I pushed open the door to my room with a sigh and clutched the insignia like a starving orphan holding onto a loaf of bread.
Damn thing had nearly given me a heart attack earlier....getting yeeted across the ground in a training match was already bad enough, but losing my survival badge in this viper's den? That was nightmare fuel.
Stretching with a groan, I rotated my shoulder joints and dropped onto the edge of the bed. The throb in my leg reminded me I was still very much human.
Clara stepped in silently, hands folded neatly.
"Shall I prepare your bath, young master?"
"Yes, please," I said, rolling my neck, "and after that, let Gaveric know to wait in the duchy's study. I'll meet him there soon."
She bowed slightly, already turning to leave.
"Wait, Clara," I called again.
She paused at the door, eyes attentive.
"There's something weird I felt during the duel," I said, scratching my head. "When Sylvia came at me with that gut stab… my body just… moved. Like, not me. The body moved. On its own. It wasn't instinct. It was something else."
Clara's brows dipped slightly.
"I noticed that, young master. Not just today," she said. "Even during our spar. You blocked my first blow, but... at the last moment, your wrist twisted anti-sense to the motion of my blade, just enough to redirect it. Then, right before impact, you adjusted the wrist again, coinciding the motion sense with my blade's, guiding my strike instead of just blocking."
I blinked. What is she spouting.
"I haven't taught you the 'carpel adjustment' yet. It's a technique advanced beyond the foundational forms," Clara said, her tone calm but firm. "Yet you performed it with the kind of precision that takes years of training."
"Clara." I squinted at her. "When have you ever seen me practice swordsmanship before this week?"
She didn't blink. "When you were young, you used to play with wooden swords. You enjoyed it. But… after a certain incident, you stopped taking an interest in combat."
Right. So practically never.
Clara's expression turned sharp, serious. "What you did today wasn't learned. It was the 'instinct of familiarity'."
I raised a brow. "That's… a thing?"
"Yes." She took a step forward. "A few noble bloodlines possess this phenomenon, where the body responds to familiar movements it hasn't consciously learned. We call it the instinct of familiarity. Duke Everard is one of the top two warriors in Valthryon. Among all human empires, His Grace ranks within the top five. As his lineal descendants, some of his natural instincts likely passed down to you and Lady Juliette."
I leaned back, lips pursed. "That sounds like fantasy."
But then again, Hugo had done nothing, literally nothing, and my combat level was sitting at E+.
Most trained adults struggle at E-rank bottleneck, until they gain real battle experience. They have to wander around monster nests or join the adventurer guild just to hope for a breakthrough.
Meanwhile, I was lounging around like a tourist with a death wish and still at E+ without even breaking a sweat.
Yeah, Maybe it's real.
Shrugging to myself, I peeled off my coat and headed toward the bath.
Time to soak and pretend I understood genetics.
.
Night had draped itself across the duchy like a silken veil, quiet and cold. In the Duke's chamber, a soft amber glow spilled from the lanterns lining the walls, dancing faintly on stacks of parchment and inked maps sprawled across the table.
The scent of dark-roasted tea lingered in the room, carried from the half-filled porcelain cup that sat untouched beside Duke Everard.
He didn't lift his gaze from the documents as a knock echoed against the chamber's door.
"Enter," came the low voice, firm but unhurried.
A guard stepped inside, head bowed. "Your Grace… Her Grace, Duchess Serena, requests an audience."
Everard's fingers stilled above a line of tactical markings. He didn't blink.
"Let her in," he said.
The door closed. A moment later, Serena stepped through alone.
No maids accompanied her, no rustle of skirts or trailing servants, just her. Regal in posture, yet her eyes shimmered with conflict. Her steps were poised, but her breath, barely audible, betrayed her agitation.
Everard placed the quill down beside the papers, folding his hands as his crimson gaze met hers.
"I was expecting you."
Serena didn't reply. She stood by the door longer than necessary, her gaze narrowed, burning with confusion and restrained fury.
For a moment, the silence between them thickened like the tension before a lightning storm.
Then she stepped forward, her voice trying desperately to keep its composure.
"My lord… I believe Hugo is far too young to be entrusted with such tasks. Sending him outside the castle walls… could endanger his life."
Everard's expression didn't shift.
"It's fine," he said with a breath that sounded too calm. "Proper personnel have been arranged to accompany him."
Her lips tightened.
"That's not the point," she snapped, formality giving way to raw emotion. "Why… why are you trying to throw away your son's life as if it means nothing?"
Everard's gaze flickered, but only for a second.
"That is not my intention," he said. "I would never do that."
Something inside Serena broke.
She stepped closer, all courtesy crumbling beneath the weight of something deeper. Grief. Love. Rage.
"No… now I understand," she said, voice cracking. "You're trying to rid yourself of your incompetent son. You're giving Ashen what they want so they won't come for your precious duchy. Isn't that right?"
Her steps didn't stop. She crossed the room and grabbed the collar of his robe, pulling him slightly forward with trembling hands.
"You care more for your name," she said, bitterly, "for your seat… your fame. Your duchy matters more to you than I ever did. Than he ever did."
Her words stabbed like thorns but Everard remained still. His crimson eyes, once calm, now deepened with a fierce glint. Power leaked from him, raw and stifling. The room pulsed with it, his aura coiling around them like a beast stirred awake.
Serena trembled with fear But she didn't let go.
Even when her heartbeat screamed at her to step back, even when her legs trembled under the weight of his presence...she stood her ground. Her fingers still gripped his collar, knuckles pale.
Everard's hands slowly rose and grasped hers, not to pull them away but to hold them still. He leaned closer until his breath brushed against her face. Their eyes met, crimson against ocean blue.
And in that moment, Serena understood, for the first time.
What it meant to incur the rage of Everard Gyrfald.
What it felt like to stand where his enemies once stood.
"Serena," he said, his voice low, cold enough to silence thunder. "You keep blabbering about things you barely understand. Do you even know what your son did?"
She opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out. His presence pressed against her ribs, making her heart stumble in place.
"You and I," Everard continued, "have struggled for over a decade to root out the Ashen rot in this castle. He did it in a single night."
Her brows twitched. Confusion painted her expression again.
Everard's voice deepened. "Reports from Sebastian. From Gaveric. Every time the subject is Hugo, he does something that surprises me… something neither of us thought of."
He released her hands.
"I thought I had done everything I could," he said. "Then he comes in with a simple but brilliant strategy that uproots a network of spies from under our noses, during a banquet, no less."
He turned his back to her, pacing slowly.
"No guests noticed a thing. Not a whisper." He smirked with pride and disbelief. "As per Sebastian's report, he already knew who the top brass among the spies were."
Her hands lowered.
"He blocked a blow from someone I trained. Someone Juliette can't even match yet. Then today… he held his own against a top academy alumna Sylvia. You know how rare that is."
Serena blinked rapidly, lips parted, speechless.
"He's not the same boy who used to lock himself away in fear of being seen," Everard said, facing her again. "Your overprotectiveness will only smother him now."
His gaze sharpened.
"You, once among the top combatants in Falcon's ranks, couldn't sense Sebastian's presence tonight."
Serena's eyes widened. Reflexively, she turned her head.
And there he stood.
Sebastian, in his dark uniform, his frame half-shrouded by shadow near the wall behind Everard. Bowed deeply, respectfully.
Her breath hitched.
She hadn't sensed him at all.
"He's always been right in front of your eyes," Everard said. "And yet you missed him."
Then his voice softened, not gentle, but edged with something deeper.
"But Hugo sensed him. The moment Sebastian entered his chamber."
Silence fell again.
Then came a whisper of hesitation in Everard's voice, barely there, almost drowned by the weight of his presence.
"Serena," he said quietly, "try not to let your love become an obstacle in his path."
That was the final blow.
Serena's composure crumbled. Her shoulders fell, eyes brimming with unshed tears as she looked down, trying desperately to keep them from falling.
Her legs faltered beneath her. She wasn't sure how she was still standing.
All the pressure of staying strong, all the distance she had built between herself and her husband… all of it collapsed.
And then—
Everard gently pulled her forward.
His arms wrapped around her with a quiet finality. Serena stiffened for a breath. The surprise of it stunned her.
But then, without even realizing, she broke.
Her tears spilled silently onto his robe as her hands clutched the fabric tightly. Years of separation, of watching from afar, of fearing and protecting her son alone, crashed into her like a wave. Her sobs were quiet, choked, but relentless.
Everard said nothing. He simply held her.
And in the silence that followed, Sebastian quietly stepped out of the chamber. His footsteps made no sound against the polished floor. He stopped beside the window at the far end of the corridor, gazing at the moon that hung solemnly above the duchy.
It watched over them all...silent, distant, and full of secrets.
.
"Yeah, finalize that route," I said, waving a hand toward the window. "And send letters to all the rest spots. I want tea ready and baths warm before we even step in."
Gaveric bowed like a professional statue. "As you wish, young master."
With that, he vanished.
I turned to Clara, who was already scribbling like my words came with divine authority.
"Let's wrap this up and head back. Start writing names in the five brackets under my name, our team to Elvian."
"There are only four brackets left," she said, still writing.
"What?" I frowned. "I was told I was given five."
"You were," she said sweetly. "There are only four left."
I blinked. She didn't.
Just as I opened my mouth to argue, she looked up and smiled, the kind of innocent smile that should come with a fine.
"There are only four left, Young Master."
Right. She wrote her name in one of them.
Of course she did. Why ask when you can appoint yourself?
I leaned back in the chair, internally clapping.
"Four's fine," I muttered.
She smiled. Somehow... she looked proud.