Duchy Border

Precipice Fortress Outpost—Longblade Fortress

When the messenger pigeon landed on the railing, Lord Fouchet trembled violently. Weakly, he unfastened the scroll from its leg—but his fingers slipped, sending the parchment clattering to the floor.

As he bent to retrieve it, he noticed the swollen veins bulging across his forearm. His skin flaked off like old rust at a touch.

*Eighty years old this year.*

*This hand once gripped a Longsword, fighting for the Duchy…*

He picked up the scroll just as a surge of icy blood shot up from his feet. An unnatural chill flooded his body. Fouchet’s knees buckled. *Thud.* He collapsed.

“Lord Siward!”

A knight behind him rushed forward, hauling the old man upright. Fouchet feebly clutched the knight’s arm, whispering hoarsely:

“I’m fine. Help me up.”

The knight eased him upright. Gasping for air, Fouchet thrust the scroll into his hands.

“Svisin. Read it to me.”

The knight hesitated. “But this is—”

“Don’t question me! How many years have you served under me?”

*Forty years,* Fouchet thought. *Svisin Sudia—the fiery twenty-year-old with sunlit eyes and unruly hair, brimming with untamed spirit.*

*Now? Wrinkled skin like tree bark. Clouded eyes. No hair left to tame.*

*Two old knights with one foot in the grave. What song would bards sing of us?*

Svisin began to read:

“To Lord Fouchet Siward of Precipice Fortress. I am Edward Sidius, Duke of Sidius.”

*So it’s come to this.*

The Siward sigil—a golden shield—had guarded the mountain pass for a century. To reach the New Capital, enemies must first break Precipice Fortress. House Siward had been the Sidius family’s shield.

But the Alliance had stormed the fortress. Though Fouchet inflicted heavy losses, he’d been driven out. Now he held Longblade Fortress, sending endless pleas for reinforcements. Today’s reply had finally arrived.

*The Duchy will send troops.*

Fouchet’s gaze hardened toward Precipice Fortress, its towers blazing in the distance.

*I’ll reclaim my home. Wash away this shame.*

Svisin continued:

“We have received your letters. Regretfully, we inform you: no reinforcements will come. The Duchy has made peace with the Alliance. To celebrate Princess Iris’s birthday, we request Lord Fouchet’s presence at the Mage Tournament preliminaries in Raging Tide City. We await your arrival.”

*What?*

Hope shattered like a rainbow soap bubble.

Everything slipped away—wealth, status, honor, life itself. Only a bleak question mark pulsed in his numb mind, fluttering like a moth in the dark. The world spun. He slumped heavily.

“Lord Siward!”

Svisin caught him again. Fouchet gasped like a landed fish, trapped in a scorpion’s circle of fire—rage, despair, helplessness.

*Peace? A tournament? Preliminaries?*

*What of my thousands of dead soldiers? Our trampled honor? Must we kowtow to the Alliance? To the Elvis Family in the New Capital?*

*Absurd!*

Fouchet covered his face, shaking his head. *First the border defenses crumble. Now the Duke trades our honor for peace?*

Through blurred vision, he saw the Duchy of Sidius crumbling like rotten timber.

“Take me downstairs. To the hall.”

Svisin nodded, supporting the old man down the stairs.

*I’ve served House Sidius all my life. Obedience is the only path left. The last shred of Siward honor depends on it.*

Halfway down, raucous shouts erupted from the hall:

“For House Siward!”

“Oorah!”

Fouchet’s face paled. He shoved the door open. White-armored knights raised their swords like a forest of steel. At their forefront, his twenty-five-year-old son Howard Siward roared:

“We’ll reclaim our rights from that traitor Edward Sidius! Even a shield can crush an enemy’s skull to pulp!”

“Aye!”

“Fools! What madness is this?!” Fouchet bellowed, stumbling forward with Svisin’s support.

Howard slowly lowered his sword. “Father. I know what Edward did. He spat on our honor. Demanded we swallow this disgrace.”

His teeth gnashed audibly. Fury burned in his eyes like a caged lion’s. Hatred coiled in his muscles, making his foot twitch uncontrollably.

“If House Sidius strips us of honor—let them come! We’ll drag them from their throne! Hack off their limbs! Toss them off Precipice Fortress’s cliffs!”

“Aye!”

Knights raised their blades again, battle cries shaking the hall. Fouchet seized Howard’s arm, his voice a desperate whisper:

“We can’t fight Sidius! We lack the strength! Obedience is our only choice. And—how did you even learn of this?”

Howard’s eyes flicked to a hooded figure in black standing among the knights. A chill Fouchet had never felt in eighty years slithered down his spine.

“The messenger,” Howard said. “Hilwen.”

*Messenger? May the gods curse you!*

“Troops aren’t the issue!” Howard snapped. “Irina—that whore princess—is in Raging Tide City! Sidius invited us to the preliminaries. There, our knights will cut off Sidius and Irina’s heads! Then—”

“No! This is regicide! Treason! We swore oaths to House Sidius! This is no act for knights! No honor in it!”

Howard’s face darkened. He grabbed Fouchet’s collar, yanking him close.

“What’s wrong with it? The Elvis Family stole our ancestral home! Sidius trampled our honor! Should we forgive them?”

Fouchet’s heart sank like a fallen leaf. His soul turned to stone. In his son’s eyes, he saw not just stolen birthright—but the agony of unavenged shame.

Howard released him with a cold laugh. “I shouldn’t expect sense from an eighty-year-old ghost. Drown in your hollow duty. Hand me the lordship.”

Svisin stepped forward, furious: “You bastard—”

Steel flashed. Howard’s blade slashed across Fouchet’s chest.

A crimson line bloomed. Strength fled. Fouchet tumbled down the steps, landing hard. He raised a trembling hand toward the knights.

“Help me… Stop Howard! Kin-slaying is a mortal sin! A sin!”

Silence.

The knights raised their swords. They advanced. Blades plunged into Fouchet’s back. He rolled desperately, catching glimpses of faces he’d knighted himself.

“No! I’m your lord! You swore oaths! You’re my knights! Stop! STOP!”

His scream choked into a torrent of blood.

Even seeing this, the sworn knights showed no sign of stopping. Just as Fouché thought he’d die here, a sword suddenly forced them back.

Moments later, a pair of aged, peeling hands slowly lifted the blood-soaked Fouché. It was Swechin. He raised him up faithfully, just as he’d done for decades—without hesitation, simply doing his duty.

“Run, Lord Siward! Run! I’ll hold them here!”

Swechin shoved Fouché away. Then he roared, charging the knights with his longsword raised.

Fouché staggered toward the door, glancing back. The sixty-year-old man wielded his longsword with fluid grace, fighting like a youth. But in that instant, a blade pierced his back.

Swords slid swiftly into his chest. As he spat blood, one knight spun and sliced off his head. The hairless skull rolled slowly to Fouché’s feet.

“I have nothing left…”

Fouché muttered, staring at the dripping head as he limped toward the hall’s exit. Yet at this final moment, he felt an unnatural ease—even he didn’t know why. Then a foot tripped him hard.

He crashed down, losing several of his few remaining teeth. The one who tripped him crouched slowly. Fouché recognized Hilwen—the messenger who’d brought Raging Tide City’s grim news, sparking all this.

“Sorry…”

Hilwen whispered. Fouché didn’t understand why this mere messenger seemed so unattainable, so transcendent. Beneath his hood, Fouché saw an ethereally beautiful face—and the tall, pointed ears marking his Kante Elf bloodline.

“Ah… ah…”

Fouché raised a trembling hand. Hilwen’s voice reached only his ears:

“Hilwen, second son of Edwin, King of the Kante Elves, offers his deepest apologies.”

“Filth—”

Before Fouché could finish, a sword pierced his skull. White brain matter and crimson blood sprayed across the floor like a fountain.