Location: Keep Armathane, Capital of Midgard Time: Late Evening, Day 35
The study of Duchess Vaelora of Midgard was not large by noble standards, but its weight was felt in every inch.
Books lined the walls — not for decoration, but consumption. Maps stretched across the eastern wall, marked with colored pins and wax seals. A telescope stood by the balcony, pointed skyward. And in the center, a broad desk of ashwood gleamed beneath the soft golden glow of enchanted crystal lamps — a gift from a long-dead prince, more valuable than any army she'd ever hired.
Duchess Vaelora sat at that desk now, golden-brown hair swept into a braided crown, a robe of deep midnight velvet clinging to her shoulders. Her eyes — light hazel, nearly amber in this light — moved steadily across the parchment in her hand.
She read the letter twice. Not because it wasn't clear.
But because it was too clear.
"This man did not rise from these lands. He fell into them.""I fear… Alec may be not just a miracle, but a catalyst."
The seal of Sir Loran Vaegyr was unbroken before she opened it, his formal signature untouched, his language precise. Vaelora had known Loran since he was a boy. He wasn't prone to superstition. Nor exaggeration.
She set the parchment down, tapped her fingers once, then again.
Her mind began to turn.
Summons in the Night
She pulled the brass chain beside her desk — a soft chime rang out. Within moments, her steward entered.
"My lady?"
"Summon the following," she said. "High Scribe Dallien, Castellan Roen, and Lady Alra. Quietly. No fanfare. No alerting the outer court."
The steward bowed. "At once."
Vaelora stood, moving to the window. Beyond the gardens, the capital of Midgard glimmered like a spider's web under moonlight. Calm. Unknowing.
They had built this peace on centuries of discipline, economic control, and shrewd diplomacy. Edenia's King Theren played games with noble marriages. Elira of Oslo played with legacy and silent resolve. Vaelora?
She played with precision.
And something had just entered her gameboard uninvited.
The Inner Council
Her three most loyal court members arrived swiftly.
Dallien, her scribe and archivist — white-bearded, soft-spoken, eyes like glass-cutters.
Castellan Roen, commander of her city guard — a bear of a man with a soldier's practicality.
Lady Alra of Harleth, her closest court confidante and whisperer — lean, silver-haired, her smile all daggers and diplomacy.
They entered the study and stood without question. They knew better.
Vaelora turned from the window, holding Loran's letter in one hand.
"This came tonight," she said. "From Branhal."
Alra arched an eyebrow. "Branhal? That grave of a village?"
"Not anymore," Vaelora said. "Loran reports surplus taxes. Full ledgers. Expanded farming. Irrigation implements. A recovered forge. A rebuilt mill. All organized, precise… effective."
Dallien's brow furrowed. "But that village hasn't received a shipment from Midgard or Edenia in—"
"Nearly a year," Vaelora said. "And now it thrives. He traced it to one man."
Roen grunted. "A noble?"
"No title. No record. Name of Alec. Appeared after the storm season."
Alra folded her arms. "A coincidence?"
Vaelora passed her the parchment.
Alra read. Her smirk slowly faded.
"I don't like this," she said quietly. "And I always like surprises."
Dallien reached for a scroll and began cross-referencing names. "No Alec in our registries. No noble claimants matching that name. No knights fallen from other houses. Not even a caravan entry."
"Because he didn't come from our houses," Vaelora said. "He came from nowhere."
Roen's mouth twisted. "So what is he? A fugitive genius? A runaway Edenian bastard with a brain?"
"Loran believes he may be... something more," Vaelora said.
Dallien frowned. "You don't believe in omens."
"I don't," she said, "but I do believe in patterns. And this doesn't fit any."
They were silent.
Then Alra whispered, "He rebuilt a village from rot in under a season. That isn't local ingenuity. That's imposed vision."
Vaelora nodded.
She looked at Dallien. "Start searching royal records — Edenia, Kessarin, even the old Nareth libraries. Find anyone with unusual technical knowledge. Inventors. Architects. Philosophers. Runaways. Look outside our borders if you must."
"To what end?"
"To learn what he is," Vaelora said. "Before he decides what to become."
She turned to Roen. "Dispatch a quiet rider to Arensgate. Have them monitor any movements east from Branhal. Trade, messengers, supply lines. If this Alec intends to grow... I want to see the roots before they crack the stone."
And finally, to Alra. "Whispers. I want them moving through Branhal by the end of the month. Friendly ones. Curious ones. Find out if he's loyal, lonely, or looking for power."
"And if he's all three?" Alra asked, voice like velvet wrapped around glass.
Vaelora's eyes gleamed.
"Then we give him exactly what he wants."
The Quiet After the Storm
The council departed. Instructions would be carried out before dawn. That was the strength of Midgard — not its armies, but its reaction time.
Still, Vaelora didn't sleep.
She returned to her desk, unfurling the letter again, rereading the part that bothered her most.
"He speaks like a tactician. He has no crest, no record… he fell into this world."
It wasn't the word fell that troubled her.
It was the certainty behind it.
Loran had seen hundreds of villages rise and fall. He knew desperation. And this? He had called a catalyst.
Vaelora whispered the word under her breath.
Catalyst.
Something that alters everything it touches without changing itself.
That was a dangerous kind of man.
The Daughter Enters
There was a soft creak at the far end of the study.
Vaelora looked up sharply. The door had opened slightly — just enough for someone to squeeze through.
It was her daughter.
Lady Serina of Midgard, golden-blonde hair, sixteen, wearing a sheer silk robe and no shoes, eyes wide with nervous delight. She closed the door behind her, clutching a blanket over one shoulder like a stolen shield.
"I wasn't listening," she said immediately.
Vaelora arched an eyebrow. "You've been eavesdropping since you were nine, Serina. Don't insult us both."
The girl smiled — impish, guilty. "I was reading outside. I only caught the end."
Vaelora gestured. "Come in, then. Since you've already barged through."
Serina padded across the stone floor and flopped into the chair across from her mother's desk, pulling her blanket around herself like a throne.
"You seemed worried," she said.
Vaelora studied her for a long moment. "I'm thoughtful."
"About the man?"
Vaelora paused. "You heard that too?"
"I'm not deaf, mother."
Vaelora tapped a quill against her ledger. "Yes. A man named Alec. He's changed a village. Quite dramatically."
Serina's head tilted. "Is he handsome?"
Vaelora blinked.
Serina smirked. "You wouldn't pull the council at night for an ugly miracle worker."
Vaelora's mouth twitched. "You've spent too much time with Alra."
"I like Alra."
"I'm aware."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Serina asked, quietly, "Is he dangerous?"
"Most likely."
"Are you going to kill him?"
Vaelora turned sharply. Serina's expression wasn't flippant. Just curious.
"No," the duchess said at last. "Not yet."
"But you will, if he threatens Midgard?"
"I will contain him. The world doesn't know what he is yet. I intend to know before anyone else does."
Serina stood slowly and stepped around the desk. She leaned against her mother's shoulder, eyes scanning the map on the wall.
"He's just a man, right?"
Vaelora sighed. "That's what we need to find out."
Serina traced a finger along the road between Midgard and Branhal.
"Maybe he's not a threat," she said. "Maybe he's a gift."
Vaelora turned her head.
Serina smiled. "Not all change is bad, Mother."
"And not all gifts come without poison," Vaelora murmured.
"But if you don't unwrap them, you never know."
The duchess looked at her daughter — bold, bright, brimming with her father's fire and her mother's mind.
And slowly, she nodded.
"Go to bed, Serina."
The girl kissed her cheek and padded out, blanket trailing behind her like a comet's tail.
When the door clicked shut, Vaelora looked back at the letter.
Then at the map.
Her eyes lingered on Branhal.
She circled it in red.