In the grand hall of Mondring Castle, Duchess Sofia Douglas held the imperial letter between her fingers.The parchment trembled slightly beneath her hand—not from fear, but from contained fury.At her side, Lusian watched in silence, his mind torn between disbelief and confusion.

  "Me…?" he murmured. "What sense does this make? I've never even met that prince."

  Albert, the veteran commander, spoke in a grave voice:

  "They don't seek justice, my lord. They seek an excuse. His death was an offering, and you are the piece they need to dress their war in honor."

  Sofia lowered her gaze, but a spark of understanding passed through her eyes."No… it's not just an excuse, Albert. It's something more."

  Slowly, she released the parchment and looked at her son as if seeing in him something others could not perceive."Emperor Valten does not need wars. He needs blood. And yours, Lusian… is worth more than an entire army."

  Albert frowned."Blood? What do you mean, my lady?"

  "Something the Empire has sought for generations," Sofia replied in a whisper. "Pure power. The Emperor and his daughter, the Seventh Princess, were born with epsilon magical affinity. Across the entire Empire, there is no other with such a blessing… until now."

  Lusian shivered."You're saying… they want me for that?"

  Sofia nodded slowly."They want your genes, your heritage. Your affinity is unique—a mirror of the omega lineage that runs through my veins. If they were to unite that blood with the princess's… the child born could achieve omega magical affinity."

  Silence fell over the hall. The weight of those words was heavier than any military threat.

  Albert murmured in disbelief:"So this war… isn't about revenge. It's about perfection."

  Sofia nodded bitterly."The Empire does not seek to destroy you, Lusian. It seeks to possess you. And that… I will never allow."

  Each bronze note rang through villages and roads, traveling like a prophecy across fields of golden crops.It was not music. It was a summons to duty.The call of the living toward the shadow of war.

  The air in the main hall of Douglas Castle smelled of melted wax, iron, and parchment.At its center, the great war table rose like a stone altar consecrated to sacrifice.Upon it lay maps, seals, and carved wooden markers shaped like armies: a board where the fate of thousands would be decided.

  Duke Laurence Douglas stood by the crimson banner of the Solar Wolf, observing the gathered men in silence.They were counts, viscounts, and barons—lords of their lands—but all bore the golden emblem of House Douglas on their chests.They were not courtiers. They were vassals of war.Men who knew the scent of blood and the weight of steel.

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  "The call of King Erkham cannot be ignored," Laurence said, his grave voice resonating through the walls. "It is not merely a duty to the throne, but to the kingdom, to our people… and to our ancestors."

  The echo of his words stifled murmurs.The duke pointed to the map spread before him, where the south burned, marked in black ink.

  "We will divide our forces. Half will march with me to the southern front under the banner of the kingdom. The other half will remain here, guarding the duchy."

  He turned to his captains."The Empire will not wait at the borders. When they attack, it will be like a tide. Our fortresses will fall one by one if the north is left unguarded. Failing to defend our home would be a death sentence for all."

  One of the counts, Lord Darven, a veteran with a gray beard and weary eyes, bowed."My lord, if we all depart, the northern swamps will be unprotected. The villages will withstand neither beasts nor men."

  Laurence nodded slowly."That is why you and your men will remain in the duchy. You will guard the valley and the mines. While a Douglas breathes, no imperial banner will fly over our lands."

  With a steady hand, he moved an iron marker across the map."Counts Rhed, Sovann, and Marlowe will march with me. Each will take their finest warriors and mages. The viscounts will provide light reinforcements and supplies. The barons will secure internal routes and mountain passes."

  At his side, Sofia Douglas remained silent. Her dark blue robe, embroidered with golden threads, seemed to absorb the torchlight. When Laurence finished, she spoke calmly:

  "The supply lines to Varden and the eastern villages are vulnerable. If the Empire deploys its mages or war dragons, the front will collapse before the first moon. I propose keeping an arcane squad in Mondring, under my direct command."

  Laurence nodded, almost relieved.He knew that as long as Sofia guarded the duchy, neither imperial armies nor the fury of mana could break it.

  For a moment, silence reigned again in the hall. Only the crackling fire accompanied the sound of duty. Laurence lowered his gaze to the map and murmured:

  "Perhaps Lusian could accompany me… Not to the main front, of course, but—"

  The words died in his throat.Sofia's gaze was enough. Cold, serene… unyielding.Laurence recalled once more the day his head had been at Larriet's—his lioness wife's—jaws, when she told him she had decided to name Caleb heir to the duchy.He coughed, pretending to adjust a scroll.

  "…but he must stay," he concluded awkwardly. "The heir of House Douglas must be safe."

  Sofia turned her eyes to the map, satisfied.Lusian remained silent, feeling the weight of a decision that went beyond strategy.He knew his mother's eyes would protect him.

  The council continued until nightfall. Orders were sealed with wax and blood; messengers departed into the rain.And when the last torch was extinguished, Laurence raised his hand and spoke the words that would mark the beginning of an inevitable war:

  "For the duchy, for the house, and for the kingdom. Victory or death."

  The oath was repeated by every noble, every captain, every voice broken by the certainty that many would not return. The echo rang through the walls, vibrating through the banners of the Solar Wolf as a foreboding.

  House Douglas marched to war.And with them, the world took its first step toward twilight.

  On the desk before Duchess Sofia lay an old document—sealed, amended, partially burned at the edges.

  "If the mother sets the limit… the father imposes the form."

  Her fingers tightened.

  The descendant's element was determined not by title, not by lineage—but by the active vibration of the male's magical core.

  A slow breath escaped her.

  Light and Darkness.

  She turned the page.

  Three births documented. Only one survived beyond childhood.

  Her jaw clenched.

  "Active absence."

  Void.

  Below it, in faded ink:

  "Whoever controls both… controls evolution."

  Sofia closed the record.

  So that was it.

  They were not demanding justice.

  They were calculating blood.