The sun had already begun its slow descent, casting a warm orange glow over the Duskmere estate. The air carried the scent of evening dew mixed with faint traces of roasted meat and herbs wafting in from the manor's kitchens. Ethan had just stepped out, intending to clear his head with a walk through the garden before dinner.
But something was off.
He paused at the corridor that led to the main hall. The quiet stillness of earlier was replaced by the hurried rhythm of footsteps and hushed voices. Maids scurried past with trays, linens, and pitchers. The butler, usually composed and deliberate in his movement, barked quiet orders with clipped urgency. And then leather luggage. At least four large trunks were being hauled toward the guest wing, two maids dragging them awkwardly by the straps while a footman trailed behind, arms full of folded coats and boxes.
Ethan's brow furrowed. "Someone important?" he muttered under his breath, curiosity tugging at him harder than the path to the garden.
He took a few cautious steps forward, trying not to get in anyone's way.
Then, she entered.
Through the main doors stepped a young woman who moved like the air itself bowed to her presence. Her pale silver hair, cut in a precise, shoulder-length princess style, shimmered faintly in the dusk light. She had the face of nobility refined, symmetrical, and almost unreal in its elegance. There was no doubt who she was; even without the crest subtly embroidered on her outerwear, she looked like a Duskmere.
Unlike Ceris's raw, stubborn determination, this girl wore her nobility like it had been bred into her bones.
Sylviane Duskmere.
Her gaze didn't waver as she stepped inside, sharp eyes sweeping the room with calm detachment. Behind her trailed a figure Ethan hadn't seen up close before taller than most women, graceful in her movement, and wearing a dark blindfold over her eyes. She had black hair tinged with violet, tied into a half-bun, and a calm, unreadable expression.
Sayo.
Ethan tensed slightly. Even without seeing her eyes, there was something about her presence that made the hairs on his neck rise like she knew everything he was thinking and simply chose not to say it.
As Syl passed by, one of the maids curtsied hastily, nearly dropping the tray in her hands.
"Lady Sylviane, welcome home."
Sylviane gave a soft nod, her expression unreadable. She didn't break stride.
Ethan stepped back slightly, watching the two figures ascend the stairs. He hadn't expected to meet her so soon.
And judging by the flurry of activity, neither had the manor.
With the manor still bustling, Ethan realized he couldn't return to his room yet without getting in the way. Instead, he turned toward the training grounds, drawn by the open air and the hope of a little solitude.
The path was quiet, a contrast to the flurry inside. When he arrived at the field, the pink-stained sky stretched wide above, streaked with clouds glowing in shades of orange and violet.
That's when he saw her.
Ceris.
She stood alone in the fading light, practicing her downward sword swing with sharp, deliberate motions. Her movements were clean and focused, each strike purposeful as she reset and repeated. The rhythmic sound of the wooden sword cutting through air echoed across the field.
Ethan stayed quiet, content to watch from the sidelines until Ceris suddenly paused mid-swing.
Her eyes flicked toward him.
"You know," she said, her voice carrying across the field, "if you're going to stare that much, you could at least pretend you're not."
Ethan blinked, caught red-handed. "Ah sorry," he said quickly, stepping out from the post. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Just… passing through."
Ceris raised an eyebrow, resting the flat of her blade against her shoulder. "Passing through the training grounds?" she asked, clearly unconvinced.
Ethan gave a half-shrug. "Okay, fine. I was watching. I mean, I can't even swing like that, so… yeah. It's kind of cool to see someone who can."
She didn't respond right away. Instead, she turned toward one of the nearby racks and slid her practice blade into its slot. With practiced ease, she grabbed two wooden swords from the lower hooks and tossed one in his direction.
Ethan barely caught it, stumbling back a step. "Wait what?"
"We're sparring," Ceris said, walking back toward the center of the field with her own wooden sword resting against her shoulder.
"Right now?"
"Unless you're scared," she said without skipping a beat, her tone unreadable.
Ethan stared at the wooden blade in his hands like it had just turned into a snake. "I was just trying to get some fresh air…"
"You can breathe between swings."
He let out a slow exhale, then started walking forward. "Y'know, I came out here to avoid getting crushed by servants. And now I'm probably going to get crushed by you."
"You're catching on fast," Ceris said, finally cracking the smallest smirk.
Ethan stepped onto the field, wooden sword in hand, and took what he hoped looked like a decent stance. Feet apart, knees slightly bent, blade held in front. He'd seen enough movies to fake it, right?
Ceris didn't wait.
The second his footing settled, she launched forward with a burst of speed that made Ethan's eyes widen.
Wait–what..--!
CRACK!
The wooden sword slammed clean across his side before he could even react. The impact rattled through his ribs and knocked him off-balance, sending him stumbling backward with a sharp grunt.
"Gah—!"
He hit the ground with a dusty thud, sword clattering from his hand.
Ceris stopped where she stood, blade at her side, completely calm. "You dropped your guard," she said simply.
Ethan wheezed, rolling onto his back and clutching his side. "Dropped my…? I didn't even have a guard up yet!"
She tilted her head. "Then don't step into the field."
He groaned again and sat up, brushing dirt from his shirt. "You could've at least warned me you were going all out…"
Ceris walked toward him and offered a hand. "The world won't."
Ethan took her hand with a wince, letting her pull him to his feet.
"Alright… round two," he muttered, brushing off the dirt.
Ceris stepped back, sword raised again. "Ready this time?"
"No," he said. "But hit me anyway."
She didn't hesitate.
The second he raised his blade, she moved fluid, fast, and brutally efficient. He tried to block, but her wooden sword snapped his defense aside and thwacked him square in the shoulder.
"Argh—!" He stumbled back again, nearly dropping his weapon. The impact echoed through his arm, numbing his fingers.
"That's two," Ceris said calmly.
Ethan gritted his teeth, breath coming short. "Okay. Again."
He adjusted his stance, a bit wider this time. Tried to mirror what he saw her doing earlier. Maybe if he could just–
The third bout didn't even last two seconds.
This time, she went low, swept his foot, and clocked him in the ribs before he hit the dirt again.
Oof—...
Ethan lay there, coughing, blinking up at the pink-stained sky. "I think I saw my soul leave my body just now…"
Ceris stood over him, wooden sword resting on her shoulder like none of it even winded her.
"That's enough," she said, turning away. "You're done for today."
He groaned. "I didn't even land a single hit…"
"You weren't supposed to." She said.
She didn't wait for a response, just walked off the field, her silhouette cutting clean through the golden light of the late afternoon.
Ethan stayed on the ground, eyes closed, sprawled out like a broken scarecrow. "Yeah… fresh air was a mistake."
Meanwhile, back in her room, Sylviane was pacing.
"I sent a letter days ago. I even marked it with the Duskmere seal. And not a single servant came to receive me until I was already at the entrance hall like a common guest!"
She turned, her silk robes swishing with the motion. "And he didn't even send a note. Not a word. Just 'Lady Sylviane, welcome home.' That's it?! After three years in the East Branch?"
Sayo stood off to the side, calm as ever, arms folded beneath her sleeves.
Sylviane huffed and flopped into the cushioned seat near her dresser. "Honestly. What kind of welcome is that?"
"You are home now, Lady Sylviane," Sayo replied softly.
"Don't use that tone on me," Syl snapped, glaring sideways. "I'm not one of your tea-sipping priestesses."
From her resting place against the wall, the sword named Shura let out a low, rumbling chuckle.
"Someone's mask is slipping," it teased in a sing-song voice.
Sylviane's eye twitched. "Shut. Up."
Another laugh. "That temper of yours is so well hidden most of the time. But oh, how it shines when you're mad…"
Sylviane turned away, brushing a hand through her hair to regain composure. "This manor is a mess. And now I'm supposed to dine with them like nothing happened?"
As if summoned by her words, a soft knock came at her chamber door.
"Lady Sylviane?" came a voice from the other side. "Dinner is being served in the main hall."
Sylviane exhaled through her nose, then stood with practiced poise. With a few quick motions, she adjusted her collar, smoothed her skirts, and tucked a loose strand of hair back into place.
Her voice, when she spoke, was measured and composed. "Understood. I will be down shortly."
"Very good, my lady."
As the footsteps faded, Syl turned slightly toward the mirror and gave herself one last inspection.
"Mask back on," she murmured.
"Boring," Shura whispered.
"Shut. Up."
Meanwhile
Ethan stayed on the ground, eyes closed, sprawled out like a broken scarecrow. "Yeah… fresh air was a mistake."
That was the state Carter found him in flat on his back, covered in dirt, and vaguely questioning his life choices.
"Master Ethan," Carter's voice rang out, smooth and elegant as always. "Dinner is being served."
Ethan cracked one eye open. "You've got impeccable timing, Carter."
When Ethan finally stood, Carter stepped forward with practiced grace, pulling a small brush from his coat pocket. Without saying a word, he dusted off Ethan's shirt, jacket, and pants with gentle, efficient strokes. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he produced a sleek wooden comb and ran it through Ethan's messy hair, taming it back into something slightly more presentable.
Ethan blinked. "You carry that stuff with you?"
Carter smiled faintly. "I find it prudent to be prepared for all outcomes, sir."
With the final touch in place, Carter tucked away the brush and comb, then extended an arm with a gentleman's poise.
"Shall we?"
The aroma of roasted game and spiced wine lingered thick in the air, warm and heady as it curled through the grand Duskmere dining hall. Laughter and clinking cutlery echoed beneath a high-vaulted ceiling, where tapestries of ancient battles hung silent witness to the evening's feast.
Ethan paused at the arched threshold, eyes adjusting to the glow of chandeliers burning with enchanted flame. His entrance was quiet until Carter stepped forward, silver hair gleaming under the light.
"The Kingmaker of House Duskmere," Carter announced, voice cool and clear.
Chairs scraped faintly against the marble floor as heads turned. Arthur, seated near the center, gave a nod of welcome. Ceris, seated beside him, offered no more than a glance, focused on cutting through a thick slice of venison. Sylviane sat across from them, her pale silver hair immaculate, posture perfect. She didn't speak, but her violet eyes followed Ethan as he approached curious, reserved. Observing.
At her side, Sayo remained quiet and composed, her blindfold as ever veiling her sight. Yet Ethan could feel her gaze upon him like a brush of wind soft, discerning, as though peeling back the layers of his thoughts with little effort.
Ethan sat near the end of the table, a respectable distance from the main family. No one acknowledged him further. No words from Edrick, who sat at the head of the table, stoic as a statue. His presence loomed heavier than the chandeliers above. Cold, unreadable.
Conversation resumed as if Ethan had never arrived.
"Reports say no Candidates have fallen yet," Arthur said, slicing into his meal, his tone even. "But the quiet won't last."
"Troubling news has reached us from the northern border," Edrick spoke, voice smooth as steel drawn from its sheath. "Three minor noble houses those who failed to produce Candidates this cycle were attacked by beasts. No survivors in one. The others were forced to abandon their land."
Sylviane set her fork down gently. "You think it's a pattern?"
"I think it's a message," Edrick replied. "Those without a stake in the Candidacy are being left defenseless."
"Or being culled," Arthur said, frowning.
A quiet passed between them. Sayo sipped her wine, face unreadable. Ceris kept eating, slower now.
"Some of those houses are desperate," Arthur added after a moment. "Desperate men ally easily."
"Political marriages. Favors. Or support to those who'll defend their borders."
Ceris nodded once, thoughtful. "We could lend aid. Form a warband. Clear out some of the monster infestations in exchange for their allegiance."
Edrick didn't object. "That would earn favor. Especially if their sons and knights are too weak to handle it themselves."
"And it would give Kingmakers real field experience," Sylviane said, her gaze flicking briefly to Ethan. "They'll need it soon."
No one looked directly at him, but Ethan could feel the weight of what wasn't said: earn your place.
He lowered his gaze and picked at the bread before him, the feast tasting suddenly dry.
No one asked him a question. No one included him in the talk of strategy.
Just a civilian sitting among wolves.
With formality fading, the nobles filtered into the hallways, each to their own destination.
[Duskmere Manor – Upper Hallway, Post-Dinner Silence]
The sound of his boots echoed faintly as Ethan made his way through the quiet, candlelit corridor. His shoulders ached not from training, but from the rigid etiquette lessons that felt more like battlefields in their own right.
Then, he stopped.
Leaning near the tall arched window stood a man carved from stillness itself: Edrick Duskmere. His silver hair glowed faintly in the firelight, his hands folded neatly behind his back, as if he had been waiting for this very moment.
"Ethan Peirce," Edrick said, his voice calm as snowfall.
"…Yes?" Ethan swallowed.
Edrick turned slightly, one sharp eye catching him in its pale gaze.
"Tell me. Are you so thick-faced that you've yet to feel the weight of this house?"
Ethan blinked.
"You've been here for weeks," Edrick continued, his tone even. "Eating our food. Training under my brother. Sitting at our table. And yet, you still look like a man who wandered into a storm expecting sunshine."
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
"Do you truly believe your efforts thus far, your stumbles in the training yard, your half-hearted etiquette are anything more than a drop of ink in the sea of what Ceris must endure?"
The words landed like ice.
"Ceris bleeds for this candidacy. Arthur has staked our family's name to lift her out of shame. And you…?"
He looked Ethan up and down not with contempt, but with something colder: disappointment.
"You show up. You breathe. You flinch. And you call it resolve."
Ethan's jaw clenched, breath shallow.
"I do not blame you. You are not of this world. You are not forged by steel or fire. But you mistake presence for purpose. You stand beside her, but offer no shield. You train, but only when forced. You speak, but only to avoid silence."
Then came the final blow quiet, precise:
"You are not a Kingmaker. You are a guest. One who has overstayed his welcome."
And without waiting for a response, Edrick turned and walked past him, footsteps fading like the closing of a tomb.