THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

A man on a white stallion trotted his way toward David's carriage, the thundering hooves slowing to a graceful halt. He was an imposing figure whose very presence seemed to command the attention of all around him.

Golden hair, cascading like molten sunlight, framed his face, part of it tied back into a taut ponytail that emphasized his sharp, chiseled features. His jawline was strong, cut like marble, and his eyes, fierce and resolute, glimmered with an intensity that spoke of both experience and an indomitable will.

The scarlet cape draped across his broad shoulders flared dramatically in the gentle breeze, an extension of his regal air. It was secured with intricate silver clasps that shone with a warrior's prestige, each etched with ancient runes whose meanings had been lost to all but the most learned scholars.

His armor, a seamless blend of dark tempered steel and gleaming silver, was adorned with veins of ornate patterns, each flowing curve telling of an ancestry steeped in valor. His arms, muscled and wrapped in armor that tapered into spiked gauntlets, suggested the power of an unassailable sentinel—a bastion of war and protection.

Sliding off his mount with a practiced ease, he landed silently, the spurs on his boots barely brushing the gravel. He bowed deeply, one arm sweeping below his waist as he bent in a display of dramatic reverence.

"Welcome to Lysora County, my lord," he intoned, his voice deep and resonant, laced with a formality that betrayed just a hint of mirth. "May I know by what title I am privileged to address you?"

David raised an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You may address me as Lord David De Gor," he replied, his voice steady.

The man straightened, taking in the sight of David with an appraising look. A smile, fleeting but genuine, curled his lips and eyes closed. "Ah, yes," he said. "The honor is mine, Lord De Gor. I have long heard of the Spross Des Banners." He placed a hand over the polished insignia that gleamed on his breastplate. "I am Sir Richard Le Blade, First Captain of the Flame."

Before David could respond, a voice rang out from behind, sharp and irritated. "Captain," came the protest from one of the knights in David's escort, his silver armor catching the last rays of the setting sun as he stepped forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The knight's brow was furrowed, eyes narrowed with barely-contained disdain.

Sir Richard turned, his golden hair shimmering as it caught the light. One eye opened, his smile unwavering but colder now. "Is there a problem, Knight of the De Gor House?" he asked, his tone disarmingly polite, yet laced with a warning.

"Do you mock the

Spross Des Banners

?" the knight demanded, his blade half-drawn, the tension in the air snapping like a taut wire.

The captain's expression shifted subtly, and an aura unfurled around him, barely perceptible but powerful enough to silence the whispers among the onlookers. It rolled off him like a mist, a dangerous edge to the otherwise composed figure.

His gaze hardened, eyes like embers ready to ignite. "Mock?" he repeated, each syllable deliberate, "And why would I, Captain of the Flame, ever insult a lord?" His voice dropped, the next words cutting through the air like a blade. "Or is it that you, a mere knight, question my intent?"

David burst into laughter, the unexpected sound shattering the growing tension. Both men's gazes flicked to him, and a small smirk played on David's lips. "Enough," he said, his voice steady and commanding. "Sheathe your sword. We're not here for dramatics."

He turned his attention to Sir Richard, his expression measured. "My knight meant no disrespect, but isn't he justified? After all, you and I are not equals, and protocol would suggest an appropriate official be present for my arrival."

Sir Richard's eyes briefly flickered with surprise before he composed himself, his smile never wavering. Just then, Luna stepped out of the carriage, her presence immediate and overwhelming. A dark, almost tangible aura spilled from her, washing over the space like a shadow cast by an unseen moon.

The air around Sir Richard seemed to quiver, and for a moment, his aura receded, overtaken by the suffocating power emanating from her.

Sir Richard found himself in a precarious silence, struggling to justify the absence of a more distinguished welcome. The intended official, a noble of the Lysora Court, had refused to greet David, dismissing the Spross des Banners as little more than an empty title granted to salvage his reputation—a reputation tarnished by whispers of mediocrity within the De Gor family.

But as Sir Richard stood in the presence of the young man whose eyes seemed to pierce through pretenses, he felt the weight of those rumors crumble. David exuded a predatory composure, a sharp contrast to the image painted by idle gossip. And then there was the woman—

The woman.

Sir Richard's eyes darted around, his brow furrowed in confusion. She had stepped from David's carriage moments ago, an enigmatic force whose aura had all but smothered his own. Now, she was gone, as if the very air had swallowed her presence. A shiver traced his spine, the unsettling realization settling in that he hadn't even seen her leave.

Before he could dwell on his disquiet, David's voice cut through the air, clear and commanding. "Lucky for you, Captain of the First Flame," David said, his tone deceptively genial, "I am an understanding noble."

Sir Richard swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat evident as he inclined his head in deference. "Forgive me, my lord," he began, searching for words that might salvage his standing. "An unexpected issue arose, which is why I was sent to receive you in place of the usual official." His voice wavered only slightly, betraying his hope that David would accept this flimsy excuse.

David's gaze lingered on Sir Richard, measuring the truth behind the captain's explanation. Then, with a dismissive nod, he brushed the matter aside. "Very well," he said. "Let us proceed." The nonchalant response seemed to relieve the tension in the gathered knights, though a subtle shift in the shadows around David hinted that not all was as serene as it appeared.

"Certainly, Lord David," Sir Richard said, quickly regaining his composure. He took the reins of his horse and mounted with a practiced grace. As he steadied himself, he couldn't help but notice David's next move. The young lord turned to the knight who had defended his honor and, in a gesture that shocked the onlookers, offered him a place inside the carriage.

The knight's eyes widened, uncertainty flickering across his face. "My lord," he stammered, unsure whether to accept.

"Take your ease," David insisted, the edges of his lips curving into a subtle smile. The knight, still processing the unexpected kindness, nodded and climbed into the carriage, leaving David to mount the steed he had been offered. He guided the horse forward until he was riding alongside Sir Richard.

"I thought it best we have a conversation on the way," David explained, his tone light but his eyes harboring an inscrutable glint.

"Of course," Sir Richard replied, masking his surprise with a curt nod as they trotted toward the heart of Lysora County. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the cobblestones filled the silence that stretched between them, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze. Yet, Sir Richard couldn't shake the creeping sense that something—or someone—lurked just beyond the edges of his vision.

As they passed through the arched gate flanked by statues of ancient maiden warriors, Sir Richard cast a side glance at David. For the briefest moment, he could have sworn he saw David's shadow shift unnaturally, as though it had a mind of its own, coiling and slithering with sentient intent. He blinked, and the illusion vanished, leaving him to question whether it had been a trick of the light or something far more sinister.

David, seemingly oblivious to the captain's unease, kept his gaze fixed ahead, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. Behind him, unseen by all but the most perceptive, a dark aura seeped from David, its tendrils reassembling into the figure of a woman with eyes as deep and cold as the void itself.