THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

The grand throne room stretched out in regal splendour, its soaring marble columns supporting archways that towered above like guardians of an ancient realm. Golden candleholders flanked each side of the red-carpeted aisle, their flames flickering softly, casting a warm glow over the lavish setting. Intricate tapestries lined the walls, and the air was thick with a sense of majesty and forgotten power.

At the far end of the hall, raised on a platform of pale stone steps, sat the throne—a towering chair of silver and crimson. The tall, arching back of the throne nearly kissed the stained glass window behind it, through which moonlight poured in, casting pale reflections on the polished floor below. The throne itself was as imposing as it was elegant, with curved armrests and engravings of long-lost symbols running along its edges, as if woven into the very fabric of its existence. It commanded respect, a seat meant for someone with power beyond mere mortal comprehension.

Upon the throne, a figure sat shrouded in mystery. A deep, flowing cloak of crimson red draped over their form, concealing nearly all of their features, save for slender, delicate arms that slipped from the long, silken sleeves of the cloak. The figure's left arm supported their head in a casual, almost languid pose, fingers barely brushing their chin, while their right hand rested loosely on the armrest, fingers curled as if in thought—or perhaps in anticipation.

The stillness of the figure was unnerving, made even more mysterious by the way the shadows clung to the throne, refusing to fully reveal who this person was. From beneath the hood of the cloak, only a vague outline of a face could be seen, and even that was blurred by the low-hanging fabric. The figure seemed to be waiting, patient yet purposeful, as though time itself bent to their will.

The flames from the golden candles flickered and danced, casting long, trembling shadows across the vast expanse of the room. Every step closer to the throne felt heavier, as though the very air around the figure was thick with unseen power, cloaked in layers of mystique and danger.

Whoever this figure was, they were no mere ruler sitting idly upon their throne. There was a sense of looming control about them, a silent authority that made even the grand throne room itself seem like it existed only for them.

The silence in the throne room was interrupted by the soft, measured steps of a new figure entering through the towering doors. Her heavy boots echoed faintly against the polished marble floor as she advanced, her presence commanding attention. With each stride, her crimson cape swirled behind her like a shadow of war itself.

She wore finely crafted armour, a mixture of ornate gold and steel, moulded with intricate designs that seemed both ancient and powerful. The armour was elegant, designed not just for protection but to project a sense of dominance. The breastplate, sculpted with exquisite detail, fit her frame perfectly, adding to her air of authority. Her pauldrons flared outward, each engraved with an intricate emblem, their curves sharp and purposeful. Beneath the metal, a deep red tunic flowed, embroidered with gold thread, a colour symbolic of the blood she'd spilled and the battles she'd conquered.

Her long, crimson hair was braided and coiled tightly down her back, almost like a rope that tethered her to her duty. Strands of it fell loosely around her face, framing sharp, focused eyes that spoke of endless battles and victories hard-won. Her gaze, though pointed at the ground as she knelt, seemed to burn with the embers of unyielding resolve. Discover exclusive tales at m,v-l e|m'pyr

She sank to one knee before the throne, her armoured gauntlet clenched over her heart in a gesture of reverence and loyalty. With her head bowed, she spoke, her voice resonant but soft enough to show respect.

"Archon of Warfare," she greeted the cloaked figure on the throne, her words a mixture of deference and authority, "I stand ready to serve as you command."

Her presence was one of disciplined strength, her posture firm despite the weight of her armor. Even kneeling, she exuded an aura of fearsome capability, a warrior who had carved her name into the annals of history with blood and steel. But here, in front of the Archon, she was a soldier awaiting her orders, respectful of the greater power seated before her.

The flickering candlelight reflected off her armour, casting gleaming highlights on the curves of her pauldrons and gauntlets, accentuating the sharp lines of her battle-worn yet beautiful form. The air around her seemed to hum with a barely restrained energy, as though she was ready to spring into action the moment the Archon's voice cut through the stillness.

The Archon's crimson eyes flickered with mild interest as they settled on the armoured figure kneeling before her. She sighed softly, allowing a moment of silence to linger in the grand throne room before speaking.

"You may speak," she permitted, her voice smooth and commanding, yet carrying an undercurrent of weariness.

The warrior before her, Mariana, rose gracefully, standing tall and proud as she delivered her report. With one final bow, she began, her tone crisp and formal.

"News has reached the capital, my Lady. The Empress has been informed that the Earl of Aethelwarin County has named David De Gor the

Spross des Banners

," Mariana stated, her words precise, her gaze unwavering as she awaited the Archon's reaction.

The Archon's brows furrowed in confusion. "

David?

" she questioned, her voice laced with a hint of confusion. "who's that?"

Seeing her confusion, Mariana elaborated, her tone softening just slightly as she spoke. "My Lady, David De Gor is the Earl's last son," she explained, accustomed to her Lady's occasional lapses in memory when it came to names.

The Archon, who had momentarily dropped her shoulders in contemplation, raised her head again. "Interesting," she mused, the light of curiosity sparking in her crimson gaze. "The old man gave such an esteemed title to his youngest son? I would've expected the Blood Whale to receive that honour instead."

The Archon's voice dripped with casual surprise as she leaned back on her throne. Her posture relaxed, yet the sharpness of her thoughts was evident in the way her gaze lingered on the idea. The title of

Spross des Banners

—an heir who would wield the banner of their family—was a high honor, not easily bestowed. David, the youngest and once most forgotten of the De Gor sons, had clearly proven himself worthy. Yet, the Archon still seemed to doubt whether he was truly deserving of such a position.

She sat there for a moment, a slight frown forming on her lips, but then her expression shifted as if remembering something far more pressing.

"And another thing," the Archon added, her tone now tinged with frustration, "When are you going to drop the formalities and just call me 'sister,' Mariana?"

Mariana groaned softly, her palm instinctively meeting her face in exasperation. This was not the first time the Archon had made such a request, and certainly wouldn't be the last.

"My Lady," Mariana began, her tone stern but patient, "We are still on duty. Such... informalities would bring shame to your name."

The Archon, however, was far from swayed. Her lips curled into a mischievous smile, her regal air momentarily replaced by the playful teasing of a younger sister. "Mariana," she said, dragging out the name with a pout, feigning innocence.

Mariana could only sigh. "Sometimes I wonder how this... child... ever inherited the throne of our house."

"Fine, fine..." she finally relented, throwing her hands up in defeat. "Elara."

The Archon's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she leaned forward, resting her chin in the palm of her slender hand, hidden beneath her scarlet cloak. "Good," she said, almost sing-song, the joy of victory evident in her voice. "Now, have that David invited to your Blossoming Grace celebration," Elara instructed, her tone becoming more businesslike.

The Blossoming Grace party was a formal event meant to celebrate Mariana's successful hunt in the Deadlands—a dangerous region known for its nightmarish creatures. The celebration would mark Mariana's ascension to a higher role within their house, a recognition of her prowess and strength. Inviting David to such an event was both a political gesture and a subtle test. As the

Spross des Banners

, David had earned his place, but he had yet to truly prove himself worthy of standing amongst the powerful.

Mariana nodded, understanding the weight of the invitation. She had heard rumors swirling about David in the capital. His rise to prominence had been rapid, and whispers suggested he was not the same man he had once been. His newfound power intrigued her, though she was not yet convinced of his potential. Still, protocol demanded that he be invited to the event. It would be rude, and perhaps even suspicious, not to include him.

"I will send a scroll to the De Gors immediately," Mariana confirmed, her voice steady. She was eager to leave and prepare for the formalities that awaited.

As she turned to leave, however, Mariana couldn't help but glance over her shoulder at her sister, who now seemed lost in thought.

"For heaven's sake, Elara, go to bed," Mariana scolded, her tone laced with sisterly concern. She had noticed the growing fatigue in Elara's eyes, the way her posture had begun to slacken. The Archon had always been resilient, but even she wasn't invincible. The late nights spent strategizing, coupled with her declining health, were taking a toll.

Elara huffed, her pout returning as she crossed her arms defiantly. "I'm not a child," she protested, though the weariness in her voice betrayed her claim.

"I know, but your health isn't what it used to be," Mariana pressed, her voice softening. There was a deep well of concern in her gaze, a sister's worry for the one she held dear. The weight of leadership had been heavy on Elara's shoulders for too long, and it was beginning to show.

But before the air could grow too heavy with worry, Elara, ever quick to deflect, smirked playfully. "I'll only go to bed if you come and tuck me in," she teased, her crimson eyes gleaming with mischief.

Mariana rolled her eyes, a fond smile tugging at her lips despite her best efforts to remain serious. "Sure," she muttered with mock reluctance, waving her hand as she turned to leave the throne room. "Just don't keep me waiting too long."

As the doors closed behind Mariana, Elara leaned back in her throne, her thoughts drifting back to the Earl's unexpected decision. The naming of David as

Spross des Banners

had caught her off guard, and she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story. Lord Hilton's actions seemed... unusual. And David—was he truly deserving of such a title? The pieces of the puzzle weren't fitting together quite right, and Elara intended to uncover the truth.