As morning broke over the Obrechtz estate, golden light seeped over the fortified walls, transforming them from imposing sentinels to shimmering ramparts. The sun's gentle rays danced across the manicured gardens, where birds sang in harmonious waves, their melodies intertwining with the sweet scent of rosevine and frost-lilies carried on the soft breeze. The Obrechtz winter courtyards, once bathed in moonlight's silvery glow, now basked in the warm, golden hues of dawn.
The grand estate, normally a bastion of rigid protocol and hushed tones, now hummed with restrained anticipation. The remnants of last night's festivities for Lady Katarina's tenth birthday still lingered – delicate petals scattered across the floors, half-empty glasses, and ribbons dancing in the gentle breeze. Yet, amidst the fading echoes of celebration, a sense of solemnity settled over the estate. For today marked the Awakening Ceremony, a revered tradition steeped in tradition and overseen by the revered Church of Elyssari.
A majestic black-lacquered carriage, adorned with intricate gold detailing, glided smoothly across the polished white stone of the estate's eastern courtyard. Within its opulent interior, Grand Duke Maximilian and Archduchess Sophia sat with their two daughters, surrounded by the subtle luxury of velvet upholstery. The curtains, drawn to admit a sliver of morning light, cast a warm, golden glow over the family's tranquil faces.
Katarina, who had just turned ten, sat upright with composed grace. Today marked her awakening—an event that would determine the trajectory of her fate. Beside her, her little sister Helena, only four years old, gazed absentmindedly out the carriage window. The world beyond was bright and teeming with noble carriages and distant church bells.
"Is something wrong, Helena?" Katarina asked gently, tilting her head. Her voice was warm, as only an elder sister's could be—tuned to her sibling's smallest expressions.
Helena blinked, startled, and quickly sat upright. "N-No, not really… I was just thinking—there might be a long line at the church today. A lot of kids turn ten this season."
A small, amused smile graced Katarina's lips. "You worry too much. We're Obrechtz. The Church wouldn't let us stand in line for hours, even if the whole capital turned ten today."
Helena nodded but didn't meet her sister's eyes. Her real thoughts swirled in a different storm entirely.
Lucien Caelum Velebrandt.
She knew he was the same age as Katarina—just born on a different month. If the timelines were right, he might already be inside the inner walls of the Empire, preparing for his own awakening… or worse.
The tension in her jaw tightened as she turned back to the window, watching as the cobbled streets gave way to the sanctified lands near the Church of Elyssari.
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In a long-abandoned wing of the Velebrandt family's grand capital mansion, tucked away within the Inner Walls, morning sunlight poured through towering stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the forgotten space. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams, twirling and swirling like tiny stars in a celestial ballet, suspended in the gentle currents of air as the light breathed life into the dusty relic.
Lucien Caelum Velebrandt—the true soul of the modern-day villain, now inhabited by a confused and cautious outsider—awoke slowly from his velvet-draped bed. His silver hair was tousled; his red and gray eyes blinked wearily as the scent of warm bread and herb-butter reached him.
"Good morning, young master," said Marie, the loyal head maid, setting a breakfast tray on the table beside him. A pot of dark coffee, warm butter croissants, roasted meats, and a bowl of white fruit from the Northern Peaks. "You fell asleep on the couch again last night. I carried you to your bed."
Lucien sat up, rubbing the side of his head. "Ah… I see. Sorry, Marie. And… thanks."
After Lucien finish eating his breakfast, he quietly made his way to the living room in his silken shirt and pants, the mansion still felt too big. Too quiet. Too royal.
He sat down at the grand oak couch. The breakfast was superb, but his mind wandered again—What should I do today? Training? Research? Should he walk around the Inner Walls and scout out noble politics?
A knock broke the silence.
"Young master," came the voice of Knight Rex, his voice deep, respectful.
Lucien glanced up and waved. "Come in."
The door opened, and the towering knight stepped in, his armor gleaming despite the early hour. In his gloved hand, he held a rolled parchment sealed in blue wax.
"A letter?" Lucien asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, young master. From the Emperor and Empress themselves."
Lucien's eyes widened, surprise flashing in his gaze. He whispered under his breath, "Grandfather… and Grandmother?"
He gently unsealed the parchment, unfolding the paper with deliberate care. His eyes scanned the flowing imperial script—warm in tone, inviting, not the cold declarations he expected.
A rare, faint smile formed on his lips.
"I see…" he murmured.
Knight Rex stood quietly, waiting.
"Tell the coachman to prepare the carriage," Lucien said, folding the letter carefully. "After I finish my bathe, and brush my teeth, we'll head for the castle."
Rex bowed. "Yes, young master."
Once the knight had gone, Lucien leaned back slightly, his eyes still on the parchment.
They sounded like… good people.
That thought clung to him, a whisper of doubt in a world he knew only through dread and dark memory.
Were they? Or had the former Lucien simply taken everything from them too soon for anyone to know?
With no answers yet, he turned his focus back to his breakfast and began to eat.
Outside, the twin moons of the night had dipped below the horizon, and a new dawn had unfolded – the rising sun casting a radiant glow that painted the rooftops in vibrant hues of fire and promise, its light illuminating the city with a sense of renewal and possibility.
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As Lucien emerged from the marble-tiled bath chamber, the lingering essence of lavender and warm steam wreathed him like a gentle aura, the sweet, floral scent mingling with the soft hum of the bath's hidden mechanisms. His silver hair, damp and combed back with precision, framed his face with an air of sleek sophistication, each strand lying flat against his scalp like polished metal. With an economical gesture, he ran a hand across his collar, the dark fabric of his high-collared uniform rustling softly as he adjusted it. The golden embroidery of House Velebrandt—a winged lion stitched across his chest in threads that seemed to shimmer like molten sunlight—glimmered with a subtle, understated pride. The uniform itself was a masterclass in tailoring, hugging his figure with precision, every seam and fold accentuating the lean, athletic build beneath. As he stood tall, the fabric seemed to drape itself around him like a second skin, exuding an aura of nobility and composed strength that was both captivating and intimidating. The golden lion's wings appeared to stretch across his chest, as if about to take flight, imbuing him with a sense of latent power and refinement. The soft sheen of the fabric caught the light, subtly hinting at the precision and craftsmanship that had gone into its creation, and Lucien's very presence seemed to command the space around him, his nobility and strength of character radiating outward like a palpable force.
Morning light poured through the towering windows of the Velebrandt mansion's upper floors, casting a kaleidoscope of crimson hues across the grand halls as if the very panes of stained glass were bleeding splinters of scarlet light. The red-tinted fragments danced across the polished obsidian floors, creating an eerie illusion of frozen bloodstains, as if the halls themselves were veined with a dark, fiery life. Lucien navigated this majestic space with the fluidity of a ghost, his footsteps whispering softly against the glossy black floors, the faint echoes weaving a subtle rhythm that underscored his passage. With each step, he seemed to embody the halls' own stately cadence, his movements a masterful blend of purpose and elegance.
As he descended the sweeping curve of the main stairwell, Lucien's gaze drifted naturally to the foyer below, where Marie stood poised near the front doors, her posture a model of attentive serenity. Her hands were folded demurely over her apron, the crisp white fabric a testament to her meticulous nature. The moment she caught sight of him, a gentle smile softened her features, her eyes lighting up with a warm, welcoming warmth that seemed to emanate from the very heart of her being. The soft smile was a subtle acknowledgment of his presence, yet it conveyed a deep sense of familiarity and affection, as if the very sight of him brought her joy.
"You look well-prepared, young master," she said warmly.
"I did," Lucien replied, briefly recalling the lingering chills from his strange dream the night before. "Thank you for seeing to the bath arrangements."
Marie nodded with a courteous bow. "It's my pleasure."
Beyond the open mansion doors, the crisp morning air of the Inner Walls beckoned, its cool, sharp breath carrying the scent of weathered stone, the metallic tang of steel, and the ethereal whisper of distant incense. The Inner Walls, bastion of the Empire's elite, lay bathed in morning's golden light, its marble estates soaring toward the heavens like giants, their rooftops kissed by sunbeams that streaked across them like veins of molten gold. Yet, despite the breathtaking beauty of the scene, an undercurrent of tension vibrated through the air, each stately building seeming to bear the weight of unseen gazes, its quiet majesty tempered by the unspoken awareness of a thousand watchful eyes that lurked in every shadow, every window, and every ornate facade. The very atmosphere seemed to hum with the unspoken politics and power plays that defined this rarefied world, where every gesture, every glance, and every step could be freighted with hidden meaning.
At the gates of the Velebrandt property
the carriage loomed before them, its reinforced blackwood body etched with intricate spell runes that seemed to pulse with a subtle, otherworldly energy, while the interior was luxuriously lined with crimson velvet that glowed like embers in the morning light. The wheels, adorned with glimmering protection sigils, shimmered with a soft, ethereal light that danced across the surrounding surfaces as the morning sun caught them. Beside the carriage stood six imposing figures—A-Rank knights mounted on majestic Nightflame Steeds, their glossy obsidian coats seeming to absorb the light around them, while ember-like veins pulsed with a soft, magical glow just beneath the surface. The manes of the steeds blazed with a gentle, controlled fire that seemed almost alive, casting a mesmerizing spell of power and majesty over the scene. As the knights sat motionless, their mounts' fiery manes casting a warm glow on their armor, the very air seemed to vibrate with anticipation, as if the horses' magical essence was attuning itself to the knights' own formidable presence.
One of the riders, clad in a deep blue coat with Velebrandt's crest etched in gold on the shoulder, dismounted and approached. It was Knight Rex.
He removed one of his gloves and gave a short, respectful bow. "Young Master Lucien," he greeted, his voice gruff but loyal. "Everything is prepared. The knights are ready, and the route to the palace has been cleared ahead of time."
Lucien surveyed the knights briefly, then returned Rex's nod. "Very well," he said. "Let's depart."
Knight Rex turned sharply on his heel and returned to his steed, giving the signal. The black horses snorted smoke from their nostrils, stamping once before moving into formation.
As Lucien settled into the carriage, the plush velvet seats enveloped him, softly yielding to his weight as he leaned back with a quiet sigh. Through the open door, he caught a glimpse of Marie and the household caretakers gathered on the mansion steps, their faces a picture of respectful solemnity. In perfect synchrony, they inclined their heads in a gentle, collective bow, their gestures a poignant expression of deference and affection as they bid the young heir farewell. The soft rustle of their clothing and the subtle creak of the mansion's ancient stones seemed to underscore the gravity of the moment, as if the very house itself was acknowledging Lucien's departure.
Marie lifted a hand and waved. "Please take care, young master!"
The driver snapped the reins.
The carriage jolted into motion, its wheels creaking softly over the cobblestone estate road as it glided through the grand gates, flanked by the six Nightflame Steeds and their imposing knights. Tendrils of smoke streamed behind the horses, their ember-like manes burning with a gentle intensity as the wind caught the wisps and pulled them taut. Within the carriage, Lucien's features remained impassive, his expression an unreadable mask behind the polished glass pane as the Velebrandt heir was borne away to the palace, the rhythmic thunder of the steeds' hooves echoing through the morning air like a promise of things to come. The world outside seemed to blur into a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds as the procession moved with stately purpose, its destination shrouded in the dignified silence of aristocratic protocol.