Chapter 41: Ragna II

It came from a tall youth with crimson hair, lounging with one leg crossed over the other. He wore the blazing crest of House Ignivale, the Western Seasonal House—Autumn’s Blaze, renowned for their explosive combat styles and fiery tempers. The one speaking was Cael Ignivale, third in line to the duke and known for picking fights the way others picked wine. His narrowed eyes glinted with irritation as he watched Fenric leave the chamber. "Yeah," another voice chimed in, light but laced with scorn. "I remember him being cold-headed—but a coward when it came to standing his ground." The speaker was a noble girl with sun-kissed golden hair and eyes like polished sunfire. Draped in loose silk lined with woven sigils of flame, she bore the unmistakable crest of House Solmere, the Southern Seasonal House—Summer’s Brand. Her name was Siena Solmere, niece of the Southern Duke and infamous for her blunt tongue and dueling reputation that left most would-be suitors in bandages or silence. She tilted her head slightly, watching Fenric’s retreating figure with mild curiosity. "Looks like he finally learned how to walk in a straight line. Still doesn’t mean he’s worth following." The last voice didn’t speak—only watched. A girl with pale olive eyes and short-cut dark hair remained silent as the others jeered. Her expression was unreadable, thoughtful. She wore a muted green robe embroidered with coiling vines—the symbol of House Verdanthe, the Eastern House—Spring’s Thorn, a lineage that prided itself on cunning, patience, and long-term plays. That was Elya Verdanthe, known within certain circles for her scholarly accolades and the quiet, precise manner in which she dismantled her opponents. She didn’t insult Fenric. She simply studied him, as one might study a blooming sprout after a long drought—wondering what it might one day grow into. Meanwhile, Lex Granda, seated at the head of their informal gathering, remained still. He was the second son of the Grand Duke of House Granda, the Northern Seasonal House—Winter’s Lance. Calm, cold, and cut from imperial steel. Lex’s pride had already been bruised by Fenric’s earlier defiance, and now, his silence was the stillness of a sword waiting to be unsheathed. One thing was certain to them all: The Third Prince was no longer invisible. He was a variable. And variables were dangerous. The Four nobles gathered in that room—Lex Granda of the North, Siena Solmere of the South, Cael Ignivale of the West, and Elya Verdanthe of the East—weren’t just idle nobility. They were the castoffs and untamed offshoots of the Four Grand Dukes. Not the prim heirs raised for succession, but the overlooked—those born from second wives, concubines, or inconvenient alliances. Not heirs to etiquette and polish, but to instinct, brutality, and raw notoriety. Where their older siblings were raised to rule, they were raised to survive. Forged not in marble courts, but in garrison outposts. They didn’t dine with counts—they cracked ribs with mercenaries. They didn’t parley. They pounced. And in the capital? They were infamous. Not for any grace, but for chaos. For turning noble balls into battlegrounds and tearing diplomacy apart with a smirk and a stomp. So when Fenric—the Empire’s forgotten Third Prince—returned from a visit to Eccentric Eldrun with a rare beast egg in hand? That wasn’t a curiosity. That was a declaration. A move so audacious it shattered every unspoken rule of their tightly wound hierarchy. A silent challenge hurled from the bottom of the ladder—daring the top to react. Siena leaned back, sipping her plumwine with an arched brow, a smirk ghosting across her lips. She muttered under her breath—an old saying from the southern borderlands: "When the flock shifts... the hawks begin to circle." In that instant, all four of them—Lex, Cael, Siena, and Elya—locked eyes. The silence cracked like ice beneath a soldier’s heel. Lex Granda leaned forward at last, swirling his goblet as a grin slowly carved its way across his face. It never quite reached his eyes. "You know," he began in a low, deliberate drawl, "word is—the Fourth Prince has taken quite a liking to Fenric lately." Siena lifted a brow. "The Fourth Prince? Drake?" "The one and only," Lex replied, his voice laced with malice and amusement. "And rumor has it, anyone who knocks that little ghost prince off his temporary pedestal might catch Drake’s attention. Maybe even earn a little reward." Cael gave a low whistle. "Treasure? From Drake himself? That conniving bastard doesn’t even tip his stablehands." "It’s not about coin," murmured Elya, her tone velvet-smooth. "If Drake favors you... you don’t need gold. You get invitations. Leverage. Whispers. Access." Their eyes lit up—equal parts ambition and malice. Favor from the Fourth Prince of Vareldis wasn’t a simple bribe—it was a ladder. And all they had to do was kick down the one boy bold enough to climb it. Lex chuckled again, the sound dry and jagged. "And here’s the best part—Eccentric Eldrun? He didn’t hand that beast egg to Fenric because he saw potential." Siena narrowed her gaze. "...Then why?" "Because he was bored," Lex said with a sharp smile. "Because Eldrun enjoys chaos. He gave the egg to the weakest prince just to watch him flounder in front of the court. It’s entertainment to him." He leaned back with the air of someone holding all the strings. "Well, I plan to give him a show," Lex said. "A stage. A spotlight. Let everyone gather. Let them watch." "And then?" Cael asked, voice tinged with anticipation. "Then," Lex said, lifting his cup with cold certainty, "we make him crack. And remind the capital why the border dogs still bite the hardest." Their cups clinked together, sharp and final. And somewhere beneath the chandelier’s flicker and the low hum of distant revelry... a storm began to churn. Quiet, precise, and cruel. The game was on. Meanwhile, Fenric was dining quietly in another high-end restaurant tucked away in the Velvet District—glass walls, floating lanterns, and food that came with names longer than the knives used to cut them. His gaze drifted toward the Beast Egg resting in its runed cradle beside him. Smooth and matte-black, veined with flickers of ember-like red. It pulsed faintly—alive, waiting. I wonder what Eldrun’s face will look like... Fenric mused, lifting a spoon of delicate saffron broth to his lips, when I one day bring the Black Lava Dragon to him, fully hatched, fully bonded.