Acwulf licked his elongated canines to savor the taste of satisfaction. The weight burdening his soul since childhood had disappeared; he felt lighter.

Even Amoux bristled with pride, not rage. His beast's tail wouldn't stop wagging now he possessed territories to defend.

After losing many battles, they won the war—the proof—a gold tube bearing the Saxe-Coburg emblem with a declaration of his new title.

He flicked open the maroon velvet box. Nestled in the fabric lay a brooch and seal, recognizing his royal status. The centerpiece of the breastpin was the largest kyawthuite ever discovered. In the twilight, the rare stone, the size of a peach, sparkled. His shell company owned the only mines of the world's rarest precious stone in Nepal.

Last weekend, Emperor Félix Ashkenazic Saxe-Coburg declared him Duke Acwulf Darrah, the first of his name. An oak with fangs for roots symbolized the newly minted blue-blooded house of Oakenmedow. The tree could grow for centuries, and spawned groves. He hoped so would he.

He picked up the signet with his insignia and slipped it on his middle finger. The second piece, a delicate band with a pea-sized orange gemstone from the Mogok region of Myanmar, worried him. He'd gifted the princess cut, five-carat rock to the Emperor. However, Félix Ashkenazic's jeweler set it in a ring and returned it to him. The gesture conveyed an unvoiced demand–it was time Acwulf sired an heir.

Acwulf pressed the button on the handheld radio. "Now," he said, standing by the massive sliding glass doors.

High above, on the edge of a cliff, the banner unfurled along the tallest spire. In the moonlight, the golden evergreen against the black cloth glimmered. Flames blazed on the watchtowers' peaks.

"It's done," he muttered, watching the castle called the Nest, a Luxembourg stronghold since the fourteenth century. The Remus occupied it in lieu of his grandsire debts. After their ouster, the Emperor proclaimed it the crown's territory.

His skint pater dreamed of reclaiming it, yet failed to come up with the gold to do so. Acwulf purchased the forested mountains from the crown and restored the ruins, not to honor its legacy, but to erase it. It wouldn't bear the Luxembourg flag ever. His acquiring this estate was a strategic move to bruise his father's ego. Like most Olden dynasties, the Ducals of Luxembourg followed the archaic laws of inheritance. Systemic corruption, arrogance, avarice, lust, envy, gluttony, anger, and sloth ruined them. Inbreeding and extramarital affairs led to their precipitous fall from grace. They'd lost the patronage of the late Romulus Queen and went into exile for seven decades. The Emperor reinstated them in the eighties and his office granted them an annual stipend.

But his father, brought up in penury, never recovered from the humiliation. Even after the fates smiled, he couldn't manage his expenses or farmsteads. His maternal Cassian bloodline was in the same boat—with a cracked hull and full of holes.

Acwulf did better; a self-made aristocrat, his domains were his to rule and ruin. Only his. He'd inherited nothing. The establishment hailed him as the modern face of the Olden nobility.

He threw himself in his chair, still determined not to stay here, his official demesne, for long. A mere symbol of his victory, he didn't plan to reside here.

On inhabitable corners of Greece and Iceland, he'd built his summer and winter homes. His beast reveled in the isolation of both locations. The harsh landscape and inaccessible shorelines were perfect for them. But the real asset was the warren he'd created under the earth, hidden from prying humans and their satellites, and the source of his power and standing.

'No. Mikhael and Misha are why we succeeded. I miss them,' Amoux huffed.

Acwulf nodded as he observed the limestone walls of the refurbished carriage house. Bare wooden beams supported the tiled roof. The loft contained his living quarters.

A few items of furniture filled the clean, open space. His laptop. A pair of armchairs and a footrest by the fireplace. Important hardback reference manuals lined the mantel.

He hated clutter with a passion and eschewed art or antiquities to prove his heritage or pay accolades to the grand old days. Collecting priceless trinkets and artifacts from exotic cultures didn't interest him either.

Not one to flaunt his wealth, he preferred a barn as his den and shunned hosting balls, hunts, or dinners. He saw no point in squandering his hard-earned money to impress his peers.

His computer pinged.

He read the email from Mikhail. "The mad genius did it," he crowed.

His next challenge was to convince this reclusive were-bear to come out of seclusion. But Mikhail protected his privacy with a territorial aggression that defined his species. He hid in a labyrinth of caves in the Alps. The Emperor's Guards, the Grey Cloaks, couldn't discern where his scientific advisor dwelled. Acwulf took credit for that feat.

'We owe him our successes,' Amoux growled.

He concurred. The labors of their only friend propelled them to greatness.

'When will we go meet him?' his beast moaned.

Acwulf stroked the chunk of polished driftwood on the table. The petrified timber had absorbed minerals to become a rock—the singular, unfunctional decor in his rooms. But it was a gift from Mikhael, a keepsake from his lands. "Soon," he promised. Amoux wanted his pack under his watchful eye, a wise decision when the stakes were so high.

"Duke, we have uninvited guests at the gate." Saya's distaste wafted in from the intercom, revealing the identity of the visitors.

If he told her to turn them away, she would. She'd deny the Emperor himself. His assistant guarded him with a fierce loyalty that defied reason. A foreigner, she scoffed at the norms of his world.

"Who is it?" he asked to confirm his suspicions.

"Sir Lovel and Lady Lovelle of House of Ducal," Saya reported.

After his parents failed to browbeat him into submission and his mother's attempts to blackmail him fell short, they'd sent his siblings. And their presence upset Saya.

"I'll grant them an audience," he replied, "for fifteen minutes."

The Ducals were too low on the totem pole to warrant a seat at Court. Ergo, his newfound station in the echelon cour d'honneur had become public knowledge. Acwulf anticipated a reaction to the pointed insult of not sending them an invitation, but the twins' arrival surprised him.

He exited the residence and marched towards the main gates. On his right lay the original garrison, modernized to suffice as his headquarters. A majority of the five thousand-acre landholding was a privately owned restricted forest reserve, and tracker dogs patrolled the borders to deter intruders.

Veas, the architect, re-designed the preexisting Keep. A relatively newer structure, the Remus had constructed this castle in the valley to form a town around it. The surrounding curtain ramparts would prevent his relatives from sniffing around.

In the simple, informal parlor, his brother shook his hand and his sister hugged him.

"The grapevine informs me congratulations are overdue." Lovelle winked.

"Yes, yes, indeed," Lovel added. "Pity we weren't invited." Almost absent-mindedly, he delivered the dig.

They sat for a while before realizing they wouldn't be served tea. Sure, it was rude, but Acwulf didn't break bread with his blood.

Lovel made small talk. He mentioned their Uncle Harqal's financial hardships, the ruination of a cousin, and Aron's marital troubles, none of which were secrets.

Acwulf tuned out the gossip and studied Lovel's narrow build, pointed chin, and hook nose. His sunken, dull eyes and stooped spine made him look weak.

He'd been lucky to inherit their maternal grandfather's height and heavy build. But Aron and Lovel took after their paterfamilias. All three showed signs of the genetic decay that afflicted their pedigree.

His sister wasn't pretty unlike their mother, but attractive if not for her affected apathy. Though well-read, Lovelle reminded a consummate lady of leisure with no skills and a pittance of a dower. Their lack of influence and fortune didn't bode well for her. While Lovel nattered, she chose not to voice her opinions; maybe she had none.

Acwulf repeatedly proposed to sponsor their education if aimed at gaining professional qualifications. They'd refused. She wouldn't rebel against their parents. Neither believed in earning a living and were now spying on him.

"I got you a token." Lovelle extracted a couple of books from her bag and placed them on the carved sideboard from somewhere in Asia by the large window.

Saya had decorated the Keep, and while understated, he noticed she'd left her mark on it.

The purple booklet listed eligible females from reputed lineages. His lips curled at the other, a slim magazine, sealed in a biodegradable transparent plastic. He was very familiar with the packaging material.

"Are you here to convey the good news?" he asked.

"No. Bertie couldn't carry to term. It would've been a son."

"That's tragic." Acwulf shrugged. Bertie, his former betrothed, had rejected him for his elder brother. Her making an advantageous alliance no longer hurt, but he spared neither any sympathy.

"Wulfi, Father's in hot water—" Lovel bleated.

Acwulf cut him off. "If so, Lord Ducal will stomach my accountant's conditions. I won't relent, and retain a controlling stake in any joint venture. Nor will I deign to explain or justify my employees' decisions. I set his affairs in order and received not a word of appreciation for my efforts. If I recall, he reprimanded me for meddling. Not to mention, he's frittered away the enterprises I established to augment his and your stipends."

Yet he fostered no rancor, not anymore. The Lord and his successor had made it amply clear it wasn't his place to interfere in how they ran their show. So be it.

***

Posted 16th October, 2024. Sorry was the delay. 

Also, what do you think of Acwulf? First impressions? Find out more about him on Sunday! 

Translations:

Pater (Latin): sire (old English) father

Paterfamilias (Old English): The male head of a family or household, usually the father

Frater maior (Latin): older brother.

Cour d'honneur: (French) court of honor.