Sparked rituals

The morning light filtered through the towering stained-glass windows of the palace's council chamber, painting the marble floors in fractured shards of ruby, emerald, and gold. Corvinus stood by the western wall, his tall frame cast in the shifting colors, dark eyes narrowing as the ministers took their places. His skin, a rich caramel tone inherited from his mother, gleamed softly in the early sun, a contrast to the pale, angular features of his half-brother, Roderic, whose presence was already a ripple of authority across the room. The Duke's brother had entered with his usual deliberate calm, dressed in deep green and silver, and carried himself as if the air itself obeyed his will.

The chamber smelled faintly of incense and wax, mingled with the subtle perfume of silk and fur worn by the assembled nobility. Every chair, every bench, seemed to hold a whisper of prior councils, a ghost of ambitions long buried. Servants moved quietly along the edges, carrying scrolls and notes for lords and advisors, their soft steps a delicate percussion against the cold stone.

Corvinus's eyes swept over the room, catching small details: the way the crown prince adjusted his gauntlet before speaking, the slight tremor in a young lord's voice as he attempted to curry favor, the glimmer of envy in a neighboring duke's gaze when it lingered on Corvinus. Each glance, each movement, was a note in a silent symphony of strategy.

Roderic's voice broke the quiet, low and commanding. "We are here for counsel on the northern borders," he said, his accent crisp, words measured. "Reports suggest increased unrest. The peasants are restless. Some villages have been found with burned barns, symbols carved into walls. We must understand their motives before they escalate further."

A murmur rose among the council, and an elderly advisor, Lord Harken, cleared his throat. His white hair glinted like frost in the sunlight. "The patterns are not random, my lord. There are hints. Rituals, if one might call them that. Fires at midnight, chanting in the woods. They speak of summoning forces unknown. Most dismiss it as superstition, but the implications…" He trailed off, leaving the thought to hang.

Corvinus's gaze flicked to Roderic, who had already inclined his head in silent dismissal. "Superstition has its place," Roderic said smoothly, "but not here. We deal in the real, not shadows of imagination. Send men discreetly. Investigate without alerting the villages. Make it known that Ashenfort eyes are everywhere, yet unseen."

"Discretion will be paramount," Corvinus added, his voice soft but sharp, like the hiss of a blade. "The last thing we need is panic. Fear is a tool, yes...but fear misplaced becomes rebellion."

From across the table, a young lord, pale and slender, leaned forward, eager. "But my lord, surely a demonstration of strength...patrols, banners, it'll remind them whose law governs?"

Roderic's lips curved, just slightly. "Strength can be subtle, boy. We remind them not by sword alone, but by presence, by network, by influence. Ashenforts are always seen, even when they appear absent."

Corvinus allowed a quiet smile to touch his lips. He and Roderic shared a glance, unspoken agreement passing between them. They were brothers by blood...same father different mothers, rivals by circumstance, yet the court saw them as separate, a balance that few understood. The half-brotherly tension that simmered beneath polite bows and carefully chosen words remained invisible to most, yet it hung in the air like charged lightning, waiting for the slightest spark.

Elara, seated behind her father at the chamber's side, leaned forward slightly, fingers brushing the edge of her fan. Her caramel-toned skin, soft and warm in contrast to the polished marble, caught the light. She noted every detail: the way a minister's eyes flicked to her uncle Roderic, the subtle narrowing of the crown prince's gaze when Corvinus spoke, the flicker of unease in the elder lords. In her mind, she traced the patterns, imagining Malicar's dark amusement at the mortal games.

A whispered word from her neighbor reached her ears. "It is said the northern cult seeks him," the young lady murmured, eyes wide. "None truly understand the rituals. Some claim… shadows answer their call."

Elara's pulse quickened, but she remained poised. Shadows and whispers, intrigue and danger.

All threads in the tapestry of power. She understood the weight of knowledge, even partial, and the thrill it carried.

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Outside the chamber, the palace gardens stretched in formal lines, clipped hedges and fountains reflecting the late morning sun. Corvinus's personal guards, tall men in silver-stitched dark leather, patrolled silently among the flowerbeds. He had requested their presence, though not for protection; the arrangement of order and subtle visibility sent a message without words. A noble who felt watched even in sunlight seldom acted against the observer's interests.

In the council chamber, discussions turned to the northern villages and the mysterious faction stirring unrest. "We must consider allegiances," Lord Harken continued, voice trembling slightly. "Neighboring lords may be swayed. The Ashenforts are strong, yes, but factions within their own ranks could tip the balance. Especially if this… cult has influence we do not yet see."

Roderic leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. "Within our ranks?" His gaze swept the room, evaluating each presence. "I trust my kin. We act with clarity."

Torvin, ever the observer, remained silent, hands folded neatly. His pale skin contrasted with Roderic's and Corvinus's tones, giving him an almost ethereal appearance in the candle-lit chamber. His dark eyes glimmered with calculation. He allowed the elder lords' words to pass, noting reactions and subtle inflections. One misplaced glance could reveal intentions. One hesitation could become leverage.

Corvinus's voice cut softly, deliberately measured. "Clear intentions do not guarantee obedience. Even family can be swayed by ambition or fear. We must act decisively without seeming heavy-handed."

Roderic's head tilted fractionally. "And you, brother? You would have us intervene differently?"

Corvinus smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly. "I would suggest observation first. Let us understand the threat fully. Any preemptive strike risks scattering those we intend to study. Knowledge is the sharpest blade."

The room was quiet for a moment, each minister digesting the tension between the brothers. No one dared ask about their disagreement; it was well known that the two held a complicated rapport, but the reasons behind it were hidden even from the sharpest observers.

Serana stepped forward quietly, her dark brown eyes scanning the council. Her coiled hair shimmered in the candlelight as she approached Roderic. "Perhaps a dual approach, my lord," she suggested.

She had been made aware of the discussion the previous evening. His intention was to let her prove more capable than Elara.

"Observation from afar, but influence through trusted allies. Diplomacy with a subtle edge. Keep the unrest contained without revealing our hand."

Roderic's lips curved into a near-smile. "As always, Serana, your insight proves valuable. Let it be done. Discreetly. Swiftly."

Corvinus inclined his head toward her, a silent acknowledgment of agreement. Their strategies, though differently nuanced, aligned in intent. The court remained unaware of the delicate dance between observation, diplomacy, and control.

Elara watched from her place, imagining the threads of power stretching outward from this room: from the Duke, to the northern villages, to the rival houses, and, unseen, to Malicar himself. Each whisper, each gesture, each measured word was a note in a symphony she was only beginning to hear.

"Master Caldric," Roderic called, turning to the steward, a wiry man with keen eyes. "Dispatch discreet reports from the northern villages. Every oddity, every rumor, every spark of dissent. Bring me intelligence before it becomes action."

The steward bowed. "As you command, my lord. Nothing will pass unnoticed."

Torvin's lips curved subtly. Observation, influence, patience… this was his realm. Yet he remained close to his Roderic, ready to act should the moment arise, cataloging each reaction, each pause, each flicker of emotion.

The council adjourned, the ministers leaving in whispers and quiet consultation. Corvinus remained, walking toward the eastern balcony overlooking the palace gardens. The scent of wet earth and blooming jasmine drifted to him. Even here, the tension lingered, palpable in the air like static before a storm.

Roderic joined him, leaning lightly against the stone balustrade. "You have grown subtle, brother," he remarked, voice low. "I see the touch of strategy in your every word. Perhaps the King's court will finally learn we are not merely the Duke's kin...they are watching, and we are watching them."

Corvinus's dark eyes met Roderic's, steady and unflinching. "We do not reveal all we see. Let them guess. Let them wonder. Even the King cannot measure what is unseen."

The garden below shimmered in the sunlight, servants moving like shadows among fountains and hedges. A bird took flight, calling sharp into the wind, and both men watched it vanish into the morning haze. Unspoken understanding passed between them: the war of influence had only begun.

By mid-afternoon, the palace's main hall was alive with murmurs and footsteps, the echo of boots and silken skirts across polished marble. Corvinus had requested a private audience with several northern lords, men of wealth and modest influence, ostensibly to discuss trade and tax levies. Yet beneath the surface, each word carried the weight of potential alliance...or betrayal.

The lords arrived in pairs once more, their cloaks brushing the floor, jeweled brooches catching glints of sunlight. Some offered bows, others merely nodded, eyes flicking to Corvinus with cautious curiosity. His presense...dark and warm in the sunlight, made him stand out amid the pale lords of the kingdom.

There was a quiet authority in his presence that needed no proclamation, a subtle dominance that drew attention even when he did not wish it.

"Lord Kareth," Corvinus greeted, voice smooth, resonant. "I trust the journey was pleasant?"

Kareth, a wiry man with sandy hair and a hawkish nose, inclined his head. "As always, Your Grace, the roads favored me."

Corvinus's gaze sharpened. "Indeed."

Kareth's eyes flicked briefly to Roderic, who lingered near the balcony with arms crossed, pale features taut with judgment.

Corvinus allowed a thin smile, neutral but unnerving.

Lord Kareth's jaw had a faint tightening as Corvinus's gaze weighed him.

Roderic's voice finally broke the tension. "We will monitor the northern villages closely," he said, low and measured. "You will inform us of every development, every unusual event. Discretion is paramount."

The lords murmured assent, faces carefully neutral. Corvinus tilted his head slightly. "Let us hope that the villagers remain unaware of our attentions. Fear often breeds folly."

Elara, finally deciding to break her silence, allowed a faint smile to curl at the edge of her lips. "And folly, my lords, can be guided toward advantage...or disaster, depending on whom you favor," her voice spoke like the calm before a storm.

A hush fell. The lords exchanged uneasy glances, aware that the woman's words were more than social courtesy; they carried an unspoken edge. Even seasoned men, accustomed to palace politics, felt the pressure of her sharp perception.

As the audience progressed, Corvinus and Roderic's interactions remained layered with subtle tension. They spoke, nodded, and gestured in unison at times, giving the impression of concord, yet every shared glance carried the weight of unspoken history. No one knew why the brothers did not meet each other as allies rather than rivals; the court could only guess, and each guess shifted the balance of perception.

Torvin cataloged reactions, noted the lords' hesitation, and marked those who might serve as future instruments of influence.

The meeting concluded with polite bows, murmured thanks, and carefully measured smiles. Yet beneath the veneer of civility, strategies were already forming. Corvinus and Roderic exchanged a final glance...one of silent acknowledgment that the game of power was far from over.

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Evening descended slowly, tinting the palace with a warm, golden haze. Tapestries in the halls seemed to come alive in the flickering torchlight, figures of kings long dead gazing down on living intrigues. Corvinus lingered in the council chamber, now empty save for him, Roderic, and a few close advisors. The air smelled faintly of burning wax, herbs, and polished wood, the perfect theater for subtle maneuvering.

Roderic's pale features caught the light, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the faint creases at the corner of his eyes, marks of careful observation. "The northern villages will remain our focus," he said. "But do not underestimate the potential for internal friction. Family, ministers, even allies...ambition moves quietly, often beneath our notice."

Corvinus leaned back in a carved chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. "And yet, the most dangerous ambitions are often those closest to us." He allowed a shadow of a smile. "We see loyalty, and yet… what does it truly conceal?"

Torvin, knew better than to speak first; the timing of influence was as important as the act itself.

"Do you trust Gavric?" Roderic asked suddenly, voice low.

Corvinus's eyes darkened slightly. "Loyal, yes. Clever… not always. He sees the obvious but misses the subtle. That is both his strength and his weakness."

Serana stepped forward, hands clasped, her dark eyes glinting. "Subtlety alone does not ensure survival, my lord. Influence must be guided. Even the smallest spark can ignite a fire beyond our control."

Roderic inclined his head, acknowledging her point. "Agreed. Yet overreach brings ruin. We move carefully, always. Observe first, act when certainty outweighs risk."

Corvinus's gaze lingered on his half-brother. There was a cold elegance to Roderic's restraint, an effortless control over every word and gesture. It was a skill he had honed over decades, and yet Corvinus recognized its limits. Every mask slipped eventually, even for a man as disciplined as Roderic Ashenfort.

"Let the northern villages be our proving ground," Corvinus murmured. "We test loyalty, influence fear, measure resolve. All without revealing our hand. The moment the people sense a hand guiding their steps, the advantage vanishes."

A servant appeared silently, bowing. "Lord Caldric requests your presence, my lords. Reports from the northern villages have arrived."

Roderic gestured for the man to enter. The steward's wiry frame carried scrolls and notes, each sealed in ash-gray wax. He laid them carefully before the two brothers. "Incidents are isolated, my lords, but growing. Villagers speak of fires at night, strange marks on stone, and groups moving through the forests. Nothing violent yet, but… patterns emerge."

Corvinus took the first scroll, breaking the seal with a practiced hand. His eyes scanned the parchment, noting dates, locations, and witness statements. "Interesting," he said softly, almost to himself. "They act as if invisible. And yet, even shadows can cast light."

"Give us something new," Elara pointed out. Expression purely out of boredom, "Don't repeat what we already know."

Caldric shot her a quick glance of tone disapproval but immediately withdrew it when he felt the Duke's gaze daggering into the back of his head.

Despite Elara's reputation of being a 'lovable sweetheart,' some did not approve of her as they believed such a personality would not suit the heiress title. Hence they were in support of Serana.

Causing the silent competition for the most powerful title of : Dutchess Ashenfort.

Elara could not care any less because she knew Serana was less than half the most worthy as she was. Instead of bearing her teeth like her, Elara chose to act silently. A slowburn villainess.

Torvin leaned closer, voice quiet, almost conspiratorial. "We should consider intermediaries. People they trust who might influence them unknowingly. Control without confrontation," he skillfully ignored Elara's remark as it was more of a rhetorical statement.

Roderic's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes. Carefully. But it requires patience and foresight."

The night deepened, shadows lengthening in the chamber, yet the council persisted. Every word was a chess move, every glance a probe, every silence a test. The Ashenforts had mastered mortal intrigue, a delicate dance of influence, loyalty, and observation, and now the northern unrest provided the perfect stage.

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By midnight, the palace corridors had emptied, leaving only the guards and the soft hiss of the wind through stone windows. Corvinus and Roderic retired to a smaller chamber overlooking the inner courtyard, the flicker of candlelight painting their faces in stark contrast.

Roderic broke the silence first. "The northern villages… they are more organized than we expected. It is not mere superstition. Someone guides them. Someone deliberate."

Corvinus nodded slowly. "Yes. And yet, we have not identified their hand. If they sense that we know, they will scatter. Observation first, always. Influence silently."

Torvin, seated near the fire, allowed a faint smirk. "Control without visibility. Let them move as they will, and yet… every step brings them closer to your design."

Roderic glanced at him, pale eyes sharp. "You speak like a seasoned strategist, Torvin. Perhaps the lessons of subtlety have rubbed off after all."

Gavric, younger and eager, entered hesitantly, shoulders stiff. "Father… I have reviewed the patrols and supply lines. Every man is positioned to act at your command, discreetly, should it become necessary."

Roderic's gaze softened fractionally. "Good. That is why we train them. Yet remember, discretion is as valuable as courage."

Outside, the moon cast silver light across the courtyard. Servants moved silently, unseen, carrying messages and reports from the northern villages. Every corner of the palace hummed with the quiet preparation of influence, control, and observation.

Corvinus leaned back, letting his eyes drift to the horizon. "Every action is measured, every word considered. Power is not merely what is taken. It is what is withheld."

Roderic nodded. "And in time, those who underestimate us… will fall quietly, without knowing why."

Eventualy, dawn broke over the palace with soft hues of rose and amber. The council reconvened briefly to review the reports. Lords and advisors moved into position, their faces carefully neutral, as if nothing had occurred during the night. Yet the tension lingered, subtle but pervasive.

Elara observed silently, noting the gestures of each minister, the slight inclinations of heads, the fleeting exchanges of glances. Even in the calm of early morning, the threads of intrigue stretched taut across the court.

Corvinus and Roderic sat at the head of the council table, the contrast of their appearances striking: one dark, composed and measured, the other pale, precise, and deliberate. Together, they projected authority, yet between them flowed an undercurrent of silent rivalry.

"Reports indicate continued gatherings in the north," Roderic said, voice smooth, controlled. "But no acts of violence. We remain observers, yet ready to intervene if necessary."

Corvinus's dark eyes scanned the assembled lords. "Knowledge is a weapon sharper than any sword."

The council ended with polite bows and quiet acknowledgment, the court unaware of the quiet war unfolding beneath the surface. As the ministers departed, Corvinus and Roderic lingered, exchanging no words but a glance heavy with history, rivalry, and unspoken strategy.

Outside, the northern villages slept uneasily under a rising sun, their fires at midnight still whispering in memory. The Ashenforts had begun their game of observation, influence, and control, and the threads of mortal intrigue were woven tighter with every passing hour.

The slowburn of power, patience, and subtle ambition stretched across the land, binding family, servants, lords, and peasants alike in a delicate web of mortal tension. And within it, Corvinus and Roderic moved with precision, a silent contest of will that no one in the court could yet discern...nor would they guess its depth until the moment of revelation came.

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'Silently waiting for the prophecy to unfold...' Elara said to herself in the comfort of her study room.

'Even an illegitimate rodent can do so much as guess why these old men seek each other's throats,' she murmured, her tone laced with quiet disdain. 'All so they can have the opportunity to exploit the power they covet. A power far beyond their reach...hence they tolerate my presence.'

She rolled her eyes and leaned her chin into her palm, the candlelight playing upon her features. "Tch~ That power only belongs to-"

"-Us."

The word cut through the air like a whispered blade.

Elara froze. The candlelight wavered, its flame shrinking as though frightened. The shadows in the corners of the study deepened, folding and stretching until they seemed to breathe. The room, her sanctuary of parchment, quills, and dim fragrance of wax and ink, became a living thing.

She wore no expression save intrigue. The flicker of fear passed, brief as a dying spark, replaced by something else. Recognition.

"Y–you…" her voice broke.

A low hum of satisfaction trembled through the darkness before the voice came again.

"Yes, my Lumen."

The timbre of it was unlike anything mortal. Deep, resonant, carrying a gravity that pressed upon the skin and soul alike. It was not spoken from any direction; it arrived within her, as if her heartbeat itself had learned his tone. His words were smoke and silk, shadow and velvet, every syllable balanced between reverence and possession.

For the first time, he had allowed her to hear his voice as it truly was. Not cloaked in the gentility of Count Jeran, but unveiled, unbound, as Malicar.

"At some point I began to think you were a figment of my imagination," she whispered, rising from her chair, her fingers brushing across the cool spine of a book for balance. "And yet... I feared you wanted me not, that you denied me because you did not wish to seek me."

The candle flared, tall and sudden, as if in answer.

"Here I am now, my Lumen," his voice rumbled softly, patient and unhurried. "Our time is almost nēah."

His shadows caressed the edges of the room, swirling, forming shapes that dissolved before they could be seen. They were the mediators between them.

His presence reaching from the faraway depths of his palace, hers answering from the heart of her hidden study, tucked behind walls even her father's spies could not find.

Elara's breath trembled, though not from fear. "I await your arrival... as yourself," she said at last, unable to mask the shimmer of anticipation, the subtle tremor of curiosity that softened her tone.

And somewhere beyond the reach of light, the shadow smiled...

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