The Sinful Young Master

As Jolthar returned to the mansion alongside Cleora and Nytheria, his mind filled with thoughts of the army at the border.
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The situation with Chittera was delicate, and any rash decision could lead to unnecessary bloodshed.

Cleora had sent a trusted member of Cleora's council, a veteran with years of experience and the respect of the barony, as an envoy to the approaching army.

Now, all they could do was wait.

The mansion was unusually tense. Cleora moved swiftly through its halls, issuing orders to her household and ensuring the few soldiers they had were prepared for any outcome.

The truth was stark—her barony was wealthy but militarily weak. They had focused on trade and industry, which had brought prosperity but left them vulnerable.

The garrison consisted of only a handful of trained soldiers, with barely two knights among them. It was a sobering realization that, should Chittera's intentions turn hostile, their chances of defence were slim.

Jolthar, meanwhile, stood near a window overlooking the sprawling estate, his arms crossed and his face unreadable. He thought of Chittera—a province governed by its council of ogre-blooded lords. They had no known enmity with the Empire, nor any history of hostility toward its lands.

But their sudden appearance, armed and organized, was not how one entered another's territory if peace was the intention.

It was unsettling.

Nytheria lingered in the shadows of the room, her expression calm but her eyes sharp. She said little, observing the tension in the air with an almost detached curiosity. At one point, Jolthar glanced at her and asked, "Do you have any insights into this, or are you just enjoying the show?"

Nytheria smirked, her golden eyes glinting. "I'm here for your safety, remember? But if you want my opinion, Chittera is posturing. Whether they want to intimidate or negotiate, I can't say yet. But their appearance is no accident."

Jolthar sighed, leaning against the window frame. "Let's hope it's the latter. This barony doesn't have the means to withstand an attack."

-

Meanwhile, Cleora and her son Roblan were preparing for any eventuality.

Cleora's demeanour was calm but commanding, her years of leadership evident as she worked to bolster the morale of her people. Roblan, though young and inexperienced, was determined to support his mother. He had taken charge of organizing what little defence they had, instructing the soldiers and rallying the townsfolk to be ready for an evacuation if needed.

"Mother," Roblan said, his voice steady despite the tension. "Do you think they'll attack?"

Cleora shook her head. "I don't know, but we can't afford to take chances. Prepare for the worst, but we'll hope for the best. If the envoy returns with good news, we'll avoid unnecessary conflict. If not…" She didn't finish the sentence, but the weight of her words hung in the air.

-

Elsewhere, in the bustling city of Avyaburgh, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the tense barony.

Within a lavish mansion overlooking the city, two figures stood on a grand balcony.

Lorryll and Liliana gazed out over the rooftops, the setting sun casting a golden glow over the cityscape. The two had recently returned from their clan's estate, their minds still preoccupied with the aftermath.

Lorryll leaned on the balcony railing, his expression dark. "Any word from your clan?" he asked, his voice low but sharp.

Liliana shook her head, her long hair swaying with the motion. "No. No word, no messengers. It seems they've gone silent after the attack. They're likely still reeling from the blow."

Lorryll's lips curled into a sneer. "That clan of yours… for all their boasting, they folded like paper when it mattered." He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. "And Jolthar… that fucking kid. He's at the centre of all this. I need to get my hands on him."

Liliana turned to him, her expression unreadable but her eyes filled with agreement. "He's clever, I'll give him that. But he's playing with forces beyond his comprehension. It won't be long before he slips."

Lorryll nodded, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I don't care what he is involved with; I need that sword."

The two stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their plans and ambitions pressing heavily upon them. Below them, the city of Avyaburgh continued its bustling life, unaware of the brewing storm.

-

In the far-flung reaches of the Empire, distant from the opulence of the capital, stood an isolated and crumbling castle. Its once-majestic walls were scarred by time and neglect, the banners that had once fluttered proudly now reduced to tattered remnants. The castle seemed like a forgotten relic of a bygone era, its desolation mirrored by the biting winds that howled through its empty halls.

Amidst the ruin, two figures stood at the edge of what was once a grand balcony overlooking the surrounding wilderness.

One was a young man clad in simple but elegant garments, his sharp features set in a pensive frown. His dark eyes were clouded with a mixture of anger and betrayal, emotions he could not suppress despite his stoic demeanour.

This was Prince Milan, a man who had seen more battles than many of his age and bore the scars of both war and treachery.

Beside him stood an old man, his posture still commanding despite his years. His hair was a silver halo, and his face was lined with the marks of countless campaigns. His eyes, however, burned with the wisdom of experience and an unyielding determination.

This was General Arvant, a retired military commander who now served as Milan's most trusted advisor. Arvant had stood by Milan's side during the Prince's hardest trials and had been his pillar of strength during the turbulent aftermath of Kaezhlar.

The two stood in silence for a moment, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Below them, the castle grounds stretched out in barren desolation, the ruins a stark contrast to the verdant forests beyond. The barony wasn't far from here, twenty to thirty miles.

Unbeknownst to them, an army from the Chittera province had marched into the barony's lands, a brewing storm of its own.

Milan finally broke the silence, his voice cold and restrained. "Do you think Father isn't aware of what my brother is doing? And he hadn't said a word about the battle of the two most powerful clans on the continent."

Arvant's expression softened, though his tone was firm. "Your Highness, the battle at Kaezhlar's estate was not for naught. It was done for the supremacy. I think the emperor saw it as an opportunity, them weakening."

Milan scoffed bitterly, his fingers curling into fists. "And what of my half-brother? The snake who sent joined hands with Naemarys? Should I thank him for his 'support' when he returns to the court to whisper lies into the Emperor's ear?"

Arvant's gaze hardened. "Your half-brother may be cunning, but he underestimates you. That is his greatest weakness. You survived the battle, and you returned to the palace. The fact that you stand here now is proof that his schemes have failed. But to counter him, you must play the long game, Your Highness. Rash actions will only give him the leverage he needs to ruin you."

Milan nodded slowly, though the anger simmering within him was far from extinguished. "And what of this place?" he asked, gesturing to the ruins around them. "Why bring me here, to this forgotten husk of a castle?"

Arvant's lips curled into a faint smile. "Because this 'husk,' as you call it, is a reminder. This castle belonged to a prince who once sought to claim the throne, much like you. He gathered his forces here, built alliances, and rose against his rivals. He failed because he allowed his impatience and pride to cloud his judgement. I brought you here to remind you of the cost of reckless ambition."

The words hung in the air, their weight undeniable. Milan turned to face the horizon, his expression thoughtful. "And what would you have me do, Arvant? Hide here while my enemies consolidate their power? I refuse to be a passive observer to my own downfall."

Arvant stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Milan's shoulder. "No, Your Highness. You will not hide. But you will prepare. There is more at stake than your claim to the throne. The Empire itself is at a crossroads. Forces of the darkness are testing its boundaries, and whispers of unrest are spreading in the regions of the empire. If you are to secure your future, you must first understand the game being played and position yourself as the one who can bring stability."

As the two men spoke, neither was aware of the events unfolding nearby.

The Chittera banners fluttered ominously on the borders of Tekkora Barony, their warriors stirring unease in the lands they entered. They still haven't approached the barony, just stationed outside the border.

The envoy from the barony was making his way towards the now raised-up tents on a meadow, soldiers present around the tent.