Duke William Blackwood stood with his back to the fire, the flames creating his tall frame in moving gold. The room was silent save for the low crackle of burning logs and the faint tap-tap-tap of a booted foot.

Three barons sat before him, arranged neatly in high-backed chairs more ornate than most deserved.

His study was not meant for hosting, but power often required intimacy over grandeur.

Baron Hadrian Vellmore, thin as a whip and twice as tense, sipped his tea, puckering his lips. His posture was perfect, his silver-crusted cuffs resting just so on his lap. But William’s eyes drifted to the man’s foot—tapping under the table in a nervous rhythm that betrayed the calm mask he wore.

Next to him, Baron Casten Drel muttered something under his breath and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His dark red coat was wrinkled at the sleeves, like he’d put it on in haste. His eyes flitted to the door every few seconds, and if the man could have sunk into the walls, William wagered he would’ve. Drel had always been too soft for this game.

Then there was Baron Wendell Farrow. Large, round, with a stained kerchief tucked into his collar like some merchant lord. He reached for another piece of honeyed sponge cake from the tray and bit into it with open disregard for etiquette. Crumbs clung to his beard as he chewed noisily, only pausing when he noticed William watching. The baron offered a sheepish grin but did not apologize.

Farrow could get away with it. His blood, distantly related with William’s own line through a forgotten grandmother’s marriage, allowed him a casualness the others lacked. And the fat man knew it.

They said nothing for a time. The silence dragged on. Until finally, Vellmore cleared his throat.

“We received your letter, Duke Blackwood,” he said.

Farrow and Drel both nodded, not daring to speak before the other.

“We understand you wish us to support Count Arzan in the upcoming assembly,” Vellmore continued. “And we don’t mind doing so… but we are here because of our factions.”

William said nothing.

Vellmore swallowed. “The princes won’t be happy.”

There it is.

“So you do mind,” William said. “Just on behalf of your princes.”

A visible shiver passed through them. Farrow wiped his hands on his kerchief. Drel avoided his gaze. But none of them disagreed.

“Yes,” Vellmore said finally. “We cannot go against them.”

William arched a brow, stepping forward just enough to loom.

“I was under the impression,” he said slowly, “that aside from the first prince, the other two hadn’t yet decided to withhold support. Or is my information… outdated?”

Farrow coughed into his hand, then shook his head. “It’s not. But… Prince Thalric has told his core circle that he would need Count Arzan’s allegiance to move forward. He’s waiting for the Count to reach out to him.”

William regarded the man silently. Wendell Farrow had thrown in his lot with him long ago, his estates bordering the southern river routes the prince now quietly controlled through his ardent followers.

The other two—Vellmore and Drel—had long belonged to Prince Aldrin’s camp. The second prince’s network was sprawling and well-funded. These two barons were no different. Collectivism had dulled their edge. They’d forgotten how to move without orders.

That would have to be corrected.

William turned his gaze on them.

“I assume,” he said coolly, “Prince Aldrin is also waiting it out? Hoping Count Arzan reaches him?”

Drel nodded first this time, a quick jerk of his head. “As you know, Duke Blackwood… it would be considered an insult for a prince to reach out first. His Highness has barred any noble in his fold from making contact until the Count initiates it. He… wishes to ensure Count Arzan’s interest is genuine.”

A dry chuckle almost escaped William’s lips. So that was the play. Posturing disguised as pride. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned toward the hearth. They could dress it however they liked—tactic, etiquette, dignity—but he knew the truth. The young Count hadn’t groveled to a prince, and that, in itself, was rare. Admirable, even.

In a world so quick to bend, the boy stood.

And that, William thought, was a mark of someone who didn’t need a higher power. It was the mark of someone becoming one.

“Then doesn’t that mean,” he said, “that you are free to decide whether to support Count Arzan or not?”

Baron Drel, the one in the middle, looked away and then back again, as though checking the room for hidden listeners. “Yes… but if we make a decision now and our faction changes its stance later, we’ll be seen as backstabbers. To you and to the Count.”

William tilted his head slightly. “Then stand true to your decision,” he said. “There won’t be any backstabbing.”

Simple. Honest. And the truth, as far as he cared.

Vellmore set his tea cup down with a soft clink. “The princes won’t like that,” he muttered. “Beg your pardon, Duke Blackwood, but we are not Dukes. We don’t have the kind of power you do.” He picked it up again, continuing his slow sip.

Farrow, licking the last of the honey glaze from his thumb, nodded. “Yes. That sort of thing would just get us kicked out of the faction. Frozen out.”

William’s lips curved into a faint smile.

“And what else can happen, then?”

That shut them up. All three sat still as marble, and the Duke took the chance to pace slowly in front of them.

“If you support Count Arzan and that displeases your princes… What’s the worst that could happen? You get kicked out of your factions? Is that it?” He stopped and looked each of them in the eye, one by one. “Will a prince ride out and burn down your estates? Or perhaps… take issue with the concubines you all seem to value more than your actual wives?”

Baron Vellmore choked mid-sip, sputtering and reaching for a handkerchief. The other two shifted uncomfortably, but none dared speak right away.

Eventually, Drel cleared his throat. “We’d lose the support of the faction… all the connections we’ve worked to build over the years.”

William snorted softly.

“Connections?” he said. “None of the Counts, Margraves, or Earls in your factions care about you. None of them care about any baron, unless they’re useful.” His eyes locked on them again. “What you’re really doing is betting on a prince to win, hoping that if he does, you’ll be thrown a scrap or two from the high table. Maybe an Earl’s third daughter for your fourth wife.”

Farrow’s face turned pink, grimacing slightly at the mention. The man already had three wives and seven concubines—far more than necessary and far less than tasteful. Still, it was legal. William didn’t care what a man did with his household, so long as it didn’t cloud his senses.

He leaned back slightly, gaze steady.

“So tell me,” he said. “Are you men, or are you dogs waiting at a gate that might never open?”

Before any of them could find their voice, William raised a hand, not wanting to hear whatever they had in mind.

“I’ll speak plainly,” he said, “since you’ve chosen to come here as a collective and not as individual lords. You’ve spoken for each other since the moment you entered, so I’ll address you all the same.”

He turned to Baron Vellmore first, eyes narrowed slightly. “Your father’s debt nearly cost your house its seat in court. We cleared it. Since then, our houses have shared wine and council.”

Vellmore looked down, fingers tightening around his cup.

William’s gaze shifted to Baron Drel. “The beast infestations in the marshlands of your territory still require my Knights’ attention. We send men every spring. Not once have you had to petition the crown.”

Drel had the grace to look away, guilt painting his face.

Then, finally, his eyes landed on Farrow.

“And you… your grandfather was a landless second son with ambition and nothing else. It was House Blackwood that gave him lands. It was we who backed his claim to a baron’s title.” He let that sit for a breath. “Unlike the others, you are our vassal.”

Farrow shifted slightly in his chair but didn’t speak. A dab of honey stuck to his lip. He didn’t wipe it.

William stepped back, voice softening a touch—not from pity, but from control. “I’m not reminding you of these things to posture or threaten. I simply want you to remember that your houses have benefited—directly and repeatedly—from your association with mine. And I still wish to help you.”

“The princes may exile you from their factions,” he continued, “but you three… you’re not significant enough for them to retaliate beyond that. Your absence will be noticed—but not mourned.”

Then, he let the hook slip.

“But siding with House Blackwood will bring you tangible benefits. The kind you are all after—positions, protection, prestige. That, I can guarantee.”

For the first time since they’d entered, something shifted. Sparkles of thought gleamed in their eyes—calculating, uncertain, but alive. The kind of look he liked. Any noble who accepted or rejected an offer too quickly was either foolish or desperate. Neither were welcome in the world he was building around Count Arzan.

Then, at last, Vellmore spoke. “We can help. We’ll give our votes to Count Arzan in the assembly. But… what of the future?” His brow furrowed. “If the second or third prince takes the throne, we’ll always be out of favour.”

Farrow nodded, setting aside his kerchief. “Yes, Duke Blackwood. No offence, but your position is not like ours. A ducal house is… immune. The royal family can’t afford to move against you. Too many men, too much land, too much coin. But barons? If we fall out of favour, we’re vulnerable.”

He looked sincere for once. Serious, even.

“As your vassal, our house will still stand by any decision you make. But I only ask you to consider the consequences we’ll bear.”

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William studied them, silent for a moment. And then he smiled. “That won’t come to pass.”

Vellmore tilted his head. “You sound certain.”

“I am,” William said. “Because none of the princes you support will take the throne.”

Drel blinked. “But—though the first prince is leading right now, we can’t—”

“I don’t mean the first will win either,” William cut in. “I mean none of them will.”

All three barons stared at him, blinking as if his words had slipped through a crack in their understanding. None of them spoke—because he knew that none of them could make sense of what they’d just heard.

William Blackwood let them stew in the confusion for a few heartbeats more, then said, “I’ll leave you with this, your votes at the assembly might not just decide Count Arzan’s future.”

He let his gaze sweep over them.

“They might help you step into a new faction entirely. One that may very well take over the kingdom in time.”

The silence deepened. Vellmore’s lips parted slightly, but William raised a hand before the baron could speak.

“I won’t say more until your decisions are made. I know it’s a gamble,” he said, eyes narrowing, “but if you take it… the benefits might just ensure your children and even their descendants will no longer bear the title of mere barons.”

Before any of them could ask the questions they were clearly choking on, William turned toward the door and made a simple, unhurried gesture.

“You may take your leave.”

There was hesitation, as if they weren’t sure whether the meeting had truly ended. But William did not repeat himself.

“I know I summoned you on short notice,” he added, more polite now. “You’re welcome to have lunch before returning to your lands. I won’t be joining you—there’s work to be done. But two of my daughters will keep you company.”

The words came with the weight of dismissal.

After a brief pause, the three barons rose in silence. They bowed—Vellmore the lowest, Drel a heartbeat late, Farrow still chewing something—and then left the study without another word.

Five minutes passed.

The door creaked open again, this time without knocking.

Leopold stepped in, tall and sharp-featured, his blonde hair combed back and his boots still dusty from riding.

“How did it go?” he asked, crossing the room in a few long strides. “You reckon they’ll do what we asked?”

“They will,” he said. “Their houses are far too tied to ours to refuse.”

He looked at his son. “The only reason they sought out the princes without speaking to us first… is because I’ve stayed neutral too long.”

Leopold folded his arms, considering that. “Even I didn’t expect you to break neutrality. I thought you were waiting for a sign.”

“I was.”

William stood, moving toward the window. Beyond the glass, the area under his house stretched under a pale sun.

“Count Arzan told me something,” he said quietly. “And it came true.”

Leopold raised a brow.

“He had the resilience and planning to come out of a fief war almost untouched. His forces took less than half the damage our scouts predicted.” William’s voice was calm, but pride crept into it. “He’s proven himself in war. His territory has grown rapidly, and every report says he actually cares for his people.”

He turned from the window, expression unreadable.

“He’d make a good king. And he wouldn’t have asked me to gather a faction if he hadn’t already made up his mind,” he murmured. “Only the medallion remains.”

“You don’t think he has it already?”

“If he does, he never mentioned it,” William said, a hint of frustration in his tone. “I asked. Directly. Not a word in any letter. My guess is that Valkyrie hid it because she wanted him to grow stronger first. That’s something she’d do. Guards it as if the fate of the kingdom depends on it. But he’ll have to get it before the assembly,” he said softly. “Or everything we’re building… will fall apart before it ever begins.”

“Father, should I help him look for it?” Leopold asked.

William shook his head.

“No. I have more pressing matters for you.” He moved back toward his desk, gathering a few scrolls and setting them aside.

“We’re building a faction around Count Arzan,” he said, “but the right to lead it must be earned. That right must be his—not something handed to him by someone else.”

He paused, gaze heavy with meaning.

“We’ll bring in a dozen nobles—men who won’t refuse me even if they wish to. That’s not the challenge. What we need now is volume. Support. The kind that turns whispers into storms.”

Leopold straightened, sensing where this was going.

“I want you to go to the capital.”

William met his eyes.

“Speak to the lower nobles. The Knights turned barons, the landless sons trying to prove themselves, the aging councilmen who’ve been overlooked too long. Find them. Bring them to our side. If they don’t know who Arzan is, teach them. If they’re hesitant, give them reason. I will arrange a meeting of them with Arzan before the assembly where he would truly earn their allegiance.”

He rested both hands on the desk.

“We need a faction with roots—not just weight. And I can’t keep you here playing watchman when your talents are wasted behind these walls.”

There was no hesitation. Leopold nodded once, firm and eager. “I’ll pack my bags right now.”

He turned to leave, then paused, fire in his voice.

“I promise to bring in as many nobles as I can. When the assembly comes, they’ll know Arzan’s name—and they’ll know it’s a name worth standing behind.”

William’s lips curled into a rare smile.

***

Entering someone’s astral realm was always… complicated.

It didn’t matter how many times he mapped spell structures, rehearsed safeguards, or double-checked contingency protocols—nothing truly made it simple. Even with Princess Amara, where it had gone surprisingly smooth the last time—even with him performing a mana surgery—it wasn’t something one did lightly.

The astral realm wasn’t just mana and thought. It was memory. Instinct. Fragmented will. And every time one stepped into it, they danced a line between comprehension and chaos.

This time, there would be no incisions. No magic laced with surgical precision. Just exploration. Just… observation. And still, things could go wrong. They were going in to uncover the anomaly that let Amyra absorb and purify dead mana—a trait no one, not even the records of his era, could fully explain.

For hours, he spoke to her. Explained everything—how it might feel, what the process was, what she might see. He laid out the goals and drilled the protocols for every what if. How to signal him. How to pull back. What to do if the link between their minds became unstable.

They rehearsed it all like a ritual.

Outside, Clement stood with arms crossed, keeping an eye on the time. Eron triple-checked the barrier seals around the room while Tiara arranged the potions for emergency extraction. Khoph, the Mage from the tower, stood with a blank expression on his face, ready to use a spell to relax their minds that Kai taught him if he sensed any disturbances.

They were ready. As ready as they could be.

Kai looked down at Amyra, already lying on the bed in the center. Her hair was tied back, eyes steady. She had already downed the mana-stabilizing potion he’d brewed himself—thick, bitter, and laced with calming agents.

Her mana signature pulsed evenly. Stable. Controlled.

“Are you ready?” Kai asked softly.

Amyra nodded, her voice calm. “I trust you.”

He didn’t reply, just nodded once. He’d already checked everything five times—but checked it once more anyway. Then he raised his hand.

Mana flared to life, dancing in structured harmony as the astral spell formed in the air, glowing symbols rotating in sync. They pulsed with a beat matching his breath, then hers, until their flows interlinked. And then—he let go.

His consciousness shifted.

It wasn’t like sleeping, or even falling. It was like stepping through water without feeling wet, pulled by something just beyond his reach. The room around him stretched, blurred, then vanished. And then—yanked.

Like a tether snapping tight, Kai’s soul was dragged forward—into her. For a moment, there was nothing. Then his eyes opened—

—and what he saw shocked him to his core.

***

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