The Inheritance and the Ritual
The Grand Halls of Valtoria were silent, the kind of silence that smelled of dust, mold, and forgotten tragedy. Once, music, laughter, and sharp debates about tariffs had echoed here. Now, Kalen Valtoria's footsteps were the only sound, each heel-strike kicking up fine gray powder from the cracked marble floor.
A Duke's welcome, he thought, adjusting the unfamiliar stiffness of his borrowed tunic. If the Emperor wanted me dead, he could have just used a less expensive poison.
Portraits lined the walls. Most were slashed, burnt, or simply gone, leaving darker rectangles on the faded silk wallpaper. His gaze snagged on the one intact painting.
A man in ducal robes, standing straight, eyes calm but tired. The late Duke, his… technical uncle. A man who trusted allies. A man who believed preparation would be understood.
Kalen's mouth twisted wryly.
"A man who died because his branch family sold him out to save their skins," he amended mentally.
He moved away quickly. The history here was less inspiring and more actionable.
An old woman emerged from the deep shadows near a tapestry, her spine bent but her eyes sharp. She froze when she saw him, then bowed so deeply her head nearly touched the floor.
"Your Grace…"
The title sounded heavy in her mouth, like a valuable coin she was afraid to drop.
Others followed: a steward, two maids, a groundskeeper missing three fingers—likely a casualty of the bombardment. They all wore the same uniform of exhaustion and hope.
"We have prepared the ritual chamber," the steward said carefully, his voice dry as parchment. "If… if you are ready for the Bloodline Purification."
Kalen stopped. He had heard the warnings. The ritual was dangerous, unstable, and fatal if mishandled. It was a symbolic act to formally cleanse the bloodline after the treason charge—a political necessity his traitorous family insisted he undertake.
"Yes," Kalen said, feeling a strange mix of dread and resignation. "Soon."
He added, with a flicker of his natural dry wit: "First, I need to see exactly what I'm purifying. I was told I inherited a Duchy, not a crypt."
The steward's stoic expression barely twitched, but the old servant, Mira, offered a near-invisible smile. A small win.
The Leash and the Lie
The city beyond the castle was worse than the manor.
The port was a skeleton. Ships rotted at half-sunk docks. The air smelled of salt, mold, and a persistent, underlying hunger. It was the smell of a promise broken.
Ten Imperial soldiers followed him now—polished steel, disciplined steps. They were his token guard led by Captain Luthor Graye. Kalen knew them for what they were: not protectors, but a very expensive leash. They were here to ensure he didn't start the next rebellion.
Then he saw it.
Near the ruined municipal building, a local official—fat despite the famine—was gripping a starving, skeletal man by the collar. The official was one of the remaining city employees, a petty tyranny survivor.
"You think grain appears by begging?" the officer sneered, kicking the man down. "Work or die."
The citizen didn't even scream. He was too weak, merely curling into a fetal position.
Kalen stopped dead. The imperial soldiers stopped too.
"Bring him," Kalen said calmly, nodding toward the official.
Captain Graye stepped forward immediately, his armor rattling slightly. "Your Grace, these are civil matters. Our orders restrict us from interfering in local enforcement unless… attacked."
Graye's delivery was polite, but his meaning was clear: I answer to the Emperor, not the Duke of Ruins.
"I said," Kalen repeated, stepping past the Captain and closer to the scene, his voice low and cold, "bring the officer to me. That man is an agent of my house. I will not have my authority represented by a bully who hasn't missed a meal in a year."
This time, the imperial soldiers moved, compelled by the weight of a newly granted title and the Duke's proximity.
The official—Mayor Hobbren's deputy, Kalen realized—panicked.
"Y-Your Grace! I was merely maintaining order. The rabble—"
"You were abusing power," Kalen interrupted, watching the man's insignia tremble on his chest.
There was no execution. No grand theatrics that would make good reading material.
The official's insignia was torn away, his authority stripped, and he was expelled from the Duchy, formally handed over to the Imperial Custody Guard outside the city lines—alive, humiliated, and furious.
As the wailing man was dragged away, Kalen felt the crowd watching.
Not gratitude.
Just intense, calculating Fear.
And something sharper: the focused Hatred of a man who had just lost his easy life.
The Oath of Uncertainty
That evening, Kalen stood at the ruined city square.
No banners. No music. The crowd was silent, a shifting mass of shadow and threadbare cloth.
"I won't lie to you," Kalen began, his voice projected clearly, without unnecessary volume. "I cannot end famine with words. I cannot rebuild Valtoria in days."
Murmurs spread—the sound of skepticism mixing with resignation.
"The Empire sent me because I was expendable. You deserved a hero, and you received a second son who knows nothing of greatness. That is the truth."
A pause, letting the brutal honesty settle.
"But I swear this," he continued, meeting their eyes, one by one. "I will not abandon this land. I will not exploit it. And I will not rule it from comfort while you starve."
And I will not die here without making the people who sent me regret the expense, he finished silently.
Some nodded—a flicker of hope. Some doubted—their faces etched with too many betrayals. Some watched him like prey.
Kalen met their eyes anyway.
"This duchy fell because lies were easier than truth. I will not repeat that mistake. Whatever we face, we face it standing on the ash of the honest truth."
The crowd did not cheer. Cheering required energy and belief, neither of which they had.
They simply held their silence, a vast, heavy uncertainty.
And in the shadows, the enemies Kalen had just created began to count his steps, waiting for the weakest link to break.
political savvy.