The marketplace roared with life.
Merchants shouted over one another, their voices clashing like steel. The clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang from the far corner of the square. Fishmongers advertised their morning catch while children weaved between stalls with stolen fruits in hand. The scent of roasted meat mixed with sweat, dust, and spiced wine drifting from tavern doors left half-open.
But above the noise… something else had seized everyone's attention.
Posters.
Dozens of them had been nailed onto wooden boards, pillars, and even tavern walls.
And at the center of it all, one stood out.
A large parchment, stamped with the royal seal.
At the top, written in bold ink:
"S–Rank Suppression Mission"
Beneath it was a rough charcoal sketch of several figures standing side by side — their faces shaded in darkness, identities concealed.
Name: The Arcanians
Reward: 10,000 Gold Coins
A number large enough to change someone's fate.
Two men stood before the poster.
Their faces remained unseen beneath the shade of their cloaks.
One of them — half-bald, thick eyebrows, rough voice — let out a low whistle.
"Hey… look at this. The reward for these bandits has grown again."
The gray-haired man beside him stepped closer, pushing through a small crowd to get a clearer look.
"Let me see."
His eyes scanned the number.
"…Oh? You're right. Last I remember, it was around five… maybe six thousand."
"Yeah," the half-bald man muttered. "Three caravans vanished this month alone. If this keeps up, no merchant caravan will dare pass through the western routes."
"It'd be good if they were captured soon."
The gray-haired man gave a dry laugh.
"Captured soon? You know it takes days just to confirm their location. And an S–Rank mission…" He shook his head. "A month or two at best. That's if they're lucky."
He lowered his voice.
"And the way these bandit groups operate? They probably have informants feeding them information. I'd say… a year before they're truly cornered."
The half-bald man clicked his tongue.
"That's the problem."
He folded his arms.
"Even three months without trade will kill me. I was planning to move goods to the eastern city next week… but those Arcanians have taken over that route."
He exhaled sharply.
"And don't get me started on this cursed place. Eight silver coins just for entry tax. I still owe rent for my stall."
He paused, voice lowering slightly.
"I'm not trying to sound ungrateful. I'm just saying what I feel."
"It's fine," the gray-haired man replied calmly. "I share the same thoughts."
He leaned closer to the board, staring at the royal seal.
"I pay twenty-five silver coins every month in tax. Twenty-five. And for what?"
Then‚ gray-haired man continued slightly lowering his voice.
"It's those nobles who control the tax system in this city."
The half-bald man turned toward him, brows furrowing.
"What? The nobles take care of the taxes here?"
The gray-haired man gave a small nod.
"I mean… they practically control the tax system across the whole country. That's why the rates keep rising. Nothing moves without passing through their hands."
The half-bald man scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"Who are these nobles, anyway?"
The gray-haired man didn't hesitate.
"The Gramont family."
The name lingered for a moment.
Then the gray-haired man's eyes narrowed slightly, as if recalling something unpleasant.
"Ah… now that I remember." He exhaled sharply. "If you're here for trading, be careful of that Gramont brat. He's a real pain."
The half-bald man blinked.
"Why?"
"He's one of those spoiled noble types," the gray-haired man replied. "Always causing trouble. Disturbing merchants. Throwing his weight around just because of his name."
The half-bald man listened carefully.
"You mean… like that prince of Borston Kingdom?"
The gray-haired man let out a short, dry laugh.
"Ah—yes. A bit like him. But a step further."
His tone hardened.
"It's been years since I first saw him. Not a single day do I remember him behaving decently."
The half-bald man clicked his tongue.
"Yeah… it's pretty much the same with every spoiled noble kid. So‚ what's the brat's name?"
The gray-haired man looked back at the poster board, though his thoughts were elsewhere.
"…Lucien."
A faint pause.
"Lucien De Gramont."
The marketplace noise faded into the distance.
Shouts became murmurs.
Murmurs became silence.
Far from the crowded stone streets and restless merchants, beyond the trade routes and rising city walls, stood a mansion separated from the world by distance—and intention.
A vast red estate rested between towering oak and elm trees, their branches arching like silent sentinels above it. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting shadows along the crimson walls.
Birds perched along the rooftop edges, occasionally taking flight at the faint sound of steel armor shifting below.
Guards stood at attention along the gates and perimeter—silent, unmoving.
A small lake reflected the estate's red exterior like spilled wine upon glass. Beside it, a wide stone seating area overlooked the water, built for afternoon tea and political conversations spoken in low voices.
This was the residence of the Gramont family.
Inside, daylight streamed through tall arched windows, illuminating a long polished dining table carved from dark oak.
Lunch was being served.
At the head of the table sat Roderic De Gramont.
A middle-aged man with short hair and a faint scratch running near the corner of his eye. His posture was rigid, shoulders broad, movements economical. Even while eating, there was restraint in his presence—discipline shaped into flesh.
To his right sat Seraphina De Gramont.
Though dark circles rested beneath her eyes, they did little to diminish her beauty. Thick eyebrows framed sharp, intelligent eyes lined with dark mascara. Her lashes cast faint shadows against pale skin. She looked tired—yet composed, elegant even in exhaustion.
Beside her sat a young boy of eight.
Adrian De Gramont.
He looked ordinary for his age—small hands, neat hair, silent curiosity in his gaze as he quietly spooned soup from his bowl.
And finally—
At the opposite end of the table sat Lucien De Gramont.
Red hair.
Red eyes.
He lifted his fork and knife with measured calm and began cutting into the grilled fish placed before him.
The blade moved smoothly through the flesh.
He took a bite.
Chewed.
Paused.
His jaw slowed.
Then stopped.
Without changing expression, Lucien lifted a napkin to his mouth, leaned slightly forward—
—and spat the half-chewed fish into the cloth.
He folded the napkin neatly and placed it back onto the table.
A faint irritation lingered in his eyes.
"Steak."
A male servant standing nearby blinked.
"…What, sir?"
Lucien raised two fingers and motioned him closer.
The servant stepped forward cautiously.
Lucien looked directly into his eyes.
"I said," he repeated calmly, "I would have preferred a steak over this."
The servant bowed slightly.
"My apologies, sir. I will replace it immed—"
Before he could finish, Lucien's hand slid the plate forward with deliberate force.
It tipped.
Fell.
Shattered against the marble floor.
The sound echoed through the hall.
Roderic glanced at Lucien.
Only a glance.
Nothing more.
"…Fucking shit."
Lucien adjusted himself slowly in his chair, leaning back as the legs scraped faintly against the floor.
He rolled his shoulders once.
Then tilted his head slightly to the side—
Crack.
The subtle snap of his neck echoed softly in the dining hall.
His red eyes sharpened.
Then, louder—
"Calipso! I told you I'd have a fucking steak today!"
And then Lucien pushed his chair back and stood.
Adrian looked up at him.
But before the boy could speak, Seraphina gently placed her hand over his mouth.
"Open it," she said softly.
She lifted a spoonful of soup and placed it into Adrian's mouth, redirecting his attention away from Lucien.
Lucien stepped away from the table.
He turned toward a nearby maid.
"Where's Calipso?"
"In his room, sir," the lady servant replied quickly.
Lucien began walking toward the corridor.
"But sir—" she added nervously, "he's been suffering from fever. He would be asleep now."
Lucien did not stop.
"That wasn't the question."
His footsteps echoed along the corridor.
And once more, his voice rang through the hall—
"Calipso."
The sound lingered, then dissolved into the stillness
beyond the door.
No reply came.
The room was quiet.
Not the heavy silence of abandonment, but the kind that settled gently over a place long accustomed to order. The walls were painted a muted ivory, softened by age and sunlight. Dark wooden panels framed the lower half, polished to a faint sheen. A tall window stood slightly ajar, sheer curtains swaying lazily as warm afternoon light poured in.
Dust motes drifted in golden beams.
A bookshelf rested against the far wall, its contents arranged with careful precision. A writing desk stood nearby, papers stacked neatly, an ink bottle sealed and untouched. The faint scent of dried herbs lingered in the air—medicinal.
At the center of the room stood a carved bed of dark mahogany.
Upon it, a figure slept.
White sheets rose and fell in a slow rhythm.
Long strands of pale hair spilled across the pillow and down the side of the mattress like silk. One slender hand rested loosely atop the blanket, fingers relaxed, veins faintly visible beneath pale skin.
The room remained peaceful.
Still.
Until—
The door opened.
Not violently.
But enough to disturb the air.
The silence fractured.
Lucien stepped inside.
His red eyes landed immediately on the bed.
On Calipso.
Frustration flickered across his face. He inhaled slowly through his nose, chest rising—
—and released the breath just as slowly.
His gaze shifted.
A wooden chair stood near the writing desk.
Lucien walked toward it and dragged it across the polished floor.
The scraping sound tore through the room.
Calipso stirred.
The figure shifted slightly beneath the sheets. The slender fingers twitched. Pale lashes fluttered open.
First came the hand pressing weakly against the mattress.
Then the movement of his shoulders.
Long white hair cascaded forward as he slowly lifted himself, strands falling over his chest while the shorter front pieces framed his face. His features were refined and youthful, deceptively so—no older than thirty. Illness had left his skin faintly pale, but it did nothing to diminish the quiet grace in his appearance.
His breathing was soft.
His eyes, still hazy from sleep, adjusted to the light—
—and to Lucien.
Lucien placed the chair beside the bed.
He sat down.
Then, without hesitation, he leaned back in the chair and lifted both legs, resting them casually atop the mattress as if the bed belonged more to him than the one lying in it.
Lucien's eyes rested on Calipso.
For a moment, his voice came out almost gentle.
"So you're having fever…?"
Calipso didn't ask for clarification.
"Yes, my lord."
Lucien's gaze narrowed slightly.
"Really? Since when?"
"From last n—"
"Oh shut the fuck up."
The words cracked through the room like a whip striking stone.
Lucien dropped both legs from the bed, boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. He rose from the chair slowly this time, not in rage—but in something colder.
"Do you really think I care about your stupid sickness?"
His voice wasn't loud.
It was sharp.
Controlled.
"Today you made me eat something prepared by the hands of someone disgusting." His jaw tightened. "Do you know what that could have done to me?"
He stepped closer to the bed, close enough that his shadow fell over Calipso's pale face.
"If I fall ill, who answers for that? You?"
Silence.
"And you're here… laying comfortably. Dreaming."
His lips curled faintly.
"While I sit at that table surrounded by incompetence."
He leaned slightly down, red eyes burning.
"Beautiful… isn't it?"
His words began to tangle slightly, irritation disrupting his rhythm.
"Beautiful—of… of being free. Free from taking care of me. Free from this house. Flying away with those birds you keep watching from that window."
His breathing grew uneven for just a moment.
"Tell me," he demanded quietly, "what did you think, huh?"
His hand pressed against the edge of the bed.
"You are bound to take care of me."
Each word landed heavier than the last.
"And here you are… making excuses about being sick."
A pause.
His expression flickered—anger mixing with something else. Something closer to wounded pride.
"Or is it that you think I won't notice when you neglect me?"
Calipso's expression did not change.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Not resentment.
Only quiet composure.
"I'm sorry, young master. I disappointed you."
Lucien released a heavy breath through his nose.
For a second, it seemed like he would continue.
But a knock interrupted him.
A soldier appeared at the doorway, standing straight.
Lucien turned his head slowly.
"Sir Lucient, your combat tutor has arrived."
Lucien's gaze shifted back to Calipso.
"You have one hour," he said coldly. "By the time I finish my training, I want a delicious steak. Medium rare. With garlic. And wine."
"Of course, my lord."
Lucien stood and walked toward the door.
As he passed the soldier, he spoke without looking at him.
"Use that accent of yours again… and I'm going to kill you."
The soldier stiffened immediately, sweat forming at his temple.
"Ye–yes, sir."
Lucien walked past him.
The soldier followed quickly.
Calipso remained seated for a moment, watching their figures disappear down the corridor.
A genuine, faint smile touched his lips.
"What a nuisance you are, my lord."
He slowly pushed himself off the bed and stood.