Daylight filtered through stained glass, casting fractured phoenix wings across the ancient court chamber of House Varnel.

Nobles sat in tiered rings like vultures on marble perches, draped in silk and cynicism. Above them hung the great flame crest—faded now, and fraying. This was no longer the proud seat of warlords and warriors. It was a relic court… clawing for relevance.

At its center, Elysia Varnel stood straight, chin lifted, fists clenched behind her back.

Beside her—half a step behind—stood Lucien Caelum.

Impeccably groomed. Polished shoes. A folded white cloth tucked neatly in his gloved hand. Silent, as a servant should be. Observing, as no servant should dare.

“Lady Varnel,” a voice boomed, “you stand before this court to present your chosen pactbonded.”

An elder—Lord Kestel, high judge of bloodbinding rites—leaned forward from his marble seat. Cold eyes, heavy rings. The man’s words were sharp, formal… mocking.

“Do you admit this is the being you summoned?”

“I do.”

“Then explain… this.” He gestured toward Lucien like swatting a fly. “Where are his fangs? His flames? His form? Is he familiar with anything other than dusting shelves?”

The gallery laughed.

Lucien blinked.

“I am exceptionally skilled at cleaning… messes, my lord,” he said calmly.

A ripple of muffled chuckles—and a few scowls.

Elysia shot him a glare. Not now.

Kestel narrowed his eyes. “Then prove it. We demand a test of pact loyalty. If this servant will not kneel to your will, you forfeit your right to the Varnel seat.”

Elysia’s heart jumped. “But the trial rites haven’t been—”

“You will demonstrate his worth. Or he will be disposed of.”

Lucien tilted his head slightly. “I take it you would prefer something… theatrical.”

[ Trial Arena – Beneath the Court ]

The floor rumbled as the arena gates rose.

Steel bars screeched. The scent of blood and sand filled the air. Elysia stood behind the gate, anxiety gnawing her spine.

Lucien stepped into the arena without hesitation.

Across from him, another gate opened. A chain-linked creature snarled forward—a shardbeast bred for bloodsport. Plated in cracked stone, eyes stitched with rune-ink, claws like glaive blades.

The nobles leaned forward in their balconies. Entertainment at last.

Kestel raised a bony hand. “Should your servant perish, girl… so does your house.”

Elysia wanted to scream. This wasn’t a trial. It was execution.

Lucien didn’t flinch.

The shardbeast roared and lunged.

CLANG—its claws struck stone where Lucien had been moments before.

The butler blurred. His coat fluttered behind him as he moved—not fast by raw speed, but by efficiency, as if he already knew where the beast would strike.

“You telegraph,” Lucien murmured, sidestepping another blow. “Sloppy form.”

The beast roared again.

This time, Lucien raised one hand.

A glint of silver flickered as he reached into his coat—

Click.

—And drew a narrow blade that had been hidden within the stitching of his cuff.

The shardbeast lunged again.

Lucien moved. Fluid. Precise.

One step, two—

A slash across the beast’s foreleg.

A second to the rune-threaded eyes.

WHAM—the beast collapsed, blind and bleeding.

Lucien stood calmly as blood sprayed across the arena.

He bowed.

“Shall I dispose of it, Lady Varnel?”

Elysia stared in disbelief.

Even the nobles were silent.

Kestel gripped the edge of his seat.

“This… this was trickery. A bluff.”

Lucien smiled faintly. “Would you like to test me yourself, my lord?”

Gasps.

Kestel leaned forward. “You dare—!”

Lucien’s eyes flashed red for the briefest second. The shadows behind him rippled.

Then—nothing.

He bowed again. “I am but a servant.”

[ That Evening – Private Chambers ]

Elysia sat across from Lucien in her study, a single candle between them.

“…You planned that,” she said.

“I execute what is necessary.”

“You could have killed the beast in the first strike. You didn’t.”

“An instant kill teaches nothing. I needed them to fear losing, not just dying.”

She stared at him. “You’re not what you appear.”

Lucien looked down at the teacup in his hands.

“I am what you summoned, Lady Varnel. A servant.” He set the cup down gently. “But I will not kneel to fools who mistake etiquette for weakness.”

“…Why did you accept the pact?”

He looked at her—calm, unreadable.

“Because you were the only one in that room who didn’t laugh.”

Silence.

Then a knock at the door.

A courier entered—trembling.

“Message… for the Varnel heir. Marked urgent.”

Elysia opened it, brow furrowing.

“Another house… has issued formal challenge. Trial of Flame. Tomorrow.”

Lucien rose, picking up his pocketwatch.

“Then let us prepare.”

He turned to the window, eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight.

“The court has moved its first piece.”