"Young miss please have a good outing," a voice came from a middle-aged woman with a kind yet weathered face, showing the signs of years of dedicated service. Her skin is a warm, deep brown, and her eyes are a soft hazel, filled with a mixture of concern and loyalty. She has tightly coiled black hair, neatly tucked under a modest white cap. Her hands, though slightly rough from years of work, move with a gentle grace as she curtsies deeply, her posture always respectful and poised.
And these words were directed to her Young Miss, Cynthia who has smooth light-dark skin, dark wavy hair, and striking golden eyes. She wears a black gown that highlights her figure, along with a black gem pendant on a silver chain. A feathered mesh hat adds a touch of sophistication to her look.
"Yes, Melinda," Cynthia replied, her voice steady. "I will return after the Imperial Funeral." With that, she left the room and began walking through a corridor, while being flanked by two silent maids.
The corridor had wooden arches, intricately carved by master craftsmen, seemed to touch the sky. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, casting kaleidoscopic dragon patterns on the plush red carpet.
Stone statues stood sentinel, their eyes unyielding. Some held swords aloft, frozen in mid-battle, while others cradled shields their faces eternally stoic. Their gaze followed her as if assessing her worthiness to tread this hallowed ground.
At the far end of the hall stood a massive wooden door. Its central panel showcased an exquisite tree, each branch and leaf meticulously carved. As Cynthia stepped through, releasing her into a vast chamber.
She found herself on the second floor, overlooking a grand hall. Twin staircases, their plush red carpets cascading, descended to the ground level. The walls bore intricate designs to her right patterns. Kings and queens had walked these halls, their victories etched into the very plaster on the walls.
Above, the ceiling wove its own story. Vines entwined, dragons danced, and ethereal creatures watched from celestial heights. The blues mirrored midnight skies, while whites gleamed like freshly fallen snow.
But it was the paintings that held the room's soul. Framed masterpieces adorned every inch of wall space. Here, a regal monarch stared out. And in the corner, a storm at sea raged a tempest frozen in oil and canvas. Waves crashed, sails billowed, and sailors clung to hope as salt-laden winds swept their fate.
Chandeliers hung like crystal webs, casting a soft glow upon the room's treasures. Their light pirouetted across polished marble, where an ornate rug lay a tapestry woven in crimson and gold.
As the young lady descended to ground level, a gentleman awaited her. His black tailcoat shone. Silk, perhaps, or some ethereal fabric. Beside him stood three butlers.
"Good afternoon, young miss," they chorused, their voices hushed in reverence. The young lady accepted the older gentleman's outstretched hand, her arm slipping beneath his.
"Good afternoon, everyone," she replied, her gaze steady. The staff bowed deeply, conveying their respect. "Please return safely," they all said bidding the duo a safe outing.
Outside, the marquess and his daughter stepped toward the waiting carriage and sat in their seats.
"Cynthia, when do you plan on journeying to Lumenoth and claim your wand? You turn seventeen this year," the marquess inquired. The coachman closed the door, sealing them within the carriage's velvet embrace.
Cynthia's gaze remained fixed on the passing trees. "I intended to go after the state funeral," she replied. "I after all seek to master my future sight."
"Indeed, the sooner you acquire it, the better. Frankly, I want you to master that unique ability of yours. Obtaining your wand is the crucial first step," the marquess stated, adjusting his black gloves. After a while, they arrived in the capital. Streetlamp and buildings proudly displayed the nation's flag a dragon clutching a crown with its talons. The flag's ocean-blue background contrasted with the silver dragon adorned with black streaks and a golden crown. As the marquess observed the bustling activities outside the carriage, he called Cynthia's name. "When we disembark, seek solace in the abbey if needed. When the Empress Mother's procession approaches, we must be outside, so be ready to greet the imperial family." Cynthia nodded in understanding.
As the carriage left the city behind, the surroundings shifted. Cynthia peered through the window to see where they were.
Tall stone walls loomed, adorned with gems of myriad colors. Spaced evenly along the wall, each gem formed a perfect hexagon a mosaic of magic.
The carriage halted before a grand gate an ancient sentinel. Its surface bore mystical engravings, etched by hand.
The true power lay not in the grandeur of the gate, but in the guardians who stood sentinel. Magnificent dragon sculptures flanked the entrance, their stone forms almost lifelike in the sun's glow. Eyes sparkled with mystical energy, and scales gleamed like polished armor. These silent sentinels had witnessed centuries pass.
As the carriage halted, the coachman descended, opening the door. The marquess stepped out, facing the gate. Faint crumbling sounds reached them the guardians turning their heads toward the ground, acknowledging his presence.
"Who wishes to enter Yalzeruth's Abbey?" echoed the imposing guardians atop the gate. The marquess replied, "Marquess Horace Rochester, Cynthia Rochester, a servant of our family, and two members of the Kezmar Horse Clan." The guardians accepted their identities, allowing passage.
The large metal gate glowed with dark purple light, creaking open. "You may pass," the guardians intoned. The marquess returned to the carriage, and as the coachman resumed his post, they trotted through the gate.
Beyond the gate, a lush expanse unfolded trees, verdant and ancient. But it was Yalzeruth's Abbey that held their gaze. Its grandeur defied mere stone and mortar. Gray walls soared, reaching for the heavens, their carvings etched with forgotten tales. Spire after spire yearned skyward, as if eager to brush the clouds themselves. Watchful windows dotted every angle, eyes into the soul of the abbey.
The sun, gentle and golden, bathed the abbey in serenity. Lush trees encircled the abbey, leaves rustling in harmony. Birds nested, their songs weaving through tranquil grounds.
As horse hooves trod the stone road, the carriage halted. The marquess stepped out, extending his hand to Cynthia.
As they approached the abbey's door, a voice interrupted their progress. "Marquess Rochester," said a young man, extending his hand. He had a strong, well-built frame, his brown skin glowing under the light. His blond hair, slightly tousled, framed his sharp features, and his striking brown eyes gleamed with intensity. The marquess reciprocated with a firm handshake, and Cynthia offered a slight curtsey. "A pleasure to see you again, little Duke Graham," acknowledged the marquess.
As they continued toward the abbey, little Duke Graham leaned in. "Marquess, have you considered my proposal to marry your daughter?" His pocket watch emerged from a silver tailcoat, ticking away the seconds.
The marquess's smile remained unwavering. "No, I am not rushing matters to arrange a marriage for my daughter at the moment," he replied.
"However, should I decide, your father, the duke, will be the first to know," said the marquess, leaving the little duke behind. As they entered the abbey, sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows. Each pane became a canvas of celestial hues sapphire blues, ruby reds, and emerald greens. The light painted stories upon the polished marble floor, and the air held its breath, thick with reverence. The architecture whispered of centuries past a symphony of Gothic arches and ribbed vaults. Pillars bore the weight of prayers and hymns, while carvings adorned their surfaces: a great bird with outstretched wings, a deer gazing heavenward, and a mythical whale roaming the depths.
At the cathedral's core, an altar stood an island of polished marble encircled by a sea of silence. Above it, a weathered wooden dragon hung, wings outstretched. Candle flames floated, their dance casting flickering shadows upon the walls. The air bore the scent of incense and memories long past.
Within the cathedral, the stained glass held true magic. Scenes unfolded a brown-haired warrior astride a dragon, trident in hand; a hooded figure wielding a scepter; and a majestic green tree.
"Father," Cynthia said, releasing his arm, "I believe I should find a quiet spot to sit and allow you time to socialize." The marquess nodded. "Alright, take your time." The official path leading to the abbey lay empty, granting her a moment to collect her thoughts. But before her father could finish speaking, her eyes shone with a bright golden glow.
As Cynthia nearly collapsed, her father caught her, guiding her toward a seating area. He gently laid her on a cushioned bench, drawing attention from those nearby. Concerned faces formed a crowd, inquiring about Cynthia's well-being. The marquess reassured them, explaining that she was experiencing a minor inconvenience and would soon awaken. With his assurance, the crowd dispersed, forming discussion groups.
Two young ladies lingered, taking seats beside the marquess. One leaned in. "Is it related to the fact that Lady Rochester lacks a wand?" she asked. The marquess nodded. "Indeed, young Lady Vance. Cynthia possesses latent psy abilities, making her need for a wand urgent as she grows older." His hand brushed Cynthia's hair.
The other young lady leaned forward. "Does she find her visions painful?" she inquired, glancing at the unconscious Cynthia. The marquess replied, "Initially, she suffered migraines, but now she wakes up without discomfort." Satisfied, both ladies bid their farewells, wishing Cynthia and the marquess continued good health.
Shortly after the two noble ladies departed, Cynthia's eyes fluttered open, and she began to shiver violently as if caught in a nightmare. The marquess leaned in, concerned for his daughter. "Cynthia, what happened? What did you see? Why are you so afraid?" Little Duke Graham, noticing the marquess's panic, approached to inquire if anything was amiss.
Before the little duke could finish asking, Cynthia's trembling voice cut through the air. "Father," she called out, gripping his arm, her breath ragged. "I can't breathe." The Marquess extended his hand, conjuring a silver wand with a sky-blue swirl from base to tip. Pointing it at Cynthia's head, he commanded, "Calm Mind." The marquess steadied her, instructing her to take deep breaths.
With her thoughts steadied Cynthia shared her vision: "The Empress Mother's coffin will be attacked during its journey to the abbey." She hesitated, her gaze haunted. "But who the attackers are remains unclear only screams and blood." The little duke pressed her, seeking certainty. The marquess's assurance followed: "Her visions have never been wrong before."
After confirming, little Duke Graham hurried off from the Abbey, shouting for the imperial guards stationed around to let him speak to the commanding guard. Cynthia's still concerned trembled, her breath ragged. The marquess leaned in, concern etching his features. "Cynthia, what frightened you?" he asked, trying to understand if that was all he needed to be concerned about.
Her voice quivered. "Father, Yalzeruth will appear. Whoever attacked the Empress Mother's coffin will force Her Majesty to call upon Yalzeruth. She will freeze an entire city to death." Cynthia buried her face into the marquess's chest, seeking solace. "I couldn't tell which city, but based on the architecture, it was likely from the Yoman Empire."
"Don't worry, my dear," the marquess soothed, rubbing her back in a circular motion. "All will be fine." His wand disappeared from his hand.
"Would you like something to drink, Cynthia?" asked the marquess, his gaze fixed on her. She nodded slightly, confirming her need. The marquess extended his hand once more, and with a whirl, his wand appeared. "Conjuration," he commanded. A glass materialized, filling with water from base to brim. He handed it to Cynthia, who drank until her throat felt better. After finishing the water, the marquess tapped the glass with his wand, commanding, "Revertas." The glass vanished, and his wand followed suit.
Cynthia sat up, glancing at her father the Marquess. She excused herself to fix her hair in the lady's room. As she left her father's side and finished fixing her hair in the lady`s room a loud explosion echoed. Rushing outside, she found a gathering of imperial soldiers stationed at the abbey, lining up to march into the city.
Cynthia, after scanning her surroundings, heard a voice calling for her. The coachman came running, breathless. "Lady Cynthia," he said, "the Marquess sent me to fetch you. You're to join him in the carriage." She followed the coachman to where the carriage stood, a distance away from the abbey. With his assistance, she settled into the carriage, and her father checked on her before instructing the coachman: "Sparrington Palace."
"Why the Imperial Palace and not King's Street, Father?" Cynthia asked, rubbing her temple. The marquess explained, "Her Majesty's temperament won't allow us near the procession. She'll evacuate the citizens and convene the court. I'm merely trying to stay ahead." Cynthia nodded her thoughts on preventing the chilling vision she'd seen. "I hope we can alter that fate," she murmured. The marquess gazed out the window, his expression solemn.