent.
The weight in the room grew unbearable.
Athanasia's voice cracked. "W-what does it mean?"
Phoenix's eyes narrowed. For the first time in their history, his expression faltered.
"I…" he began, then rubbed his temple. "I don't know."
"What?" Arion's voice cut through the air like a whip.
Phoenix folded his arms, a flicker of frustration flashing across his usually calm face. "I've seen red flames turn blue, white, even gold… but never this. Never a flame decaying like this."
"Is it dangerous?" Arion asked tightly.
Phoenix didn't answer at first.
Then he said, quietly, "If we don't find the cause soon… yes."
Athanasia clutched her dress tightly.
"Your fire is your soul, Athanasia," Phoenix said. "And it's whispering to the dark."