One year later.
The imperial palace was in utter chaos like a herd of cats at a mouse convention.
News of the return of an Ashstone had everyone in a tizzy, like they had all been slapped with a wet noodle of surprise. The royal courtiers were scrambling like ants in a sugar factory, trying to delay their inevitable demise.
No one could wrap their heads around it.
How could there be a survivor from the night the monsters crashed the Ashstone manor? It was like finding a lone sock after doing laundry—confusing and slightly unsettling.
They had all chalked up the Ashstone children's demise to good old karma, but now, with one of them popping back up, they were left scratching their heads harder than a flea-infested dog.
The looming questions hung over them like a rain cloud over a picnic: what did this mean? Was it a sign from the universe, or just a glitch in the matrix?
Whatever it was, it spelled trouble with a capital "T" for the political landscape of Haynes.
And the poor emperor was treated like a kid left out of the cool kids' secret club until now. By the time the news finally reached his ears, it was like telling someone the big ship sank after they had already seen the drama in the theaters—way too late to avoid the emotional iceberg.
"How in the name of all that's nonsensical could the second son be back?" Edgar's rage could have set the palace on fire, but luckily, they had a strict 'no arson' policy.
Slamming his golden crane like a frustrated toddler with a toy, he demanded answers.
The Prime Minister sweated like a marathon runner in a sauna and tried to explain, "Well, Your Imperial Majesty, funny story, really. See, fifteen years ago, our men tried to catch the little rascal, but he slipped through our fingers by just a fraction.
"We thought the job was finished as we heard that he had a date with the death god, or rather, a carriage accident. The story went like this, sold in a black market, flipped in a carriage, and boom—reported dead. Case closed, or so we thought."
Edgar's patience wore thinner than a sheet of paper and snapped like a twig in a hurricane. "Ridiculous! I have had enough of your ridiculous excuses! Guards, execute this man!"
The guards sprang into action fast, while the Prime Minister pleaded like a contestant on a game show begging for a lifeline. "Wait, wait, Your Imperial Majesty! Give me another shot! I promise I will get the job done this time!"
But alas, his pleas fell on deaf ears, and the crimson curtain fell on his political career with a gruesome finale.
As the former Prime Minister's lifeblood painted the floor, the rest of the court breathed a collective sigh of relief, silently thanking the heavens it was not their jugulars on the chopping block.
Ah, palace politics—where the only thing sharper than the knives was the wit to win the emperor's heart.
Just after that, an envoy entered the court and took permission before speaking, "The heir apparent of the Grand Duchy of Ashstone has requested an audience with Your Imperial Majesty."
As the envoy's words hung in the air, the courtiers exchanged horrified glances. The nerve of this Ashstone heir, barging in without an advance appointment like a door-to-door salesman during dinner time!
But Emperor Edgar, bless his heart, had the patience of a saint... or maybe just the stubbornness of a mule.
"Let him in," he declared, his voice intrigued.
Meanwhile, the ministers were busy speculating like a bunch of gossiping hens.
"Surely he is a lost cause, raised in the slums like a stray cat," they whispered, their noses wrinkling in disdain.
"Absolutely dreadful manners, I'm sure," another chimed in, adjusting his monocle as if preparing to inspect a particularly unsavory specimen.
"And literacy? Forget about it. He probably believes 'unicorn tears' are a rare brand of hair wash," a third added, shaking his head in mock pity.
They were so caught up in their snobby chatter, they almost did not notice the doors creaking open like the gates of hell until the person in question walked in.
All eyes turned toward the entrance, where a young man in his early twenties made his grand arrival, wearing polished black boots that gleamed with a shine only attainable by the most skilled artisans.
Each step he took resounded with authority, echoing through the marble-floored opulent chamber.
Dressed in regal splendor, he exuded an aura of power and elegance that demanded immediate respect, causing all the courtiers to bow in respect, as if the emperor himself had entered.
His shoulders were draped in a flowing coat of rich, deep blue, fastened at the neck with a golden clasp with the emblem of House Ashstone. The coat's luxurious material bellowed gracefully with every step, creating a mesmerizing spectacle.
Upon reaching the designated spot before the imperial throne, he came to a halt.
With great grace and deliberation, he lowered himself to one knee, unbothered by the pool of blood of the prime minister beside him. "I, Vyan Blake Ashstone, greet the sun of the Haynes Empire. Long live His Imperial Majesty."
His back remained straight, his shoulder squared, and his head bowed slightly, not in submission but in a sign of deference. It was a delicate balance as Vyan showed humility without losing his own sense of dignity.
"Thank you for granting me the permission to meet you on such short notice. Your kindness knows no bounds, Your Imperial Majesty."
As Vyan strode into the room, Edgar's heart performed an impromptu drum solo in his chest.
The resemblance to the late Grand Duke was uncanny, right down to the single silver earring winking from his left ear. It was like deja vu, but with more pressure.
The sight of the scar on Vyan's forehead was a rude awakening, like a splash of cold water on a winter morning, making him realize he did not jump back in time.
Edgar hastily plastered on a smile, though it felt as fake as a three-dollar bill at a millionaire's convention.
"Ah, the sole survivor of the House Ashstone. How fortunate you must feel," he remarked, his voice as smooth as butter on a hot skillet. "The future Grand Duke, no less."
"Lucky indeed, Your Imperial Majesty," Vyan replied with a smile so sweet, it could give one cavity. "But my fate lies in your esteemed hands. Without your approval, I am just a lost sheep in a world of wolves."
"Are you certain you are up to the task? Handling the Grand Duchy is not exactly a walk in the park," Edgar mused, feigning concern like a seasoned actor on opening night. "And you are still practically a baby in noble terms. Wouldn't it be a tad overwhelming?"
"Your kindness knows no bounds, Your Imperial Majesty," Vyan replied, his gratitude seeming as thick as syrup on pancakes. "But fear not. Though I may lack experience, I make up for it in determination. I will have you know, I am as tenacious as a bulldog with a bone."
"A true Ashstone through and through," Edgar chuckled, though inwardly he was already planning his next trip to the headache tonic aisle.
After all, Edgar found himself in a bit of a pickle, with the fate of the Grand Duchy of Ashstone resting squarely on his shoulders. It was like being handed the reins of a runaway horse—terrifying, yet strangely exhilarating.
Vyan, bless his naive heart, could have easily slipped into the role of Grand Duke without so much as a by-your-leave.
But no, he insisted on waiting for Edgar's nod of approval, like a puppy eagerly awaiting its master's command. Well, who was Edgar to deny him that pleasure? After all, everyone loves a bit of royal attention.
And what did Vyan know about the real world anyway? Probably as much as a goldfish knew about astrology. He was likely just grateful to have a roof over his head and a warm bed to sleep in.
Edgar had made sure that everybody—even Vyan—remained oblivious to the fact that Edgar had a hand in his family's demise. One slip-up and Vyan could find out.
But hey, no one said politics was a game for the faint of heart. So, Edgar was willing to risk it.
With a smile as dazzling as a freshly polished tiara, Edgar laid out his condition like a royal flush in a game of poker. "I will grant you permission, dear boy, on one condition," he announced, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Vyan was like an ever-eager beaver and practically leaped at the chance. "Anything, Your Imperial Majesty. Name it."
"Simple," Edgar said, leaning back on his throne. "You have to become my new tea-time partner. My kids are too busy with their royal shenanigans, and I could use some youthful company."
"It would be my greatest pleasure, Your Imperial Majesty," Vyan replied, his humility as genuine as a human trafficker trying to lure a kid in.
"Well then," Edgar declared, drawing a dramatic breath, "Let it be known that henceforth, Vyan Blake Ashstone shall bear the weighty title of Grand Duke of Ashstone! May the prosperity of the Grand Duchy of Ashstone commence!"
"All hail His Imperial Majesty, Edgar Crawford Haynes! Long live the new Grand Duke of Ashstone, His Serene Grace, Vyan Blake Ashstone!" the courtiers chanted.
The scene played out like a twisted theater production, with the courtiers bowing and cheering like trained monkeys, their words dripping with insincerity.
Amidst the sea of false jubilation, Vyan played his part to perfection, his smile just as fake as theirs.
Oh, yes, he pretended, alright—pretended he was just another pawn in the grand imperial machine. But behind that facade lay a viper, coiled and ready to strike.
Vyan Blake Ashstone had no intentions of playing nice forever. Oh, no, he had his sights set on something much darker—a game of political chess where the stakes were measured in severed heads and shattered dreams.
So, as the emperor and the courtiers raised their glasses in toast, little did they know that they were signing up to dance with the devil himself.