The iron duke land

By the time Céline Thron crossed into Viremont, the sun had slipped behind a wall of cloud, staining the sky the color of ash and cream. The journey from the border had taken longer than expected — the road narrowed often, the terrain climbed steadily, and the guards that escorted her made no apologies for stopping at each fortified gate along the way. Still, it wasn't the checkpoints that caught her attention. It was the land itself. Viremont looked nothing like the other territories she had passed through. While much of Elveria was still stitched together with old roads and fading customs, this place moved with a strange rhythm. Smooth, paved streets ran between towns; tall iron towers loomed in the distance, some trailing smoke, some gleaming with what looked like solar crystal casings. The markets were quiet but efficient, and there was no sight of beggars. The people wore simpler clothes than the glittering citizens of the capital, but they walked with purpose. Shops were open early. Children moved in tidy lines outside what looked like schools — real schools, not just church houses. Soldiers trained in broad yards.

Céline sat straighter in the carriage, watching a tram pass over a narrow bridge below. Silent. Fast. Powered by something unseen. She hadn't expected that. No one had mentioned such development in the reports. More advanced than the territories to the west... perhaps even more than the capital itself. The capital is still prettier, of course, she mused. More adorned, more golden. But this? This runs. She thought of the Emperor's court — powdered officials, slow-moving ministers, carriages with gold-stitched seats and no real direction. Viremont had none of that. It was a blade without jewelry. This is the land of the man who killed his own father ! She reminded herself. The carriage continued to climb. As they passed through the final stretch of pine forest, the Vale estate came into view.

And once again, Céline found herself surprised. The castle — if one could even call it that — was strikingly beautiful. Not opulent or adorned, but dignified. It sat cradled in the hills, built from soft grey stone shot with veins of pale silver, its towers rising like watchtowers meant to protect, not intimidate. Ivy crept along one of the western walls. A garden courtyard bloomed with late-autumn roses and some purple plant she didn't recognize. Only after the wheels stilled did she exhale softly.

One year. That is the term. I'll do my work and leave quietly, no matter how loud the whispers get. At the top of the stone staircase, the butler stood like a figure etched from marble — tall, lean, immaculately dressed in black with silver edging, a pair of narrow spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. He bowed at precisely the correct angle: not too deep to suggest subservience, not shallow enough to offend a guest of rank.

"Lady Thron," he said with perfect neutrality. "Welcome to Viremont."

Céline inclined her head with equal formality "hello "

"I am Aldric. I will see to your accommodations during your stay."

No trumpet. No stewardess. No curious onlookers. Not even a footman to take her cloak.

Message received, she thought. You are not here as a guest. You are here under permission.

"Follow me, if you please."

He turned on his heel and led her inside.

The entrance hall was breathtaking in its restraint. Pale grey stone, dark walnut beams, glass sconces casting soft golden light. A long runner stretched over the floor, embroidered with what looked like mountain peaks and constellations. There were no tapestries, no portraits of past dukes. The walls spoke of function, not family. And yet the silence of the place didn't feel cold. Aldric's voice broke the silence. "The Duke regrets he is unable to welcome you personally. He is occupied with military reports from the eastern border."

She didn't react. "Of course. I would not expect him to disrupt state affairs for pleasantries."

A brief nod from the butler. "Likewise, Lady Seraphine is indisposed at the moment. She has been unwell since the rains began. I apologize for her absence."

Lady Seraphine. His mother.

Interesting that he still allows her that title, Céline thought.

They ascended a narrow staircase branching from the main corridor, their footsteps muffled by the runner. She passed shuttered windows, silent guards, and the occasional flicker of motion deeper in the halls — staff, always distant, always quiet.

Finally, Aldric paused before a tall carved door and opened it with a key from his pocket.

"This will be your chamber during your time in Viremont."

Céline stepped inside.

The room was larger than expected. High-ceilinged, with two tall windows letting in the faint, wintery light. A fire already burned in the hearth — not roaring, but steady, casting a low amber glow across the stone floor. A four-poster bed stood to the left, draped in dark green and gold, the same tones as her home.

But it was the adjoining space that caught her eye — a small private study tucked behind an open arch. Bookshelves lined one wall, many empty, awaiting her touch. A polished oak desk sat in the center, facing the window, ink and paper already laid out in preparation.

Efficient. Practical. A gift without warmth.

"His Grace instructed that your quarters include a private office," Aldric said from behind her. "He believes a diplomat works best when properly resourced."

A gesture of respect, or surveillance? Perhaps both.

"Everything is satisfactory," Céline replied, removing her gloves. "I appreciate the fire."

"I will have your belongings brought up momentarily."

The butler didn't blink. "Should you require anything, ring the bell beside the bed. Meals will be served in the west wing dining hall unless otherwise directed. You will be summoned for your formal introduction to the Duke tomorrow, at a time of his choosing."

Céline inclined her head once again. "I look forward to it."

Aldric bowed and retreated without another word, closing the door behind him with a whisper of movement.

Silence settled again.

Céline stepped toward the desk, running her fingers along its edge. Well-crafted. Recently polished. The chair was stiff-backed, not luxurious. She liked that.

She walked to the window and pushed it open, breathing in the thin mountain air. So this is the home of the man who turned a decaying duchy into the heart of modern Elveria. She didn't know him. Didn't need to.

She changed her clothes and took a nap and was awaken by the maid who called her for dinner with the duke

The dining hall was brighter than she expected.

High windows spilled pale midday light across the stone floor, catching in the silverware and gilded edge of the long, polished table. A low-burning hearth crackled in the corner, more for ceremony than warmth.

Three chairs were already occupied.

Céline's arrival was announced by Aldric with a measured, "Lady Celine Thron of Lysara."

All three heads turned. She met each gaze with composure — first the young boy, maybe seven or eight, seated nearest the hearth with bright hair and restless fingers. Then, the woman beside him, seated in icy grace: older, sculpted, beautiful in a sharp, deliberate way.

And finally—

Cassian Vale.

He sat at the head of the table like a wolf carved into stone — black hair left undone, curling slightly at the collar; gray eyes unreadable, half-lidded with quiet calculation. His jaw was sharp, his mouth unsmiling. He wore black, of course — a high-collared coat without medals or embroidery, only the dull sheen of a leather belt at his hip.

So that is him, Céline thought. The man who killed his father and outlawed his legacy in the same breath.

She did not stare, but she did look — long enough to take in the breadth of his shoulders, the ease of his posture, the weight of silence around him. Dangerous men did not need to perform.

He stood, slowly.

"Lady Thron," he said, his voice smooth and low, but edged like flint. "Welcome to Viremont. I trust the accommodations have not offended you."

Not 'pleased to meet you.' Not 'honored by your presence.'

Just a warning dressed as courtesy.

Céline stepped forward and bowed her head the correct number of degrees. "They are perfectly acceptable, Your Grace."

He gestured to the chair across from him.

She moved to sit. The boy grinned at her — childishly curious, perhaps unused to seeing women outside the staff. The older woman beside him offered a nod that was not quite warmth.

"I am Lady Seraphine Vale," she said, voice smooth as winter wine. "It is a rare pleasure to welcome a representative of Lysara. I understand you will be with us for a year?"

"Yes, my lady," Céline replied with a calm smile. "At the Emperor's discretion."

"Mm." Seraphine's gaze slid over her, lingering. "I have visited Lysara many times. Beautiful country. Cool waters. Excellent music."

"Thank you."

The duchess tilted her head slightly. "Though, if you'll forgive my frankness, you do not resemble the traditional beauty of your homeland."

Céline merely raised a brow.

"Not that you are not beautiful, of course," Lady Seraphine continued with an elegant flick of her wrist. "But I have never once seen such eyes in all my visits. Not among the court. Not among the villages. Such a curious color — like golden glass tinted with green when the light catches it. A rarity. Almost unnatural."

Céline smiled faintly, neither offended nor amused.

"We are a mixed people, Lady Seraphine"

"Ofcourse my dear "

A footman arrived with the first course — roasted dove with wild greens, dressed in honeyed oil and dried violet petals. The boy reached eagerly for his knife, and Seraphine gently adjusted his grip. No one spoke.

Céline kept her spine straight, her expression composed, but her mind ticked like a clock.

The mother is sharp. The brother curious. The Duke...

She let herself glance at him again, briefly.

He ate with precise, effortless movements. Nothing about him was decorative. Every piece of him, from the quiet intelligence in his gaze to the faint scar near his left temple, suggested a man built by pressure, not privilege.

She returned to her plate, unbothered.

One year. One mission.

And if the table was full of wolves, she would learn how to walk among them without bleeding.

Lady Seraphine dabbed her lips with a linen napkin, then turned her head ever so slightly toward Céline, her profile noble and exact — not a line out of place, not a gesture too sudden.

"I must confess I'm curious, Lady Thron. Most daughters of noble blood from Lysara are raised for court life, not diplomacy. What path led you here?"

Céline finished her bite with the grace of someone used to such questions, then lifted her gaze calmly across the table. Her voice was soft but confident.

"My family has long been in the service of the Crown," she said, folding her hands gently in her lap. "It is an expectation that each child will serve the kingdom in the way best suited to their nature. My brothers chose the sword and the priesthood. I chose diplomacy ."

Lady Seraphine let out a sound that may have been approval. Or amusement. "Such a smart choice"

Seraphine, as if reminded of her role, turned back to her wine. "I welcome you again to Viremont. You will find our customs... different, but not unkind. I'm certain your stay will be both productive and enlightening."

Céline inclined her head in practiced thanks. "You are generous."

The Duchess's smile curled slightly. "I am rarely accused of that."

Cassian spoke then, at last — not loudly, not suddenly. Just enough to reclaim the air.

"My mother," he said, setting down his glass, "has never been accused of generosity. Only accuracy."

A flicker of wryness passed between them. Seraphine did not deny it.

Céline met his gaze squarely. "Then I will value her accuracy above most opinions I encounter here."

Cassian tilted his head, just slightly. There was something unreadable in his eyes

The rest of the meal passed with quiet civility. The boy was eventually excused, escorted out by a nursemaid. Lady Seraphine inquired once more about Lysara's weather and music and court — and Céline answered with just enough grace to remain unreadable.

Not once did Cassian ask her a question.

But not once did he stop listening.

When the meal concluded, Lady Seraphine rose first.

"Well," she said, smoothing the edge of her gown, "I believe that concludes our welcome. Lady Celine, I do hope you'll join me for tea one afternoon soon. We have much to learn from one another, I think."

"I would be honored," Céline replied, rising to match her.

Cassian stood as well, offering no parting word — only a glance, dark and level, as if filing something away behind his eyes. Céline held it for a moment. Then bowed.

And turned toward the stone corridor, her boots echoing softly against the floor, the scent of fire and spices trailing behind her.

Céline rose with the pale blue breath of morning.

The hearth had long since gone cold, but the floor beneath her feet held a steady, gentle warmth — not natural. Engineered. She made a note of it. Another whisper of the duchy's quiet innovation.

She dressed in a sober traveling gown of deep emerald trimmed with black — high-collared and sharp at the waist, not meant to seduce but to assert presence. Her golden hair was left free, brushed until it shimmered like poured sunlight, curling slightly at the ends. No jewelry. No paints. Just a stroke of balm at her lips and the diplomatic seal at her collar.

By the time she stepped into the corridor, the guards stationed outside her room stood stiff and silent. They didn't follow her orders — but they did follow her.

She walked without a guide. She preferred it.

The castle was a fortress, and it showed. High vaulted ceilings, polished stone underfoot, corridors angled for defense more than display. The decor was restrained, elegant, sparse. No ostentation. Every inch spoke of functionality over excess. She admired it.

Eventually, she reached a long colonnade where morning light streamed through the arches in gold ribbons, illuminating the training fields below.

And there, she paused.

Dozens of soldiers moved with deadly rhythm across the field — sparring, grappling, cycling through drills that mimicked open-field battle. No posturing, no pageantry. These were men who had fought before. And would fight again.

From her vantage point, Céline folded her hands lightly in front of her and watched.

Good shoulder rotation on the larger one. That weight won't slow him down unless he's hit from behind. The red-haired soldier favors his left side—probably an old break.

That one—he's fast, but overcorrects in tight footing. No discipline.

Her expression didn't change. Her eyes did.

She catalogued them quietly — endurance, size, speed, sword proficiency. This wasn't curiosity. It was assessment.

And then... one of the men looked up.

Then another.

And another.

She didn't move, but the breeze had stirred her hair, sending golden locks tumbling gently across her shoulder, catching the light like fire in motion. Against the cold grey of the stone archway and the dark form of her dress, she looked like something that didn't belong in a there

She caught one of the men staring too long and shifted her gaze just slightly — a flicker of disdain.

He turned back to his drill.

Céline smiled inwardly. Not cruel. Just practiced.

Behind her, a quiet set of footsteps. One of the guards from her hallway had followed, standing back a respectful distance.

She didn't acknowledge him at first.

Then: "Does the Duke train with them?"

The man stiffened slightly, surprised. "He does, my lady. Often."

"Not today."

"No, my lady."

She turned slightly to glance down again. "They're good. Better than I expected."

A pause.

"Viremont trains for war, even in peace," the guard answered carefully.

A rehearsed answer, she noted. Which means it's true.

She left the veranda with no further comment and turned down another corridor that led to the inner courtyard — a quiet expanse of stone tiles, trimmed hedges, and climbing ivy. The winter roses hadn't bloomed yet, but the archways promised they would. It was tranquil. Contained.

Eventually, she rounded a corner— And nearly walked straight into someone , the butler

"My apologies, Lady Céline," he said at once with a graceful bow. "I was not informed you had risen so early."

"I wasn't aware I needed to submit a morning itinerary."

That got the faintest twitch of his mouth — a trace of amusement.

"You will be summoned by midday by his grace for formal matters. Until then, the estate is yours."

By midday

(Cassian's POV)

The fire in the hearth had burned low, but Cassian didn't add wood. The crackle and dim glow were enough. He preferred the quiet.

Aldric knocked once, then opened the door.

"Lady Céline Thron."

She stepped in, dressed in pearl-gray and midnight blue — elegant, modest, and far too composed for someone who was, by all accounts, barely twenty-three. The sort of woman who knew how to wear silence like perfume.

Cassian stood from behind his desk. "Lady Thron."

"Your Grace," she replied with a poised incline of her head. "I hope I don't intrude."

"You're expected." He gestured to the seat across from his. "Sit."

She obeyed, smooth and unhurried, as if she belonged in every room she entered. That, in itself, was interesting.

"I received the official letter from your court two days before you arrived," Cassian began, resting one arm against the edge of the desk. "It named you as the formal representative of the Kingdom of Larsa — here to negotiate matters of commerce, law, and foreign policy."

She didn't blink. "That is correct, Your Grace."

Cassian let a small silence grow.

Too smooth. Too complete.

"And why Viremont?" he asked, voice quiet. "Why not the capital? Or one of the easier duchies, with finer wine and less... intensity?"

A flicker crossed her features. Not surprise. Not hesitation. Just... calculation.

"I represent my country's interests, not my comfort," she replied, eyes steady. "Viremont is a rising force in the Empire. Military influence, legislative reform, trade expansion. It's no secret that your territory has shifted faster than any other ."

She paused, as if politely weighing her next words.

"It was made clear to me that my presence here would be tolerated, not welcomed. I accepted regardless."

Cassian watched her — eyes the color of cold steel narrowing with faint curiosity.

She doesn't flatter. Doesn't fumble. Doesn't try too hard.

But everything about her is... deliberate

"The faraman outlines your role, your permissions, and your presence. But I don't particularly like official language. Too vague."

Her expression didn't change. "Then you'd prefer I explain it in my own."

"I would."

She folded her hands in her lap, posture flawless.

"I am a diplomat ,Your Grace. ,I represent and defend the interest of my country in your empire, I make sure my people who vista the empire or have investments in your empire face no obstacles and if they do I'm here to solve the problem."

Cassian said nothing for a moment.

"You're young to be trusted with such a post."

"I was trained for it."

That answer came quickly.

"Well then , I wish you all the best in your mission " he said

She rose without waiting for dismissal — correctly. Diplomats bowed only to kings.

"Thank you your grace , now if you'll excuse me"

"Ofcourse "

He just watched her go, eyes lingering on the swing of her hair — golden, unbound, glowing faintly against the firelight.

When the door shut behind her, he leaned back in his chair thinking

Lady Céline Thron.,Too perfect in her manners. Too exact in her answers. Nothing stumbled. Nothing warmed.,

And yet — that wasn't what truly unsettled him.

His mother's words from the afternoon before drifted back to him, uninvited.

"I've been to Larsa many times in my youth. I've never seen anyone there with eyes like that — golden, yes, but not that... peculiar green glint. She doesn't resemble the Larsan line. Not that she isn't beautiful, of course. Only—oddly so."

At the time, he'd dismissed it as one of his mother's usual observations. She noticed too much — particularly when it came to other women.

But now...

It wasn't just the eyes. Or the hair, that too-golden spill that no noblewoman wore unbound in a foreign court. It wasn't the voice, or the accent, or even the way she held herself like someone used to being watched.

It was something older. Something quieter.

Not noble. Not civilian. Not imperial, not foreign.

Something in between. Something that doesn't bow to kings or stand behind banners.

Next morning

Céline rose with the sun. She dressed plainly — a fitted traveling dress in slate gray with cream detailing, gloves, and a matching hat that shaded her eyes but still let her golden hair catch the morning light. She kept her step light, her expression open. Approachable.

Today, she wasn't a spy. She was a diplomat. A representative of Larsa. And her task was simple: meet the Larsan-born factory owner operating in Viremont, hear his concerns, and report back.

The man in question — a Mr. Andralis — was a wiry merchant with thinning hair and restless hands. He showed her around his modest silk-processing factory, offered her bitter coffee, and wasted no time.

"They increased import taxes last month," he said, gesturing toward a stack of fabric bolts. "I had to let twenty workers go. That's twenty families starving, Lady Thron."

She nodded solemnly, making notes in a cream-colored ledger. "I'll pass your concerns to your embassy's trade committee. In the meantime, would you be willing to provide numbers? Employment, revenue, production costs—?"

He agreed quickly. She expected as much. Most merchants liked to talk, especially when they believed the right ears were listening.

Afterward, she wandered the streets of Lorne, Viremont's capital — a city unlike any other she had seen in the Empire. Clean, ordered, humming with quiet industry. The soldiers patrolling the wide roads stood taller, moved sharper. The carriages were fewer, but sleeker. Even the gas lamps lining the boulevards burned steadier than elsewhere.

Strange, she thought as she admired the skyline. This city runs like a machine—but it breathes like a beast.

The air was cooler near the riverside, where she chose to stop for dinner. A modest but elegant bistro with outdoor seating, golden lanterns strung along iron posts, and the smell of roasted garlic floating in the dusk.

She had just begun sipping a light broth when she heard a voice behind her.

"I was beginning to think the stories were exaggerated."

She looked up — and saw a man.

Tall, striking in a deliberately undone way. His dark auburn curls were half-tamed, his collar open slightly, the hem of his long coat dusted with travel. Handsome, certainly — but more than that. Dangerously comfortable in his own skin.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, raising a brow.

He smiled as if they were already friends.

"You're Lady Céline Thron. Diplomatic representative of Larsa. Staying at Castle Val. Known for your golden hair, foreign grace, and the strange way soldiers can't stop turning their heads when you pass."

She blinked — not insulted, but... amused. He bowed, with the theatrical flair of someone who had done it hundreds of times.

"My name is Ezra Hadrian. Captain of the special guards and a trusted friend to your reluctant host."

That caught her attention.

"You're the Duke's famous friend."

"I prefer 'long-suffering companion,' but yes."

He gestured to the empty chair across from her. "May I?"

She considered for half a breath.

"You may."

He sat.

Their conversation began lightly — food, travel, weather. He flirted often, but not aggressively. His words were velvet-wrapped, touched with wit.

"I must say," he said after some wine, "you're not what I expected."

"And what did you expect, Mr. Hadrian?"

"A paper-thin court girl wearing powdered gloves and parroting her kingdom's wishes. Not a woman who walks alone through a city like this one and orders bone broth with such confidence."

She smiled, dabbing the corner of her mouth. "I'm not fragile. I just dress the part."

He laughed.

"You'll need more than poise to survive Cassian."

Her smile thinned — just enough.

"I'm not here to survive him. I'm here to do my job."

Ezra leaned back, watching her.

He wasn't a fool. And while he flirted like a poet, his eyes were alert. Calculating.

This one is not just a court fox, she thought. He's a lion pretending to nap in the sun.

"I'll be seeing you again," he said as he rose.

"That sounds like a warning."

"That sounds like a promise."

He bowed again, this time shallower, and disappeared into the violet-blue evening like he had never been there at all.