Lord of the realm

"What I choose to reveal to him, what role he plays in the games to come—none of it concerns you. Stay away from him. Stay away from me. Or the next time we meet, it will be the last conversation you ever have."

Draelus remained silent as they kept walking.

Magdalyna continued her measured pace through the city streets until she reached one of the ancient canals that divided the merchant quarter.

The water channel flowed with surprising clarity despite the urban setting, its current carrying the whispers of distant mountains and forgotten springs.

She paused at the stone embankment, her eyes focusing on something far beyond normal human vision.

Nearly a mile away, across the rolling countryside that separated the city from the noble estates, stood a rectangular structure of elegant proportions—the Arkwright chateau, its white walls gleaming in the afternoon sun.

"Such a lovely view," he said, his gaze following hers toward the distant chateau.

"And such interesting residents."

"Get to the point, Pride," Magdalyna said, her voice carrying the kind of barely restrained violence that had once leveled kingdoms.

"The boy," Draelusa continued, his smile widening, "will be our salvation. A true golden offering to our Lord when the time comes. Such power, such potential—and completely unaware of his true purpose."

Magdalyna remained silent, her jaw tightening as she processed his words.

The implications were clear enough, and they aligned with her worst fears about why the other Sins might be taking interest in Jaenor's development.

"I don't know what you're planning," she said finally, "but don't come in my way. The boy is under my protection, whether he knows it or not."

Draelusa's laughter was like breaking crystal. "Protection? From his own destiny? How delightfully naive, dear Lordess."

Odessa smirked, "Naive, huh. Then tell me, Pride, have you awakened the others? Surely Sloth stirs in his ancient halls, and Greed's eyes must be turning toward such a prize."

"Why would you care?" he asked, though his frown betrayed his own concerns about that very possibility.

His perfect features shifted subtly, his attention focusing on something only he could perceive.

A moment later, Magdalyna felt it too—a disturbance in the fabric of reality, as if someone or something was reaching across vast distances to observe them.

"Interesting," Draelusa murmured, his tongue clicking against his teeth in a gesture of mild annoyance.

"It seems our conversation has attracted... attention. No matter. We'll have other opportunities to discuss the boy's future."

He turned to face her one final time, his golden eyes holding depths that spoke to millennia of accumulated knowledge and carefully nurtured arrogance.

"I will meet you again soon, dear lordess. And when I do, perhaps you'll be more... amenable to cooperation."

With that, he faded from sight like morning mist, leaving behind only the faintest scent of expensive cologne and the lingering echo of barely contained power.

Magdalyna stood alone beside the canal for several minutes, her enhanced senses scanning the surrounding area for any trace of whatever had interrupted their conversation.

Finding nothing concrete, she forced herself to relax marginally, though her attention remained focused on the distant chateau where her charge prepared for an evening that might prove more dangerous than he could possibly imagine.

-

Within the chateau, Jaenor stood before the full-length mirror in his chambers, hardly recognizing the figure that stared back at him.

Gone were the travel-stained clothes and practical gear of a warrior.

In their place, he wore the formal attire of nobility—a doublet of deep blue silk that complemented his dark hair and fitted trousers that allowed for movement while maintaining elegance.

The transformation was remarkable.

Where once he had looked like a powerful but rough-edged fighter, he now appeared every inch the noble scion.

The weeks of training with Sir Reginauld had refined his posture and bearing, while regular meals and comfortable lodging had filled out his frame in ways that spoke to good development rather than desperate survival.

"You look like your grandfather did at that age," came a voice from the doorway.

Jaenor turned to see Sir Reginauld approaching with the measured steps of a man who had seen many young nobles prepare for their first formal social events.

"I feel like I'm wearing a costume," Jaenor admitted, adjusting the suit.

"In a sense, you are," the old knight replied with a slight smile.

"Noble society is largely about performance—knowing which role to play in which circumstances. Tonight, you're playing the part of Lady Morgana's mysterious companion. Remember your lessons, trust your instincts, and you'll do fine."

Meanwhile, in her own chambers, Morgana was undergoing her own transformation.

The practical witch's robes had been replaced by a gown of emerald silk that complemented her dark hair and brought out the subtle green flecks in her eyes. The cut was elegant but not ostentatious, designed to suggest power while maintaining the kind of understated sophistication that marked true nobility.

Emmanuelle sat on the edge of the bed, watching the maidservants make final adjustments to the gown with the eye of someone who understood the political implications of every choice.

"You look beautiful," she said finally.

"But remember—tonight isn't just about social obligations."

"I know the risks," Morgana replied, allowing the servants to arrange her hair in an elaborate style that would be fashionable.

"I'm not talking about political risks," Emmanuelle said quietly, dismissing the servants with a subtle gesture.

Once they were alone, she leaned forward with the kind of intensity that had made her such an effective ruler.

"You're going out with your nephew, Morgana. Your last living family member. And given the fiction we've created about your relationship..."

"Emma, please," Morgana warned, her cheeks coloring slightly.

"Hear me out," the duchess continued relentlessly.

"The Beaumonts aren't the only ones with eyes and appetites. There will be other nobles at this ball, other ambitious families looking for advantages. If they believe Jaenor is your nephew, they may try to use that against you."

She paused, studying Morgana's face in the mirror.

"But there's another consideration. You and Jaenor are the last confirmed descendants of the Arkwright bloodline. You should act like he is your toy boy and make people believe it, and while you are at it…"

"Emmanuelle!" Morgana's voice carried a note of scandalized shock.

"I'm being practical," Emma replied calmly.

"The bloodline has survived too much to end with celibacy and misplaced propriety. If the opportunity presents itself—if the fiction becomes reality—you should consider taking advantage of it. There's nothing wrong with ensuring the family's future."

Morgana finished her preparations in embarrassed silence, her mind churning with thoughts she didn't want to examine too closely.

The suggestion was politically sound, even if it felt deeply wrong on a personal level.

But Emma's words had planted seeds of possibility that would be difficult to ignore.

When she finally emerged from her chambers, she found Jaenor waiting in the main hall.

The sight of him stopped her in her tracks—he was magnificent, transformed from warrior to nobleman without losing any of the power that made him so compelling.

The formal clothes emphasized his natural grace, while the careful grooming revealed the aristocratic features that marked his heritage.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Morgana found herself seeing him not as the confused young man she had been protecting but as the heir to one of the empire's most ancient bloodlines.

And from the way his breath caught as he looked at her, she suspected he was having similar revelations about their relationship.

"You look..." Jaenor began, then stopped, apparently unable to find words adequate to the moment. "strikingly beautiful."

"As do you," Morgana replied, her voice slightly breathless despite her attempts at composure.

Emmanuelle appeared behind them, resplendent in her own gown of midnight blue, her silver-streaked hair arranged in a style that emphasized both elegance and authority.

She looked at Jaenor, and her breath caught in her throat as she walked to him involuntarily. "You look just like him, my darling."

Jaenor sighed, hearing it a number of times.

"I know, dear. But you are like his incarnation or something. I can't seem to ignore it."

Then she did something that surprised everyonewho stood around them.

She threw her hands around his neck and stared into his eyes. The next second she pressed her lips against him and pressed her breast to his chest.

The onlookers gasped in shock at the unexpected display of affection between the two. Jaenor wrapped his arms around her, returning the embrace with equal intensity. Their connection was undeniable, leaving those around them speechless.

Morgana seemed to be lost for words, staring at the two of them.

The old man was confused, as were the servants.

But Reginauld caught something that others failed to. She said that he looked like him, someone who made her feel such emotions.

"Don't tell me…" he muttered. The realization dawned on him.

"How could I have been so blind? He was right in front of me this whole time," he muttered as he stared at the long portrait of Jaenor's grandfather behind Jaenor.

Standing with the same posture, he looked just like his grandfather, a lot younger.