The room was thick with expectation, the air almost stifling despite the grandiosity of Duke Windslow's manor. The Dukes demanded an explanation—an answer their subject could not give. Duke Leonard Windslow, the man known as "The Amethyst Hawk," famed for always being three steps ahead, was now sweating under the weight of their scrutiny. Not from their gazes, not from the pressure of their collective authority, but from the immense strain his own mind was enduring as he tried to rationalize the current situation.
In all his years of maneuvering through courtly intrigue and warfare, Windslow had never found himself in such a precarious position. His title now felt like a cruel joke. The Amethyst Hawk, known for his unerring foresight, was as lost as the others. And the cause of his confusion? His own daughter. Lady Fiana, the heir to House Windslow, whose recent actions had sent ripples throughout the kingdom, causing not just concern, but outright fear among the Dukes.
If anyone had been able to peer into Windslow's mind, they would have seen the irony that was currently gnawing at him. Here he was, the man who had outwitted enemies on the battlefield and in the halls of power alike, utterly at a loss to explain what his daughter was up to. But could he admit that? Could he tell these men—men who were already perched on the edge of suspicion—that even he, their most esteemed comrade, couldn't control his own daughter?
No. That would be suicide. His admission would be seen either as a pathetic excuse or a lie. Either way, it would shatter the fragile balance of trust between them, a balance the late Emperor had built so carefully. The cracks were already there, small but dangerous, exacerbated by the new leadership of House Ursa. Cassius, the fiery young Duke, had inherited his father's position, and while he was still learning the intricacies of power, his temper could easily lead him to break the harmony that had so far held the kingdom together.
Windslow knew that all it took was one spark to set off a chain reaction that could plunge the Dukedoms into chaos. And so, there was only one option left to him: stalling. It wasn't much of a plan, but in the absence of any other ideas, it was the best he could come up with. He had convened this meeting in the hopes that he could stretch it out just long enough for his daughter to return from the Palace of Peace and explain herself—or, at the very least, clean up the mess she had caused.
He had already sent his best men to summon her, their instructions carefully worded so that only the Queen herself would hear the demand. It wasn't an official command, of course. More like a plea disguised as a stern ultimatum. He had even gone so far as to threaten Fiana's title as heir, knowing that Queen Azuleth would never keep such a message from her. It would be "against the rules" of their little games. Azuleth and Fiana had always played by their own peculiar set of rules, bending but never breaking the line between loyalty and rivalry.
And yet, despite his best efforts, there was no sign of his daughter. No letter, no message, nothing. She was still at the Palace, her whereabouts and intentions completely unknown to him. Windslow felt a rare flash of genuine frustration. It was as if the Queen had kidnapped his daughter, refusing to let her return, leaving him to deal with the fallout. It was a rare failure in his otherwise immaculate record of planning.
Now, he found himself in a meeting that he himself had orchestrated, with no answers, no plan, and no daughter. The sweat threatened to bead on his brow again. All of his carefully laid schemes had fallen apart, and he was left to face the consequences alone.
He looked around the table, trying to gauge the mood of his fellow Dukes. Cassius, of course, was impatient, tapping his fingers restlessly against the table. Duke Lira, the Gentle Wave, was calm but his eyes betrayed a subtle wariness. Even the ancient Duke, who rarely spoke, looked more attentive than usual. They were all waiting, watching. Time was slipping through his fingers like sand, and unless Fiana returned soon, this meeting could unravel in ways he couldn't predict.
Duke Windslow's mind raced as the council dragged on. He had hoped to buy time, stretching the conversation until his daughter, Lady Fiana, returned from the Palace. But with no word from the Palace, his frustration grew. The longer the silence continued, the more likely the ultimate outcome loomed: the shattering of the peace the late Emperor had spent so many years restoring. This meeting felt like the tipping point, the moment when all that careful balance could come crashing down.
But just as the storm clouds of his anxiety began to thunder louder in his head, a sudden stroke of luck arrived—unexpected and jarring.
"Thuck, thuck!" The sound of a firm knock at the door sliced through the tense air, drawing every Duke's attention. They all turned their gazes toward the entrance, puzzled by the intrusion. In all the years Duke Tolta could remember, never once had a council meeting between the Dukes been interrupted.
Even Duke Windslow himself couldn't hide his surprise.
'Who would dare?' he wondered.
Before the Dukes could even prepare themselves for what was to come, the answer arrived.
The knock had clearly been just a formality. Instead of waiting for permission to enter, the intruder burst through the doors as if no protocol mattered to him at all.
"BUCKHt!" The heavy doors swung wide open with a roar, flooding the room with light from the corridor. The Dukes squinted at the figures standing at the threshold, and in an instant, not one of them remained seated. They all stood, wide-eyed and tense, as they recognized the figure in the doorway.
"Thuck! Thugk! Thuck!" Chairs scraped as all five Dukes jumped to their feet, their surprise palpable. Even Duke Lira, usually composed and calm, could not conceal his shock.
Duke Windslow's voice broke the stunned silence first. "Captain Lastrange," he intoned, his voice dark and heavy with barely-contained anger. The man standing before them, Captain Lastrange, was one of the most formidable figures in the kingdom's military. His sudden, uninvited presence in Duke Windslow's own mansion—especially barging into a private council of the Dukes—was beyond disrespectful. It was an act tantamount to bringing an army into Windslow's home without permission.
Windslow's eyes narrowed as he studied the captain. His battle-hardened aura emanated in waves, sending a chill through the room. No soldier would dare stop a man like Captain Lastrange, but that didn't excuse this breach of decorum. However, in Windslow's mind, something else played out—something hidden beneath his display of indignation. In truth, Windslow felt a sudden rush of relief, as if he could almost kiss the old captain for interrupting this precarious meeting.
'Oh, how the tables turn,' Windslow thought, remembering how moments ago he had felt trapped between a rock and a hard place.
But appearances had to be kept. He squared his shoulders and barked, "I demand an explanation!" His voice boomed, more out of necessity than rage, as he pretended to be genuinely furious. He disregarded the captain's rank and the seething battle aura, treating him with the same level of disrespect that Lastrange had shown by barging in.
Captain Lastrange, however, responded with nothing more than a stern frown. His face was stone, and his stance unyielding, as though he were the one who should be annoyed—not Duke Windslow.
The silence hung for a moment, thick with tension, before the captain finally spoke. His voice was as gravelly as one might expect from a man forged in war.
"That question would be better asked of your daughter," Lastrange said, his tone calm but cutting.
As he shifted to the side, the reason for his intrusion was revealed. Standing behind him, her figure having been hidden until that moment, was none other than Lady Fiana Windslow.
"Lady Fiana!" The room gasped as one. All the Dukes, in unison, exclaimed her name, astonished and, perhaps, a little relieved. She had returned at last.
Windslow's heart surged with hope as he stepped forward, preparing to greet her and shift the tone of the meeting. "Fiana, words cannot describe how gla—"
But his relief was cut short. His daughter's words sliced through the air, sharp and cold. "Cut it, father. I don't have time for your games."
The effect was immediate. Every Duke in attendance, save for Captain Lastrange, was left speechless. Their jaws nearly hit the floor, as Lady Fiana, heir to House Windslow, brazenly dismissed her father's welcome.
For a moment, the Dukes questioned if they were even hearing the same Lady Fiana they had known. Could these brazen words truly be coming from her mouth? The same Fiana who had always carried herself with elegance and poise, now addressing her own father—Duke Windslow, no less—with such blatant disrespect? The thought was incomprehensible.
'She's gone mad. The girl's gone mad,' the Dukes all thought. It was the only explanation. Looking at her disheveled appearance—dark bags under her eyes, her hair wild and untamed—she looked like a witch rather than the polished, graceful figure they were used to seeing. Her transformation from a poised and sharp princess to what seemed like an overworked civil servant, deprived of sleep and teetering on the edge of exhaustion, was staggering.
Duke Windslow's face darkened with concern, breaking through the formality that usually dictated such meetings. In a rare display of candidness, he spoke without any regard for protocol. "Fiana, are you alright?" The question cut through the tense atmosphere like a knife, disregarding any pretense of etiquette. Right now, Windslow cared only for his daughter.
Fiana's eyes, which had been coldly scanning the room and sizing up the Dukes, finally landed on her father. Their gazes locked, and for the first time, Duke Windslow felt something strange—a shudder. The feeling was unfamiliar and unsettling. He, the Duke of House Windslow, was not the one in control of this situation. His daughter was.
"I'm doing perfectly fine, as all of you can clearly see," she replied, her voice dripping with heavy sarcasm as she gestured to her unkempt appearance. Her tone was biting, mocking her own disheveled state. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, the Emperor would like to have a word with all of you."
"The Emperor?" Duke Cassius Ursa was the first to react, his face twisted in confusion. He was young and clearly not privy to the secret plans. His bewilderment stood in stark contrast to the sudden shift in demeanor from the other Dukes. They all stiffened at once, their expressions turning grim and serious, as though preparing for battle.
"Who else knows about the Emperor?" Duke Lira asked sharply, his voice tight. His eyes bore into Fiana, demanding an answer. This was not part of the plan—this was dangerous.
"Just me," Fiana replied quickly, her words rushed, as if she had no time for pleasantries. "He told me everything. The plan. The war..."
Duke Windslow's heart sank. "Why?!" he demanded, his voice a mixture of frustration and dread. Years of meticulous planning unraveled before his very eyes, dissolving in a single conversation. The Emperor was supposed to remain a secret, known only to a select few—Azuleth, the Captain, and the Dukes. Even Duke Cassius, the youngest, had been kept in the dark. The Emperor, to the rest of the world, was a dead man, and it should have stayed that way until their deception had solidified into reality.
But now, Fiana had let the secret slip.
Fiana paused for a moment, casting a brief, almost pitying glance at her father. "Sorry, father," she said, her voice softening for the first time since she entered the room. "The war is being postponed."
Those words hit Duke Windslow harder than anything else. The weight of them was crushing. "Fiana, please, I beg of you, just tell us what's going on," he pleaded, his voice stripped of its usual authority. Defeated, confused, and unable to piece together the rapidly crumbling plan, he retired from his usual role as the schemer and strategist. All he wanted now were answers.
For a brief moment, Fiana hesitated, looking at her father. She had been dropping hints—trying, perhaps, to give him a way out of the mess that was unfolding. But as Windslow looked into her eyes, he realized something tragic. Despite all his years of cunning, despite his reputation as the master tactician, he could not figure it out. Not this time.
Thus, Duke Windslow, still reeling from the shock, failed to grasp the mercy embedded in Fiana's words. Her attempt to shield him, to spare him from the weight of her decision, was met with denial—a simple truth too overwhelming for him to accept in that moment.
Oh, the woe. The realization hadn't fully dawned on him yet, but it would. And when it did, it would cut deeper than any blade.
"It's not your fault, Windslow," a grizzled voice cut through the tension between father and daughter. Captain Lastrange stood firm, his battle-worn presence commanding the attention of the room. "No one could have expected something like this, out of nowhere."
Duke Windslow's mind was still reeling, trying to piece together the rapidly changing situation. "Like what?" he demanded, desperate for clarity.
"You should be thanking your daughter right now, for coming to you all before of holding an official Assembly," the Captain continued, his tone rough but sincere. "Surely you remember the one we held before—"
"It's like that magician all over again," the Captain muttered, almost as if to himself.
The word "magician" struck Duke Windslow like a bolt of lightning. His eyes widened as the weight of the situation crashed down on him. His knees threatened to buckle, his legs suddenly weak as if they could no longer support his own body. For a brief moment, he considered collapsing into his seat.
But Fiana's voice cut through his shock, stopping him cold.
"Don't even think about sitting back down, father," she commanded, her voice sharp and urgent. "We need to go."
Windslow's mind was still trying to process everything, but the urgency in his daughter's voice left no room for hesitation. "NOW!"
"Where to?" Duke Cassius Ursa asked, his voice tinged with confusion and concern. He was the youngest among them, clearly not as well-versed in the gravity of the situation as the others.
"The Palace of Peace, of course," Windslow answered before Fiana could, his voice regaining some of its strength. The clarity hit him as he connected the dots, though the young Duke was still catching up. Windslow could see it in his eyes—Cassius had never faced something like this before.
A collective sigh of understanding swept through the room. The other Dukes, having been on edge since Fiana's arrival, now allowed themselves a small breath of relief. The situation was no longer about Lady Fiana's supposed madness.
It was the world itself that had turned upside down.
Two geniuses of the caliber of the Magi, born in the same millennium? What a time to be alive.
"Lead the way, Captain Lastrange," Duke Windslow said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I want to meet the man who's driven my daughter, the heir of House Windslow, to such a state."
But his triumph was short-lived. "Uh…" Fiana interrupted, her expression exasperated. "I think you're still confused, father."
Duke Windslow furrowed his brows, sensing that another bombshell was about to drop.
"I've renounced my claim to the Duchy," Fiana declared, her words heavy with finality.
Windslow's mind couldn't immediately grasp the full meaning of her statement. The sheer shock of it was too much to handle in the moment. His daughter—renouncing her claim? It was unthinkable. But before he could even begin to respond, Fiana seemed to recognize that it was futile to explain further. She gave him a brief, almost pitying look.
"Come on," she said, gesturing for them all to follow. "Let's go. The Emperor is better at this sort of thing anyway."