Soulbound: Dual Cultivation

Marquess Scott hurried through the corridors, the weight of what he had witnessed still pressing hard upon his chest. His hands trembled as he clasped them behind his back, his face pale though flushed with a strange feverish light in his eyes. His mind was a storm of thoughts that drowned out all else. By the time he reached the privacy of his chamber, his breathing had quickened, and he shut the door behind him with an audible thud.

A young man followed after him, his squire in name but more truthfully a shadow, a pair of eyes and ears that Marquess Scott trusted for delicate errands. The youngman lingered by the doorway, uncertain, watching the marquess cross to his desk with restless energy. Scott waved him impatiently aside, his hand jerking through the air as if he had no patience for interruptions. The youngman said nothing, bowing his head and standing at the ready, though his sharp gaze never strayed far from his master.

Scott dropped himself heavily into the high-backed chair, his breath still uneven, and pressed his quill into the inkwell with such force that the tip scratched the wood beneath. His fingers clenched the shaft tightly, and as he bent forward over the parchment, the tremor of his hand betrayed both awe and fear. The hall still lived vividly in his mind's eye...Lucas tearing through space as if it were cloth, appearing and vanishing before the very throne itself. He had never seen such a feat, not even among the veterans of war or the mystics talked about in ancient tales. It was a sight that left him shaken, and yet it was also a revelation that demanded a swift and careful response.

He pulled the parchment closer and set the quill to it, the ink bleeding into the page as the first deliberate strokes formed words meant for the unseen hands that pulled strings from the shadows. His jaw tightened as he wrote, each word carrying both urgency and calculation.

"To those who move in silence," he began, his script sharp and uneven from the speed of his writing, "what I witnessed today cannot be left unattended. The boy Xavier Alden has revealed abilities that surpass even the wildest expectations. He is no longer simply a talented cultivator or a skilled alchemist. He has touched the realm of space itself, bending it to his will, and if left unchecked he will rise into a force beyond our control. His closeness to the king only magnifies the threat."

Scott paused, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, though his quill never left the page for long. He could feel his heart beating fast, his chest rising and falling as the dual weight of fear and ambition pressed against him. He dipped the quill again and continued, leaning closer to the parchment as if to pour his thoughts directly into it.

"He could be of immense use if brought into our fold. His rise is swift, his loyalty perhaps not yet bound too tightly to the crown. If he could be tempted, if he could be persuaded to lend his strength to the cause, then his mastery could be turned to our advantage. But if he resists, if he remains steadfast in his allegiance, then he might become one of greatest obstacles in our path. Such a threat cannot be ignored. You must act swiftly. Either bring him into the fold or see him eliminated before he grows beyond reach."

Scott let out a long sigh as the last drop of wax hardened upon the envelope, sealing it with the mark that bound him to those working together in secret. He stared at it for a moment before he pushed the letter across the desk toward the boy waiting in silence.

"Take it," Scott said, his voice low. "And be careful. You know what rests upon this delivery."

The squire, who had stood stiff and straight through the marquess's writing, finally stepped forward. His small fingers closed over the sealed letter, and he bowed his head with the practiced air of someone who had been playing his role for longer than his years suggested. He was no naive servant caught in a game beyond him; he knew exactly what he was part of, and he bore it without question.

"I will be careful, my lord," the boy said evenly, his voice carrying none of the hesitation of youth.

With a faint nod, Scott dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Go, then. Waste no time. I will remain here. The fewer eyes upon us, the better."

The squire bowed once more and tucked the letter into his tunic as he turned toward the chamber doors.

Scott exhaled deeply and leaned further into the chair, his body finally loosening from the tension that had gripped it. He told himself again what he had convinced himself of for months: that he was careful, that he had masked his veil so perfectly that none in the court would ever suspect his ties. He had been meticulous in his manner, balancing loyalty and deceit with the skill of a veteran statesman. Nobody doubted him, not even those closest to the king. At least, that was the truth he chose to believe.

Yet what Scott did not know, what his arrogance blinded him to, was that he was far from as hidden as he imagined. Henrietta and Lucas had long since caught the faintest scent of his schemes. Every careful move he had thought was invisible had been monitored by Henrietta.

And now, even as his squire hurried away, another set of footsteps trailed silently after. One of Henrietta's agents, followed quietly. They would see exactly where the boy went and to whom the letter was delivered.

Scott sat in his chamber in quiet confidence, believing his mask to be untouchable, never once suspecting that the net had already begun to close around him.

The scheme had been in motion for far longer than most in Valerion could imagine. Blackmare's hostility had not simply been born of ambition or the usual struggle for power among kingdoms. It had been carefully fed, watered with schemes, guided until a clash with Valerion seemed inevitable. The final piece of the puzzle was killing Prince Darius and setting up Blackmare. But that plot failed successfully, Darius escaped death but Blackmare was not happy of being accused of having hand in it.

Those who moved the pieces from the shadows had sown just enough discord that both realms were being nudged onto a path of war. What few in the court truly understood was that the conflict was not meant to end in victory for either side, it was meant to drain them both, leaving the land open for those who thrived only in ruin.

This was why the King had been restless of late, why he had pushed his elders, his council, and even Lucas himself toward new alliances. He did not dare rely on the old bonds that once held strong between neighboring realms, for too many had already been tainted. One after another, kingdoms that once spoke with Valerion as brothers now turned their faces away, cold and distrustful. The King knew this was not chance. It was infiltration. It was rot spreading through roots that ran deep, poisoning loyalties until there was no certainty left.

For Valerion, the truth was bitter. Strength alone could not shield them from what was coming. Their armies, mighty as they were, could not march against five or six fronts at once. Their borders, fortified and proud, could not hold against enemies uniting under hidden influence. No matter how well-trained, no matter how seasoned, Valerion could not weather the storm if the world beyond their walls had already been turned against them.

This was why he placed his trust only in Lucas and Henrietta. It was why he had dismissed his court and silenced even his queen's counsel. He needed voices untainted, those who had proven they could pierce the veil of deceit. And more than that, he needed new bonds, alliances not yet poisoned by the schemers' hands. To look outward was to gamble, but to sit still was to invite ruin.

The board had been set. Blackmare and Valerion were the first pawns pushed into collision, but the true players lingered unseen, waiting for both realms to bleed. The King, weary yet unyielding, knew the only way forward was to outpace the poison, to grasp allies before the shadows could reach them, and to prepare his kingdom for a war that was no longer merely of destruction, but of survival itself.