The road leading to the Ironhold mansion was immaculately paved, its stones fitted so precisely that the carriage rarely rattled as it rolled forward. Decorative hedges and sculpted bushes lined both sides of the path, trimmed into deliberate martial symmetry. It was extravagance without excess—wealth displayed through order.
So this is how the high nobility lives.
Even during the era of the Freehold and Blind Stars being one of the most popular parties, the mercenaries mostly dealt with lesser nobles like barons, peasants and bailiffs for tasks and quests. High nobles tend to send their vassals as middle men instead of showing themselves personally. Ventren had never seen a high noble up close, much less approach one's personal territory.
Probably because it was too dangerous out. Bandits were almost everywhere up until recent, anyways.
Seated within the noble carriage, having accepted the Archduke's invitation, his thoughts drifted inevitably to the dynasty whose estate he was now entering. The Ironhold crest—a bear rampant upon a field of black and orange—was one of the oldest sigils in the kingdom, instantly recognisable even to peasants and mercenaries.
Their rise began nearly four centuries ago. Once, they had been little more than minor barons ruling a modest stone keep on the open plains where the ancient city of Ironhold now stood. That land had been granted to them by kings long dead, at a time when the territory was sparsely populated and strategically insignificant. Or so the official records claimed. Through the discovered iron mines, gradual expansion, careful marriages, and a shrewd understanding of power, the Ironholds consolidated their holdings, pushing outward from that lone fortress until they dominated the region.
In time, they became the most powerful high nobles in the Kingdom of Valkraun specialising in metallurgy and all manner of trade concerning modern weapons and arms.
Today, the Archduchy's vassal lands stretched from the shattered coast of Marport to the Western Wall-City of Nova Palma and all the way to the Eastern Wall-City of Spyre—the final bulwark before the Crownlands, territories held directly under the king's demesne. Such reach placed the Ironholds in a position of immense influence second only to the throne itself.
The current Archduke, William the Falconeer, was a man of particular reputation. A fervent hunter, he was famed throughout the kingdom for taming an exotic falcon from the eastern lands of the Chosrow—a feat few had managed. Under the reign of the Cruel King Maershal, William had adopted an unusual strategy: isolation. He withdrew from courtly life, ruling his lands from the dynastic mansion and riding to the Royal Capital of Halzyon only when personally summoned by the king.
Unlike the sycophants who clung desperately to Maershal's favour, this distance proved his salvation.
By avoiding entanglement in court politics, William preserved his lands and people from the worst of the king's cruelty. Though Marport was lost—a grievous wound—Ironhold itself suffered comparatively little. While nobles were beheaded and entire bloodlines eradicated in the capital the Archduchy endured.
Rebellion had been whispered of, considered even—but never enacted at least officially. Only peasant rabbles and small villages ever dared attempt revolt. Maershal's policies were intelligent, if not outright monstrous, and his manoeuvres ruthlessly effective.
Thirty years earlier, he had lowered taxes across the realm in exchange for increased levies. Most of the high nobility agreed readily. The offer seemed harmless: no men were dragged to the capital and no permanent conscription enforced. Training would be conducted locally, under crown-appointed instructors and framed as a measure of defence.
Then, six months later, Maershal declared war on the Great Empire of Tytia.
Valkraun's fighting-age population was consumed by the conflict. Those who survived returned broken—maddened by war, incapable of civilian life—or remained in service as royal retainers. The Valk–Tytia War was ruinously expensive. Vast sums were spent hiring mercenaries from the far east and mages from all over the world to supplement the kingdom's depleted ranks.
Maershal's ambition was clear: to end imperial dominance on the de jure Valkraun lands. Though the empire commanded greater numbers, Valkraun's commanders were superior, having planned the conflict for years. The empire was caught unprepared. Victory came when Maershal himself led and sacked the Imperial Capital, holding the emperor's family hostage. The empire ceded the Duchy of Norðhëart and Tytia never again dared challenge Valkraun.
The cost however, was devastating.
Famine followed and with few able-bodied men left to till the land, the kingdom faltered. When Maershal descended fully into cruelty, there was no army left to oppose him. Veterans, unhinged by war, either joined his Deathsquads or turned to banditry. Captured imperials were sold into slavery and paraded through the streets as trophies.
Valkraun withdrew from the world, adopting an isolationist stance.
Yet paradoxically, it remained one of the most formidable realms on the continent. Though smaller than the empire it had defeated, Valkraun possessed more mages, more seasoned commanders and an unusual number of scientists and researchers.
It was also unique in another regard: Valkraun did not worship gods. Instead, it vehemently opposed all deities.
Ironically, this rejection had taken the form of a doctrine founded by Matrem Myriam—a figure who denounced the gods as false and corrupt. Though the kingdom claimed irreligion, the order she established functioned much like a faith. Records placed her existence two thousand years in the past, yet her tomb had never been found. Churches dedicated to her dotted the land, depicting her as a beautiful woman with black hair and white wings, a book in one hand and a sceptre in the other.
Ave Matrem Myriam.
His thoughts drifted back to more recent events. Prince Regent Vaenir had reversed many of Maershal's policies. Levies were reduced, though taxes rose in their place. He is currently initiating sweeping reforms within the Royal Guard—an order unchanged for centuries. Lands were restored to defiant yet capable nobles, unjust prisoners released, cities rebuilt and roads improved.
Even Marport was being rebuilt. Simple acts, yet powerful ones. They earned Vaenir loyalty where fear once ruled.
I wonder what the future would look like if he were king.
The thought brought an unexpected heaviness to his chest.
Nearly all of this knowledge—except what concerned Vaenir—had come from Irina. She had spoken of history with passion, treated him with warmth despite his Merrow blood and low birth. Now he questioned everything.
Why the betrayal? Why did she lie to me? How could they….
Irina had claimed to be the fourth daughter of an imperial noble, fleeing to Valkraun because her magic was deemed unholy.
The carriage slowed and came to a halt.
Ventren stepped down and was greeted by a line of waiting maids—perfectly arranged, eyes lowered in practiced deference and among them stood a familiar figure.
Sir Alexios stood there, smiling and welcoming.
The knight inclined his head slightly, and his cape still bearing the colors of the Ironhold Dynasty.
Ventren exhaled softly behind his helm.
"Ah," he thought, "They did say he was a knight of this dynasty…"