Crack. Crack.
The snow fell heavy on the rooftops. It had been three weeks since the first flake, and now it showed no sign of stopping. In fact, it had gotten worse. The snow reached up to James's knees.
"Make sure you boys stay warm," said Lady Arcturus as she handed James and Angus freshly knitted scarves—one a bright orange, the other a lovely shade of grey. James wore the silver-grey one, while Angus reluctantly took the orange.
"Arthur… are you not going to the Ministry today?" asked Alexandre, perched in his usual spot by the hearth.
"No. I'm taking the week off," Arthur replied, scanning the bookshelf. "The Duke is hosting a banquet. I need to find out what's really going on with this whole situation about the King stepping down."
"What are you looking for, my dear?" asked a gentle voice. Olivia had just entered, bundled in a large white fleece coat with floral patterns. Clearly, she didn't enjoy the cold.
"The Lordship Index," Arthur muttered, still browsing without looking at her. "I want to know who the candidates for the throne are."
"Boy… you should already know this," Alexandre said, disapprovingly.
"But Father, you know how often the names on the index change. Just look at the Walfiers—they've changed their heir more than three times already."
"Hmph. Alright then… try the fourth row, shelf number three."
Arthur pulled the large volume from its place. "Ah—found it. Now, let's see..."He flipped through the pages. Each section displayed a different noble family, complete with crests, current heads, past rulers, and their potential heirs. Thanks to enchanted charms, the book constantly updated with changes throughout the kingdom—and even, incompletely, from surrounding realms.
"Well? Who is it?" demanded Alexandre.
Arthur's eyes scanned the page, then narrowed. "Wait... there's no entry here, Father."
"What do you mean there's no inheritor? Bring the book here."
Alexandre sprang from his seat. Arthur handed it to him, and they stared at the page in silence. Where the heir's portrait should have been… was nothing. A blank space.
This hadn't happened in generations.
"Oh… my Lady Arcturus," Olivia whispered, her tone laced with dread.
"I see the makings of another war," she said, her voice firm yet troubled.
"I'm going with you to that banquet," Alexandre said, suddenly sharp and resolved. His voice carried a weight that made James look up from where he had been listening quietly across the room. He had never seen his grandfather like this before. It made him nervous.
"Yes, Father. I understand," Arthur replied, blinking slowly.
Like a rabbit fleeing a hawk, time dashed forward. Before James realized it, morning had come—and this day already felt different.
"Young master, please follow me," whispered Lucy, gently waking James from sleep.
"Mmm… what is it, Lucy? What do you want?" James groaned, rubbing the blur from his eyes.
"The head wants to see you," she said, summoning warm water into a small brown barrel beside the bed. A towel appeared out of thin air, dipped itself into the water, then wrung itself dry and began dabbing at James's face.
"Puu—puu!" James spat as the towel caught his mouth. "Alright, alright, I'm awake," he grumbled.
Following Lucy's lead, James descended into the study.
There were books in the lounge, yes—but the study was a different world altogether. Rows and rows of towering shelves lined the walls. One wall bore a massive board, scribbled over with markings so complex James couldn't understand a single one.
"Youuuu called for me, Uncle?" he yawned.
"Ah, there you are. Still half-asleep, I see," Arthur said as a servant helped him dress. Today, his attire was strikingly different. He wore a long, formal overcoat in jet black, layered over a purple-and-black suit—the same colors emblazoned on the Arcturus family crest outside the manor. A polished top hat sat neatly on his head, and the chain from his binnacle glinted as it tucked neatly into his front pocket.
"Master, you're just about ready," the woman said, stepping back.
"James," Arthur said, turning to him, "since Jasmine and her brother are away, you are the eldest in the house. You'll be joining your grandfather and me at the banquet."
James's eyes lit up, though nerves twisted in his stomach. He knew what this meant. One misstep could ruin the family's reputation—but it was also a rare chance to see the world beyond the manor.
"Caroline, be a dear and help James get dressed," Arthur said, adjusting his tie as he left the room. His footsteps echoed—sharp, measured—against the polished floorboards.
James followed Caroline to the wardrobe.
The room was massive. Outfits hung in precise lines, organized by season, occasion, and lineage. At the center stood a table, on which his attire had already been prepared.
A short while later, James emerged transformed. He wore elegant black trousers with golden trim, a crisp white linen shirt with suspenders, and a short black blazer that rested smartly on his shoulders.
The fabric of the blazer felt stiff across his shoulders — formal, unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone older. James glanced at himself in the mirror and barely recognized the boy staring back.
"You look so handsome, my boy," Lady Arcturus beamed, inspecting every detail. "Caroline did a very good job."
Moments later, Alexandre arrived, dressed in attire much like Arthur's—but with one notable difference: his overcoat was a deep royal purple, and two golden chains draped from one shoulder to the other, glinting in the morning light.
"Come on then. The hippogriffs are waiting," he said, his voice steady as he led the way outside.
James and Arthur followed.
Waiting just beyond the front steps stood two majestic creatures—hippogriffs. Beings of myth and grandeur, they looked like something drawn from a forgotten dream. Their bodies were equine, strong and muscular in hues of earthy browns and speckled greys. From their shoulders rose vast, gleaming wings, their feathers like polished armor catching the pale winter light.
Their heads, regal and eagle-like, carried an aura of nobility. Piercing orange eyes glinted with intelligence and wild spirit. Sharp talons, black as obsidian, adorned their forelegs, and their ivory-curved beaks gleamed like blades crafted by kings.
"Hello there, Dusk and Dawn," Alexandre said with quiet reverence, nodding toward the two creatures who would pull their carriage.
The carriage itself was an elegant extension of the Arcturus pride. Like their attire, it bore the family colors—black, purple, and gold. The design was sublime: two leather seats facing each other, with a carved wooden armrest-table in between. The interior smelled faintly of pine and old velvet.
James circled around one of the creatures and patted Dusk gently. Her feathers were darker than Dawn's—soot-colored, almost blue in the right light.
"It's been a while since I last saw you," James whispered, brushing his fingers over the smooth feathers on her head. The creature blinked slowly, almost in recognition.
"Come along now, James," Arthur called, already inside the carriage.
James climbed in quickly, seating himself beside his uncle. Alexandre took the seat across from them, his expression unreadable, calm but focused.
"Hiya!"
The coachman gave a sharp command.
The hippogriffs began to run, talons striking the paved road in rhythmic thunder. Within moments, their wings spread wide—and they took to the skies.
James pressed his hand to the window, watching the trees shrink below. The world looked smaller from above—but the weight on his shoulders felt heavier than ever.
The world beneath them shimmered with beauty—ice-laced shores like crystal veins, frozen smoke curling from chimneys, and rivers stretching like serpents across the land.
"This is our land, James," said Alexandre. He said the same thing every time they flew over their fief. But it never lost its magic. Each time, James felt the same pride. The land always looked lovely and vibrant, no matter the season.
"My lords, we are now approaching Ovestè," the coachman called out.
With a command, the hippogriffs tilted their heads downward and began a graceful dive. Their wings cut through the air with practiced ease, and though the carriage shook slightly, it soon steadied.
They had crossed into the Duke's territory now.
As they descended, the town came into view. Fog clung to the windows. James exhaled hot breath against the glass and wiped a circle clean with his palm. At first, he looked out with excitement… but the feeling drained almost instantly.
Unlike their home, these streets were dreadful.
People huddled in alleys and on doorsteps, snow piling on their backs like a burial cloth. In the corner of his eye, James spotted a child—no older than himself—clutching a small pouch and sprinting down the street. An old man gave chase, brandishing a broom.
"Hey! Bring that back! Catch that thief!" the old man cried.
"Land here, Carl," Alexandre ordered the coachman.
The hippogriffs slowed and touched down on the cobbled road.
Alexandre stepped out and, with a wave of his hand, the fleeing child was lifted into the air, suspended upside-down as he slowly floated back toward the carriage. A crowd began to gather.
The pouch the boy carried was opened—inside was a piece of stale bread and a vial containing a thick orange liquid.
"Oh, thank you, sir!" the old man panted, out of breath as he approached.
But Alexandre frowned, his eyes scanning the crowd. "What is going on here?" he demanded. "Why are so many of you sleeping out in this weather?"
The crowd murmured. Their clothes were ragged, some torn through to the skin. A man lay against the side of the road, unmoving. He might have been dead.
"Taxes have become unreasonable," someone finally said. "People are disappearing—leaving brats like him with no one to care for them."
James's stomach turned. The scene was gutting. He could only stare, helpless.
"I'd heard whispers that things were bad," Arthur muttered darkly, "but this is f**king death."
James flinched. It was the first time he'd ever heard his uncle swear.
"Arthur. Bring the pouch," Alexandre said.
Arthur stepped back into the carriage and returned holding a shimmering pocket satchel. He handed it over.
Alexandre opened it. Inside were silver coins—nearly a hundred of them—each marked with the image of a crowned old man holding a scepter.
He raised a hand.
The coins floated upward and scattered through the air like snowflakes, each one landing in the hands of the poorest-looking among the crowd. Cheers and tears broke out. Even the child who had been caught was gently lowered to the ground and given two coins of his own.
"This should be enough to carry you through the month," Alexandre said, his voice both stern and sorrowful.
Then he turned back toward the carriage.
"Let's leave before rumors start spreading," Arthur said to the coachman. "We weren't supposed to stop here anyway."
Moments later, the hippogriffs lifted off again.
As they flew deeper into the city, the view transformed completely. The misery was replaced by opulence—well-kept mansions, clean cobbled streets, and vibrant town squares bustling with color and light.
And then, at last, the Duke's palace came into view.
Imagine a place where the sun itself hesitates to rise and refuses to set, casting a constant golden hue over the estate. The grounds stretch endlessly, a living tapestry of trimmed yews and ancient oaks. A glimmering river winds through the gardens, reflecting sky and stone alike.
The manor stands proud—a timeless sculpture carved from weathered stone. Gargoyles sit on its corners like guardians from forgotten days. Inside, long hallways display portraits of ancestors whose eyes follow you wherever you go. The air is thick with the scent of old wood, beeswax polish, and something fainter… like the perfume of long-dead flowers.
The carriage passed through two towering golden gates and descended onto the palace grounds. Dozens of other carriages had already arrived, each drawn by different magnificent creatures—some winged, some horned, some shimmering with magical sigils. Each carriage bore distinct colors and crests, representing noble houses from across the realm.
The palace doors swung open.
Within these grand stone walls, life unfolded in a carefully orchestrated dance of tradition and duty.
Tender music drifted through the entrance hall, almost luring guests inward with its delicate charm. The air was thick with the clink of crystal, the whisper of silk garments, and the hush of murmured conversations. Candlelight flickered in ornate chandeliers, casting golden reflections against polished marble floors.
And then—the Duke.
A figure of both power and mystery, he moved through the room with quiet authority. His presence was daunting, but strangely magnetic. People gravitated toward him even as they hesitated to approach.
He welcomed guests with a nod or a quiet word, eyes scanning the room like a tactician reading a battlefield.
James looked at the Duke's golden towers and thought of the boy with the stolen bread. The crown, it seemed, weighed more than it glittered.