The night sky burned red with the glow of distant flames. The scent of blood and smoke filled the cold air, mingling with the dying screams that echoed through the once-proud estate of House Valefor.

Lucian Valefor crouched within the shadows of a hidden corridor, his breathing slow and controlled despite the chaos unraveling before him. Through the narrow slits of the hidden passage, he watched as the great hall—where his family once hosted nobles and dignitaries—became a slaughterhouse.

Noble knights, sworn to serve House Valefor, lay dead, their armor cracked and their lifeblood pooling beneath them. Servants, who had faithfully tended to the estate for years, were cut down without hesitation. Men in darkened armor, their breastplates engraved with sigils of enemy noble houses, moved with practiced efficiency, eliminating all who remained.

Lucian's grip on his tattered cloak tightened.

It had all fallen apart so quickly.

Earlier that evening, his father—Duke Aldric Valefor, one of the strongest noble lords of the empire—stood before the Imperial Court, falsely accused of treason. The evidence had been fabricated, the witnesses bribed or coerced. And the emperor, a weak-willed man too easily swayed by his scheming nobles, had delivered the verdict without hesitation.

Execution.

His father had not even been given the dignity of a noble's death. Beheaded like a common criminal.

And as his father's blood stained the marble floors of the court, the so-called noble houses—those who had once praised House Valefor and called them allies—had already moved against them.

House Valefor's fate had been sealed the moment the blade fell.

His mother and sister had been dragged away from their chambers before they could flee. The knights of his house had fought to the last man, defending a home already lost.

Now, only Lucian remained.

Alone.

---

A blade flashed through the air. Lucian watched as a servant girl—no older than fourteen—pleaded for her life. The soldier, clad in the armor of House Vortan, grinned as he brought his sword down.

Lucian did not flinch. He did not avert his eyes.

Instead, he memorized the man's face.

The curve of his grin. The gleam in his eyes. The arrogance in his stance.

Just as he had memorized the faces of every noble who had turned against his family.

Just as he had engraved into his mind the banners of every house responsible.

Their names. Their crests. Their sins.

Lucian was not weak.

But he had been powerless.

For all his talent, all his intelligence, he had never truly understood what power meant. He had thought it was about strength, about honor, about duty.

It was none of those things.

Power was control.

Power was influence, hidden hands that moved unseen.

Power was not having to fight your enemies—because you had already won before the battle began.

Lucian had no sword. No army. No wealth. No allies.

But he had time.

He had knowledge.

He had hatred that burned colder than any flame.

And most of all—he had patience.

---

The attack lasted for hours.

By dawn, House Valefor was nothing but ruins and corpses.

Lucian remained hidden within the underground tunnels that only his family knew of, waiting until the last of the raiders had left. The bodies of his kin lay scattered like broken dolls in the courtyard.

His mother and sister—what remained of them—had been strung up as warnings. His father's severed head had been placed upon a pike at the estate gates.

A message. A declaration.

House Valefor was dead.

Lucian stepped out from the tunnels as the first light of morning bathed the wreckage in gold. He did not tremble. He did not cry.

He simply stood among the dead, letting the weight of the moment sink into his very soul.

And then, he turned away.

Away from the ruins of his past.

Away from the name that had been taken from him.

He would return.

But not as Lucian Valefor. Not as a noble scion seeking vengeance.

No.

When he returned, it would not be with a sword—but with whispers.

With shadows that crept through the cracks of noble society.

With strings that would pull the empire itself into his grasp.

They would not see him coming.

By the time they realized it—he would already own everything.