The clearing was stained with the scent of blood and damp earth, the echo of battle still thick in the silence. Mercenary corpses lay strewn about like discarded puppets, their blood forming crimson trails weaving morbid patterns through the dirt.
Nearby, a battered transport carriage stood still, its reinforced cage door creaking in the wind. Inside, the captured tribes people huddled, dazed but breathing. Some lay unconscious, slumped against one another.
Others, those barely holding on, were being tended by their kin with trembling hands and tear-worn faces. All of them bore the same look in their eyes: horror, weariness, and the jarring confusion of survival.
Max stood at the edge of it all, arms folded, wind tousling his unruly brown hair. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between bored amusement and simmering irritation. He surveyed the gathering crowd of mountain tribes folk with the air of someone watching a play he hadn’t bought tickets for.
He began with theatrical flair. “Alright, listen up, you lot. We saved your friends here and brought them back, so the least you can do is answer a few questions and make this whole… 'Good deed' of ours worth the effort”
“So, those goons who were trying to… well, you know,” he twirled his fingers vaguely, then made an obscene gesture that was more illustrative than necessary, “what was their deal? Who were they working for? Don't play coy now. We saw some of you were with them. Forced to help or something else. What was the reason, answer whatever you know”
He clicked his tongue, pacing a slow circle around the cage.
“Did any of them mention why they were even up there? Looking for something? Someone? Spit it out. My brother—the one with the serious glare you know one who killed all these stinking mercenary in this place, wants answers And when he wants something, trust me, everyone’s lives become a lot easier if he gets it.”
His voice dipped lower, a sliver of impatience showing as he cocked a brow.
“Oh, right. There was one more. Wore the same get-up as you. Green cloth tied to his head. Talked a lot. I’ve got his body back there dead, obviously. Go take a look. Recognize him? Was he from your tribe? Or another? Anything you can tell us about him, helps. Especially if you know anything about that nasty little spell he used.”
Max mimed a wild jump, arms flailing. “Yeah, that one. Made someone vanish into thin air. Like jumping real hard, but without landing. Hard to describe. My little brother got hit with it. Now he’s gone. Kidnapped? Lost? No idea. But I’m not thrilled about it.”
“So. Now would be a good time to start talking. Otherwise, I might have to send for my other brother. And believe me, he’s a lot less chatty than I am. Doesn’t ask twice.”
A brittle silence fell, thick with distrust. The tribes people said nothing, their expressions locked in a cold mixture of grief and caution. They circled the carriage like wolves forced into a corner, watching every movement with narrowed eyes.
From behind, the soft crunch of boots over soil broke the hush. Lucien stepped forward, calm as dusk. His gaze swept across the field like a falling guillotine. His peridot eyes flicked to Max.
“I told you to extract information,” he said, voice sharp as a drawn blade. “Not to inspire resentment through clumsy threats, Max. Your theatrics have accomplished little beyond making our intentions appear hostile.”
Max blinked. “Really? Thought I was being persuasive.”
Lucien turned his gaze to the crowd, unflinching and unapologetic. The air shifted. The way he stood silent, centered sent a subtle current through the ground itself.
Lucien stepped forward, his tone low but steady. “My apologies for my brother’s behavior. He didn’t mean to come across as a threat. We have nothing to do with the ones who harmed you. Relax. We’re not going to bring you trouble.”
Still, their eyes didn’t soften.
Lucien continued, “If anything, I have no issue offering assistance—medical supplies, food. You’re wounded. Suffering. And clearly not in a position to refuse help.”
No one moved. The silence remained brittle.
“All I ask in return,” he said, “is that you tell me what you know. About the spell. About the man my brother mentioned. I lost my brother because of that spell. And I’m not happy about it. I will not hesitate to go to the deepest pit to bring him back.”
One young man stepped out from the circle. His hands were clenched, but his voice was calm. “How can we trust you’re not lying? That you won’t harm us later? You say your brother’s gone… but what does that have to do with us? What if helping you only bring more problems down on our heads?”
Lucien looked at the young man, then spoke without pause.
“Fair point. It’s wise to be cautious. But all the tribes in these mountains are suffering. Even if you're all grouped together, your chances of surviving another attack are no more than nine percent. That’s being generous. The enemy’s command line has been severed. They’ve lost all contact with their forward unit. They will send reinforcements. It’s only a matter of time.”
The weight of his words settled like fog. A few of the wounded turned pale. A mother clutched her child closer. Fear grew thicker.
Lucien went on. “But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that they don’t return. What then? You still lose. Your supplies are gone. Your tribes folk? Many have been taken. Sold. Those left behind are injured, weak, sick. You don’t have the numbers to hunt, or enough strength to rebuild.”
He raised his hand slightly. “You don’t have a choice. Trust me or don’t, it doesn’t change your odds. At the very least, I’m paying. Unlike those who came before. For your cooperation, I’ll give you food, medicine, supplies, everything you need to survive another day. Use them. Be ready when they come again.”
Max chimed in, cheerful as ever. “Yeah, see? He’s got it all figured out. So, how about we circle back to my first question—”
Lucien raised his hand. Max fell silent at once.
“Pressuring them won’t work. I’ll send golems with supplies tonight,” Lucien said. “Take care of your wounded. Meet with the other tribes. Decide what you want to do. Tomorrow, same time, I’ll send one of my brothers. He’ll come to speak with you. Answer him then.”
Max stretched and gave a lazy wave. “Sounds fair, doesn’t it? Don’t keep us waiting.”
Lucien turned and disappeared into the trees without another word. Max followed him, leaving behind a field of broken bodies, scattered weapons, and the first glimmer of hesitant hope.
A circle of pale light bloomed in the open field just beyond the stone arch of the Sinclair estate’s training grounds.
Then, with a low, grinding hum, the portal snapped wide, and they stepped through.
Lucien emerged first, his boots touching down with a quiet, without any noise.
Max followed half a second later, tumbling through with far less grace. His landing was solid enough, though he exaggerated a stagger, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder.
Max: “Why can’t coming back be just as easy as leaving?, I feel like I would vomit.”
Lucien was busy thinking how to break the news of Ryan’s disappearance to the others. It was a tough task, but an important one. Then comes planning the future course of action and what would be the reaction of all the other members.
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Lucien moved only to meet Pelta and Finn on his way, who were just waiting for his arrival.
Pelta gazed at both of them, noticing subtle trouble in Max’s demeanor as he saw Finn.
Finn: “What is it, brother? Did ya deal with whatever the issue was yourself? You didn’t need to, though. More importantly, was it so much of an issue you had to take Max with you? Bringing Max along… that seems a rather… unconventional choice, given the circumstances. One hopes his presence was beneficial and not a further complication.”
Max getting a little tense: “Huh, I should go. I feel really sleepy.”
Lucien: “No. Stay here, explain it to both of them. And both of you, hear what he says. I also had somewhat of a role in it, no doubt. After hearing, spread it to the others and tell them there will be a family meeting tomorrow—probably evening.”
Pelta: “As you wish, brother.”
Max (tense): “Hah… hah… okay, it’s a long story—so listen carefully. It all started when Ryan and I were…”
Max launched into the full explanation of what had happened. As the details spilled out and the information got unraveled, both Pelta's and Finn’s expressions shifted, what began as calm and focused turned into something far more serious.
Finn: “So, the point is you guys lost Ryan, and he is now kidnapped by someone we don’t know, kept somewhere we don’t know. Oh my god, how can such a blunder happen? Max, firstly, why did you even entertain Ryan’s curiosity? Huh? I bet you’re hiding things, aren’t you?”
Lucien: “No, Finn. I am equally to be blamed.”
Finn: “No, brother. Your role is not as big as this dimwit’s.”
Max Nods emphatically
Pelta, with the ever-serious expression that rarely wavered from her face, stepped forward as soon as Max finished speaking. Her tone was crisp, her posture immaculate.
“I will immediately prepare a detailed report and send it to the rest of the family. If possible, I would like both Brother Max and Brother Lucien to provide every piece of information and detail they possess.”
Max exhaled, frustrated. “I already told you what I knew, didn’t I?”
Finn didn’t give him time to complain further. “Shut up and do as she says. You know what, just go to my cabin. Sit there. Wait for us.”
Max raised his hands in surrender, already edging away. “Okay, okay…”
As he walked off, there was an odd mixture in his gait, relief that he was finally dismissed, and tension from the storm he knew was waiting for him.
Pelta turned to speak to Lucien, but he already anticipated her.
“I’ll write up my account of the events and send it for your assessment,” Lucien said calmly. “There’s also a village. I’ll send the coordinates. Send some supplies there, use the golems. And Finn—once you've read the report, meet me in the morning.”
Finn nodded. “Got it.”
Lucien turned, ready to take his leave, when Pelta called to him once more.
“Brother, if I may take a moment of your time. It might seem poorly timed given the current crisis, and I apologize… but this is also important. It’s the reason I was waiting here.”
Lucien stopped, turning his head slightly.
Pelta:“This morning, not long before you left, I received a call through the terrestrial communication orb. It came from the officials under the Duke of Aquitaine.”
Lucien offered no reaction.
Finn, however, scoffed. “From them? After nearly a century of silence, the main family reaches out today, of all days? How Suspicious. What did they say?”
“They extended an invitation,” Pelta replied. “To a grand family event. One that mandates the presence of all branch families. It seems... we've been summoned too.”
Lucien’s voice was low and even. “Send me a written report. I’ll review it in my study.”
He walked away without looking back.
“Understood, Brother,” Pelta said softly.
Finn waited until Lucien was out of sight, then glanced at her. “Did they specifically mention Father's name? Or was it just addressed to the House of Sinclair?”
Pelta tilted her head. “They mentioned Father's name directly. Emphasized it. Why? Does that change something?”
“If they had only written ‘House of Sinclair,’ then that would have also included Our uncle’s line, the branch that lives in the Empire.”
Pelta blinked. “We have family in the Empire?”
Finn nodded. “We do. Father had a younger brother. When our family was exiled because of pressure from the main house and the Church, he inherited the title and remained in the Empire. We don’t speak often, but there’s no enmity. Once our father’s exile ended, and he regained citizenship status, he used to send money to them. Quietly. For a lot of reasons, we couldn't maintain formal contact with anyone in the Empire, even after the restrictions were lifted.”
Pelta absorbed this, thoughtful. “So if the message had simply been for the Sinclair family, we could’ve thought it wasn’t meant for us and simply ignored this summon. But since they invoked Father's name…”
Finn’s eyes narrowed. “It means they are specially asking for us, and we don't know why they are suddenly asking for us out of nowhere.”
“Out of curiosity,” Pelta asked, “do we know how many members are in that side of the family?”
Finn shook his head. “No idea. Father handled those matters himself. Check the registry, there should be something there.”
Pelta nodded slowly. “With everything we know now… Brother, are you implying that this invitation might be a trap?”
“It could be anything,” Finn replied. “But beneficial? Absolutely not.”
[ Study of Lucien Sinclair]
In the life of Lucien Sinclair, duty was law.
A law. A binding oath carved into bone and soul, not written by his family or by anyone but forged by his own relentless will. To perform one’s role wholly, without falter or indulgence, was, to him, among the highest pursuits of existence. And in that pursuit, emotion was a parasite. To be ruled by grief, joy, anger, or affection was to lose one’s edge. One could not protect, lead, or command while trembling under the weight of their own sentiment. That was his belief. Not born of philosophy, but carved through years of cold truths and colder choices.
It was a philosophy that shaped him like chisel to stone.
His father had praised it quietly. His mother, however, had scorned it openly. Lucien had never responded to her criticism. He never needed to.
So now, in the quiet of his study, he obeyed that law once again.
Even after the day’s chaos. Even after a loss so profound, the entire Sinclair estate quaked beneath it.
A failure.
A failure that came not from miscalculation or hesitation, but from the unpredictable fracture in an otherwise stagnant existence. A change no one could have anticipated. And yet, a change that pierced straight through him all the same.
Ryan, his younger brother, gone.
But Lucien did not allow himself grief. Grief would not bring Ryan back. Grief would do nothing making it a useless errand to him.
So he sat poised, unshaken, as he wrote.
Pages filled with ordered handwriting, dissecting the chaos. Every information he had, what Max had offered, every inconsistency noted. Even the sudden invitation from the Duke of Aquitaine’s house. He documented all of it clearly, exhaustively. No vague sentences. No overlooked facts. Reports that could be read by any sibling, judged, cross-examined, weaponized if need be.
That part was easy.
It was the next step—the one after gathering data, the one after the dust settled—that made his hands still for the first time.
What next?, this... this was something new.
This was loss.
He had failed to protect someone he should have guarded with ease.
Failed to stop something that should never have happened.
And yet, even as the chaos spiraled, and worse things brewed on the horizon, Lucien stayed diligent. He did not shatter.
It’s not that I’m not worried about Ryan. I am. I have no reason not to be.
Lucien’s voice was low, even, the words falling like stone into still water.
I value our bloodline above all else. The children of Sinclair… they are the greatest testament to my parents’ legacy. In a way, they are our father and mother’s living lineage. And I had the duty of protecting that lineage.
He leaned back into the chair slowly, eyes shutting as if the weight behind them had become too much.
“I failed. Miserably.”
Silence followed.
Then, almost in a murmur, he continued.
“There are too many problems now. Finding Ryan. Uncovering who orchestrated the attack. Who the true mastermind is, and why did they target us. I don’t know if there are more threats beyond what we’ve seen. Enemies I’ve yet to identify. Motives that remain hidden. Abilities we don’t understand.”
His brow furrowed, but he kept his tone steady.
Even if Ryan’s become involved in something far greater… I can’t afford to act blindly. I can’t risk the entire family, everything our parents left behind on impulse. If this threat is too great… I have to think of the whole, not just one.
He exhaled slowly, the weariness curling into his voice.
What should our stance be? No matter what path I choose. Deciding our next action will be the most difficult part during tomorrow’s meeting. The situation with Ryan might rally some support, but…
I will be questioned. My authority will be questioned. I wanted to stabilize this family. I’ve worked toward that, but these events stir instability. Every plan I laid out for the stability of the family is beginning to crack.
He opened his eyes and stared at nothing.
“I shall never fail like this again, Nor shall my family ever face such a crisis for any reason. Not again.”
“I will protect my parents’ lineage at any cost. I’ll fix what’s broken. Restore everything to how it was meant to be. And for that… I must push myself—and this family—to the next level.”
His eyes, dark and crystalline, flashed with a surreal confidence, a fire that seemed ready to consume the world whole. He knew what those words meant. And still he had no intention of turning back.
With a final stroke of his pen, he signed off on the last line of his report, then closed the file with a clean, deliberate snap.
He turned to the humanoid golem standing by the door and commanded, “Take this to Pelta. Tell her to follow instructions exactly as written.”
The golem bowed, took the document from his desk, and vanished.
Lucien eyes drifted to the drawers of his desk. First: stationeries, mundane. Second: the same. Third—
There it was.
The package.
The one his golem had stored, as he told them. His parent's gift, which he refused to open last time.
He opened the drawer slowly. Inside, the two letters lay side by side, along with a package. His mother’s letter stared up at him, elegant and soft, but he passed it over again deliberately, and took his father’s letter and package instead.
Just as he broke the seal of the letter.
And in that very instant he was gone. Taken away to somewhere else within a blink
