Years ago, nestled behind the sprawling grounds of the manor, the training yard was an orderly space, bordered by neatly trimmed hedges and oaks. The grass, though worn in places, remained well-kept, and a stretch of packed earth was set aside for sparring.

Two young men faced each other in the center of the yard, practicing their swordplay under the watchful eyes of the knights and one who appeared to be a duke, his long dark hair brushing his shoulders, and his dark blue eyes are scanning. 

The clatter of wooden swords echoed in the stillness, accompanied only by the soft hum of the wind. But one of them, the younger, was growing increasingly aggressive.

"You're pushing too hard, Lucien. Control your temper," his opponent warned, eyes steady.

Lucien responded with a wild, desperate swing, his sword cutting through the air in a vertical arc. But his opponent anticipated it with ease, and with a swift strike, the wooden blade connected with Lucien's abdomen. He gasped, wincing in pain, and his sword slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground as he coughed.

"What was that? What did I tell you?" the other man demanded, grabbing Lucien by the shoulder and pulling him upright.

"I... I'm so sorry," Lucien muttered, raising a hand in apology.

"Eric, do not be so hard on your brother," the duke called from a distance.

"If this is the battlefield, the enemy won't show him mercy, Father," Eric replied, his voice firm. "He needs to be trained and ready."

He steps back and pointed his wooden sword at the fallen one, turning back to Lucien. "Now, get up. We're doing this again."

Lucien moved weakly, his right hand still clutching his abdomen, the pain sharp and lingering. If this had been a real blade, he knew it would have been fatal. He stood up and reached for his fallen sword and glanced up at Eric. His brother's gaze wasn't one of pity or disgust, just calm intensity with a hint of softness.

Taking a deep breath, Lucien gripped his wooden sword tightly, feeling his power stir within him. The air around them began to cool, a frosty mist forming as an icy sigil appeared at his feet.

"Getting serious, are we?" Eric asked, a grin tugging at his lips. Though the sword in his hand remained solid wood, the air around it shimmered with heat, daring Lucien to attack. 

Lucien lunged quickly at his brother, the air growing colder with every step. Frost began to creep up his sword, the ground beneath his feet is freezing.

Eric met his brother's strike, their wooden swords clashing with a sharp crack. The impact sent a pulse of heat from Eric's weapon, it is enough to melt the frost gathering around them but not enough to scorch the wood. The air steamed where Ignis (Fire) met Glacio (Ice), their opposing magics clashing in a dance of heat and cold.

Lucien pressed forward, swinging his wooden blade in a precise motion. But Eric, with his greater speed and experience, parried the blows easily, the heat from his sword keeping the frost at bay.

"When sword fighting, your goal is to strike your opponent, not their sword. Their blade can only defend, Lucien," Eric said, parrying another blow effortlessly. "Find a way to hit me. I can tell you're holding back."

The spectators are unable to witness their duel as the mist gradually forms. Just the sound of smashing wooden swords.

The battle lasted just two minutes. Eric quickly sidestepped and knocked Lucien's blade out of his hand with a well-timed blow. Lucien staggered backward and fell to the ground, the wooden blade flying out of his fingers. Eric's clothing remained untouched, but Lucien's skin was bruised, and his sleeve had a clean cut.

He stepped over him and extended a hand, the flames around his wooden blade flickering out. "Not bad. Being defeated today just means you'll be stronger tomorrow."

Lucien grabbed his brother's hand to get up. "I almost had you."

"Hehe, not quite." Eric pulled him up and grinned in response. 

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The memory of his brother's words echoed in Lucien's mind as he faced his opponent. The training yard had changed over the years, but the lessons remained. 

His grip tightened on the hilt of his wooden sword as his opponent's strikes came faster, more precise. The knight before him moved with the speed and aggression of youth. An intensity that reminded Lucien of his younger self. The knight's footwork was flawless, his strikes brutal. But Lucien could sense the same wildness, the same recklessness, that once burned in him.

'Control your temper,' Eric's voice whispered in his mind, as clear as if his brother were beside him.

As the fight continued, Lucien noticed a pattern in his opponent's movement. The knight's eyes kept flicking to his sword, hyper-focused on the weapon as if it were the only threat. That's when he realized it.

A high arc came toward Lucien's head. Rather than blocking it, he ducked low, letting the strike slice harmlessly through the air. In one fluid motion, he surged forward, his wooden blade cutting upward toward the knight's chin. His opponent barely managed to twist away, avoiding the blow, but not the follow-up.

Lucien pivoted and swung low. His sword cracked against the knight's thigh with a sharp thud. The man grunted, his balance faltering for just a moment. With swift precision, Lucien driving his boot into the knight's midsection. The force sent his opponent sprawling to the ground, gasping for breath.

"You're only watching my wooden blade," Lucien said, his voice calm but pointed. "If that's all you see, you'll never keep up."

Before the man could recover, Lucien swung his wooden sword with such force that it knocked the man's weapon out of his hand. In an instant, he planted his foot on the man's chest, pinning him down, while the tip of his wooden sword hovered lightly against the man's throat.

"If this were a battlefield," Lucien said, his voice steady, "the enemy wouldn't show you mercy."

The knight lay still, chest heaving. Slowly, he raised his hands in surrender. "In the end, I still can't beat the duke." he muttered. 

"You have strength, but you lack control." Lucien removed his foot.

His dark blue eyes swept across the remaining knights, each one trying and failing to avoid his gaze. The men he had bested earlier stood off to the side, still nursing their bruises. They flinched as Lucien's eyes lingered on them. His expression was calm.

"Who's next?" Lucien asked, his voice low but commanding.

A few shifted uneasily, stealing glances at one another, their confidence shaken. Just as Lucien lifted his point finger, a familiar voice interrupted.

"Your Grace," came Quentin with his measured tone. The man adjusted his glasses by pressing the bridge with a practiced motion, his chestnut hair falling slightly over his forehead. "The Duchess will arrive shortly—thirty minutes, to be precise. I was informed that her carriage has just entered Wintermere."

"Is that so?" he replied. His eyes flicked back to the men, lingering for a moment longer. "Take a break everyone. We'll continue this training in the afternoon."

A collective sigh of relief swept through the group, though no one dared to show it openly. As Lucien turned on his heel, the sunlight now fully crested the horizon, bathing the yard in warm, golden light. He strode away from the training ground with Quentin at his side.

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Clara had just finished changing with the maid's help when a soft knock came at the door. At her permission, Lucien stepped in, wearing a sharp, black military-style coat with gold buttons and intricate detailing along the edges. A cape draped over his left shoulder, fastened with a star-shaped brooch, while crisscrossing belts and black gloves added to his commanding presence.

His hair was now neatly styled, parted off-center, with a few strands artfully falling across his forehead. He nodded to the maid, gesturing for them to leave, and they did so promptly.

Lucien approached, then crouched down to meet Clara at her eye level, his expression serious yet gentle.

"I trust you know what you should do when my w... the duchess comes, right?" he asked, his voice steady but with a slight hesitation.

Clara nodded, understanding the weight of his words. The pleasantries expected of her in such situations. 

"Yes, Uncle," she replied softly, her golden eyes meeting his with determination. "I'll be on my best behavior, just as you and the magisters (Teacher) taught me."

Lucien's gaze softened, and he offered her a small, approving smile. "Good."

He stood up, offering his hand to Clara as they prepared to leave the room. "Shall we?"

Clara took his hand, her small fingers curling around his. "Yes, Uncle."

As they walked toward the entrance where the Duchess would soon arrive, Clara felt a sense of nervousness and excitement.

Half an hour later, the carriage arrived at the immaculate gates of the duke's mansion, the horses finally coming to a stop. The knights who had once escorted the duchess to the capital now halted in unison.

As the gates were opened by the servants, the carriage proceeded inside. It stopped at the front entrance, where two figures awaited nearby. Clara stood with a cheerful look on her face. Lucien, however, looked on blankly, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings, the windows, beneath the carriage, and even the top of it, as if checking for something unseen.

The butler began to approach the carriage door, likely intending to open it, but Lucien halted him with a gesture. The butler nodded respectfully and stepped aside, allowing him to take charge.

Adeline was seated inside the carriage when he opened the door. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress that was immaculate and white with a gentle lavender tinge. A delicate brooch was used to fasten the high collar, which was ornamented with a wide, ruffled bow at the chest. A thick, black belt around her waist defined her slim body, and the fitting bodice was embellished with buttons that ran beautifully down the front. Her blue eyes met his, gloved hands gently resting on her lap as she regained her composure.

Lucien extended his right hand towards her.

"Ah, thanks," she said.

His black gloves contrasted with her white ones as she slowly reached out to take his hand. He guided her gently as she stepped out of the carriage, her grip on his hand is firm.

As she descended, Lucien's gaze never left her, his expression unreadable.

Clara smirked with enjoyment, watching the two looking at each other.

"Wow, Uncle and the Duchess really do look like a great couple," she said, a small spark in her eyes.

Hearing this, the two immediately pulled their hands away from each other, both looking away. Lucien brought his fist to his mouth, clearing his throat with a light cough.

After a brief, awkward pause, he regained his composure. He turned slightly toward Clara. "Clara, this is Adeline... Adeline Valenhart."

Before Lucien could say more, Clara stepped forward, her warm smile shining.

"It's nice to meet you, Duchess Adeline," Clara said brightly. She curtsied with a bit of shy excitement, her eyes wide with curiosity. "I'm Clara Valenhart, Lucien's niece."

Adeline beamed, as she inclined her head slightly. "Ah, so you are Clara," she said softly, her tone smooth and composed. "I've heard about you from Rose. It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person."

"Miss Rose?!" Clara responds, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

"She looked after me in the capital when I stayed there for my studies." Her smile softened as she added, "I'm so glad to know she's spoken of me."

A moment of shared giggles and silence followed, just long enough for the gentle breeze to settle around them, cool but not uncomfortable. Lucien, who had been observing the exchange, let out a quiet breath.

The sky, once clear, began to darken as soft droplets of rain, who is light as mist, falling from the sky. A gentle drizzle touched the ground, pattering faintly against the leaves and stones. Lucien glanced upward, his expression calm as the rain gathered strength.

"We shall head inside," Lucien said, stepping forward and gesturing to the grand entrance of the manor a few meters from them.

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🌸 Adeline's POV 💖

As we stepped into the manor, Clara smirked at us. The white dress I wore was speckled by a light drizzle.

Lucien's brow furrowed slightly, looking at his young niece. "What is it?" he asked, his voice low,

"Nothing, if you'll excuse me," she said softly before gracefully disappearing down a corridor. I watched her leave, then turned my attention back to the man beside me, who was also watching her retreat.

His hair was neatly styled, parted slightly off-center, with a stray strand falling playfully across his forehead. 

He looked effortlessly good. It's so unfair.

Was he doing it on purpose? This man is so hard to read.

Just as I was about to look away, he glanced at me, catching me in the act of staring. His instincts were sharp.

"What?" he asked, his tone even and composed.

"Uh, nothing... don't worry about it," I stammered, feeling a little flustered.

He hummed in response, a noncommittal sound, before turning his gaze back to the hallway. "Your things have been taken care of by the servants. I assume you still remember where your room is?"

"I... I'm not sure I do, actually," I admitted, bringing my fingers to my chin with a nervous smile and a weak chuckle.

He raised an eyebrow slightly. "I see. In that case, I'll have someone to show you the way," he said, already moving to call for assistance.

I hesitated for a moment. I didn't want to seem too forward, but... "Would it really hurt for you to lead the way?" I asked, trying to sound casual but feeling the weight of the words.

He went silent, looking at me for a moment, as if he were trying to read my thoughts.

"Let's go," he finally said, turning on his heel.

Just like that, he started walking, expecting me to follow.

As we moved through the hallways, servants crossed our path, each pausing to offer Lucien a few words of gratitude, and to greet me as well. A butler bowed deeply, his voice thick with respect. "Good morning, Your Grace."

Lucien only nodded in return, his response humble, as though their appreciation was neither sought nor expected. A pair of maids followed, curtsying low, their faces bright with admiration before turning to offer me a polite greeting.

I glanced between them and Lucien, Sir Alan's words echoing in my mind: "He's a rare man, and we are lucky to serve him."

It was hard to ignore the way people who served him looked at him, like they were in awe. But something in me resisted giving in to that same awe, even though I felt it creeping up on me.

Finally, we reached my room. He stopped and gestured toward the door. "We're here."

"If there is anything you need help with, just call the servants. I'll be on my way to my study," he said, turning to leave.

I felt a sudden urge to stop him. "Yo... Your grace," I called softly. 

"Hm?" he paused, glancing back.

I hesitated for a moment. "Thank you," I said, my voice almost tentative. "For... everything."

His expression remained composed, but there was a brief flicker in his eyes. He gave me a small nod, acknowledging my words.

He turns fully toward me. "Welcome back, Adeline," he said quietly, before finally turning on his heel and walking down the corridor, leaving me standing.

The simplicity of his words, spoken with quiet sincerity, sent a gentle warmth through me. I nodded back, feeling my reluctance soften, melting away in the comfort of the moment.

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❄️Lucien's POV 📃

As I entered my study, I sat down at my oak desk, where five books were stacked neatly in front of me. My gaze drifted to the large clock nearby, its pendulum swinging steadily, each swing is a reminder of time slipping away, as if it held the answers to my unspoken questions.

The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of the large clock on the wall. Suddenly, the door swung open, and the faint shuffle of Quentin's boots echoed as he stepped in.

He wore a half-grin, the one that hinted at a joke on the tip of his tongue. "I see you're brooding again, your grace" Quentin said, crossing his arms. "Should I prepare the inspirational speech? Or is this more of a bring wine and let's sulk together moment?" 

 I shot him a look, though there was no real annoyance in it. "Neither" I muttered. "I've been thinking about something. The knight I saved from that demon tree mentioned that there is a weapon that this ancient cult needs; From what I know I believe it is called the Blade of Ashen Frost." 

"Oh great, a cursed legendary weapon capable of plunging the world into eternal darkness and winter. And the only ones who can wield it are the people who possess Umbra like you. Nice, light topic for the morning," Quentin said as he dropped into the chair across from me. 

"So, are we brainstorming names for your inevitable brooding title? Duke Lucien the Cold, The Handsome Frozen Lord, Oh, oh—how about Mr. Ice Guy? Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" 

I shook my head. "I'm serious, Quentin. This weapon... I need to know more about it." 

Quentin leaned back in his chair, studying me for a moment. His tone softened, the humor fading just a bit. "The Blade of Ashen Frost. You know the legends as well as I do. It was forged long ago by the Dark Lords themselves, in Wintermere, over four hundred years ago. They say this blade grants its wielder control over eternal night and winter, with enough power to destroy kingdoms. This, of course, drew the ire of the powerful mages of Veridonia. Your ancestor, Alysanne Valenhart, overthrew them and sealed the weapon in Wintermere. Its exact location, however, remains a mystery, and over time it became little more than a legend folktale."

I nodded in response. "But there's always a catch." 

"There's always a catch," Quentin agreed, shrugging. "The wielders grant that power, but the more you use it, the more it drains you to death. The Dark Lords weren't exactly known for their warm personalities. They became... well, like their weapons—cold, distant, isolated. The blade is a burden, your grace, not just a weapon."

"If those cults had a lead of where exactly that weapon is, then it's best for us to find it before they do. But be warned—the Blade has a way of calling to those who seek it, tempting them with promises of power. That's what the cults are after, and once they're close enough, it won't be long before they lose themselves to its influence. We must tread carefully. If they have a lead, we have little time, and the cost of failure... well, let's just say we don't want to be on the wrong side of that history. The Blade's power is too dangerous to fall into anyone's hands, even ours. But letting them find it first... that could be worse." He added.

I was silent for a moment. "Legend or not, I can't let them have it. If there is the time that wielding that sword is the only option, then I'll do it to protect Wintermere against them."

Quentin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And that's the problem. You think wintermere rests on your shoulders, that it's your job to carry every burden, wield every cursed sword, fight every dark cult." 

"It is my job." I said firmly.

Quentin waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, you're the Winter Duke or whatever. But you've got people, your grace. You've got me. You've got others. You don't have to do this alone." 

"You? What would your Aqua (Water) can do to those monsters? Their skin is thick as iron. You'd barely make a splash." I asked.

Quentin smirked, flicking his wrist. 

"A splash?" He turned his palm upward, and a small, swirling orb of water appeared, hovering just above his hand. The light in the room shimmered in its surface, catching my eye.

"I think you're underestimating the power of Aqua, your grace." Quentin closed his fingers slowly, and the orb transformed into sharp, water shards, rotating lazily before collapsing back into a harmless droplet. "It's not always about brute force. Water can flow... or it can crush."

He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. "Besides, you forget—waters everywhere. You think I need an ocean to fight?"

I watched, still doubtful. 

Quentin grinned, letting the droplet fall and splash at his feet. "Please. Give me a little credit. I can fight, and I will fight for at least nine or maybe ten minutes."

I was about to respond, but then a soft knock came at the door, interrupting our conversation.

"Enter," I said.

The maid stepped in, bowing her head slightly. "Your Grace, I would like to inform you that young Lady Clara has requested to join you and the Duchess for dinner this evening."

My eyes widened a little. "She wants us to dine together with her?"

"Yes, Your Grace," the maid confirmed.

"I understand. Please tell Clara I'll attend later. Has the Duchess been informed?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I've already told her."

"Very well, thank you," I said, and the maid began to leave.

Quentin's brown eyes sparkled with mischief. "Ah, dinner with the Duchess, is it?"

I shot him a sideways glance. "Alright, that's enough."

Quentin grinned wider. "Just keeping things light. Anyway, duty calls."

He turned and headed back to his desk, where paperwork was piled high. He settled into his chair and began working quietly, the rhythmic sound of his pen scratching across the pages filling the room.

As I watched him, a sense of calm settled over me. The office, though bustling with activity, felt more manageable now. The soft drizzle outside tapped gently against the window panes, its rhythmic pattern blending with the muted sounds of our work. I turned back to my own tasks, feeling a renewed focus as the day continued, though I knew I still had to continue training the knights later in the afternoon.