And to maintain this place while dealing with the hindrance, Emmanuelle must be a strong and resilient woman. Jaenor couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for her, despite the tragic circumstances that brought her into his family's life.

They passed through doors of polished oak into a grand foyer that took Jaenor's breath away. Marble columns supported a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes from classical mythology, while tapestries depicting the history of the duchy adorned the walls.

A grand staircase curved upward to the upper levels, its banister carved from some dark wood that gleamed like obsidian.

"This chateau has been our family's seat for generations," Morgana continued, her voice carrying a note of pride tinged with sadness.

"The Arkwright line has ruled Drakenten since the duchy's founding, and Emma has proven herself more than worthy of that legacy. She's maintained peace and prosperity here even as the world burns around us."

Jaenor turned to look at her, pieces of a puzzle he hadn't known existed beginning to fall into place.

Her smile was sad but genuine as she reached out to squeeze his hand. "This is all yours, Jaenor, as much as it is mine. We are the legacy of Arkwright now, and we should carry that name forward."

Her words echoed in his mind as servants appeared to escort them to their quarters, and Jaenor realized that his entire understanding of himself—of his place in the world—was about to be fundamentally changed.

Morgana and Emma had been exchanging letters, and Emma was aware of Jaenor's existence from the moment Morgana found out. Now they were careful enough to avoid him being the last male heir of the Arkwright bloodline.

-

The chambers assigned to Jaenor were more luxurious than any he had ever occupied—high ceilings adorned with delicate frescoes, windows that overlooked the duchy's gardens, and furnishings that spoke of both comfort and refinement.

Yet despite the opulence, it was the conversation that followed their settling in that truly overwhelmed him.

"Your identity must remain secret," Morgana explained as they sat in the private sitting room that connected their quarters.

"As far as anyone in the chateau knows, you are simply a trusted ally, nothing more. The Arkwright bloodline carries too much weight, too much significance for us to risk exposure."

Jaenor nodded, though his mind still reeled from the implications.

"Morgana, can you—" he paused as he looked down and to the sides and said, "Can you tell me about Father and Grandfather?"

Morgana's expression grew distant, her fingers unconsciously tracing patterns on the arm of her chair—the same gestures she made when weaving complex spells.

"The Arkwrights have never been mere rulers of Drakenten," Morgana said, her voice steady yet edged with old sorrow. "Your grandfather and mine—our fathers—were not simply lords; they were pioneers. They bent the Origin to their will with such mastery that the witches themselves deemed our bloodline a threat to their dominion. When my father seized the reins of this duchy, he commanded hosts of soldiers, and dozens of noble families pledged fealty to our House. Back then, the witches dared not move against us.

We were untouchable.

But all changed when my brother—your father—was born. He was more gifted than any wielder of the Origin the realm had ever seen. His power shone like a beacon, but a beacon draws shadows. Battles were lost, allies drifted away, and the great houses that once stood beside us abandoned their oaths. In the end, only my father and your father held the line. They fought… and fought… until tragedy struck."

Jaenor's voice cracked as he demanded, "Who? Who killed them? My parents? Who was it?"

Morgana turned her gaze upon him, and for a long, heavy moment, she said nothing. Then, softly, almost as if the words themselves burned her tongue, she whispered, "Not now, Jaenor. In time… but not now."

He scowled, his frustration plain. "So you live bearing all of this?"

She exhaled sharply, her dark eyes glimmering with both grief and steel.

"And you've been protecting all of this? The duchy, our bloodline, the secrets?"

"Emma and I together," Morgana confirmed.

"She may not possess origin power, but her political acumen and administrative skills have kept this place prosperous and safe. Meanwhile, I've used my abilities to deflect threats and maintain the wards that protect our borders."

The weight of responsibility in her voice was unmistakable, and Jaenor began to understand why she had seemed so driven, so focused on paths that others might consider too dangerous to walk.

He wasn't aware of the past and thought that Morgana had been halfheartedly throwing words of promises at him. He didn't know the pain she had been enduring.

Both of them are such strong women, never letting their emotions cloud their way of acting.

Jaenor sighed deeply, thinking that he had a lot to do and a lot of people to deal with. And first of all, he needs to do something regarding his aura and his newly found wings.

-

Two days into their stay, Jaenor had been stuffed near to bursting with meats, breads, and steaming bowls of food he had never thought he'd taste again. Platters of spiced lamb, roasted boar, and baked river trout came at every meal, but it was the chicken curry with rice—red, fragrant, and full of warmth—that captured him most. He had never eaten so well in all his life, and each mouthful felt like it was sealing some hole he hadn't known was gnawing at him.

Much of it was Emma's doing.

She hovered close to him from morning till night, fussing like a grandmother he had never known. She asked about everything—where he had grown up, what roads he had walked, what hardships he had endured—and listened with wide, earnest eyes to each of his half-answers. She had a way of smiling when he spoke that made him feel seen, though Jaenor often dodged her questions.

For all her kindness, there were truths he wasn't ready to uncover.

Morgana, by contrast, was scarce.

She seemed to vanish into the hidden passages of the keep, only glimpsed at odd hours in the hallways, robes whispering against the stones, her brow furrowed as though she carried the weight of a kingdom on her back.

By the third day, after polishing off a platter of goat roast, Jaenor leaned back in his chair with a groan, his hands cradling his stomach.

Sleep pressed heavily on him, but instead he rose and wandered outside, eager for the bite of the cool evening air.

The courtyard behind the main building was quiet, shadowed by high walls of mossy stone.

Yet there, in the dim glow of twilight, Jaenor stopped dead in his tracks.

An old man stood alone in the square, his frame wiry but unbowed despite his years. His hair was ashen white, tied loosely at the nape, and his tunic hung simply upon his shoulders.

In his hands he held a longsword, and though the steel was plain, his movements lent it weight beyond measure. He shifted through forms with unhurried precision—the Falling Leaf, the Winding Branch—each cut measured, each stance rooted in decades of unbroken practice.

The blade hissed faintly as it cut the air, and with every step the man seemed to draw the courtyard itself into rhythm with him—the moss, the stones, even the silence.

Jaenor froze, transfixed.

It wasn't mere swordplay.

It was something else.

Something older.

Something intertwined with the aura, which he was eager to learn.

-

Sir Reginauld Marteaus was perhaps seventy years of age, his hair silver-white and his face lined with the kind of wrinkles that came from squinting into sun and weather.

But his movements were those of a man half his age—smooth and controlled, each cut and thrust flowing seamlessly into the next.

The sword in his hands seemed to sing through the air, creating patterns of deadly beauty that captivated Jaenor's attention.

Jaenor murmured as he watched the old man, of the ways the old knights used to follow.

The old knight paused mid-form, turning to regard his unexpected observer with eyes that were still as sharp as blade-steel.

Sir Reginauld saw Jaenor entering the Chateau, but he didn't pay attention to him as he wasn't aware of who he was. He just thought he must be some lord or plaything Lady Morgana brought home.

But to think that he would recognize the way of the sword he was practicing, Reginauld turned his attention to him.

"You know the old ways," he said, his voice carrying the cultured accent of classical education. "Few remember the ways of the sword in these dark times."

"I've always been... enthusiastic about swordwork," Jaenor replied, stepping closer.

"Though I suspect my techniques have grown rough with practical use."

Sir Reginauld studied him with the kind of attention that warriors reserve for potential threats or students.

"Rough, perhaps, but effective if you've survived this long."

He gestured to a rack of practice weapons nearby.

"Would you care to demonstrate? It's been too long since I've had a proper sparring partner."

Jaenor selected a longsword from the rack, testing its balance with automatic precision.

The weapon was perfectly weighted, its edges blunted for safety, but its construction was flawless. As he moved through a few experimental cuts, Sir Reginauld nodded with professional appreciation.

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