The rain had poured for days, soaking the land in endless sheets of water. Mud swallowed footprints whole, and a cold breeze slithered through the empty streets of the Ravengard Duchy. Once a proud and formidable territory, it now stood in silence, its grand manor shrouded in an air of isolation. The training grounds, once alive with the sound of clashing swords and rallying knights, lay deserted, overgrown with weeds. The duchy had become a ghost of its former self, covered in cold and mist.

Through the muddy roads, a group of four mercenaries rode toward the duchy, their horses splattered with dirt from the long journey. They were young, battle-hardened men, each armed with weapons suited to their craft—swords, spears, and short daggers strapped to their belts. One of them, a lean man with sharp features, turned to his leader.

“Hey, we need to get some information about this place if we’re looking for work. Make sure we’re in the right spot,” he said. “What do you say, Captain Jacob?”

The man addressed as Jacob appeared the oldest among them. He had unkempt brown hair and piercing brown eyes, his face lined with the weariness of experience. A rugged brown coat covered his armor, and at his waist hung two swords, well-worn but sharp. He cast a glance toward the mercenary who had spoken and replied in a steady voice.

“If you’re looking for information, the best place is a bar or an inn. That’s where people talk. Especially a tavern—drunks loosen their tongues, and it's where many gather to gossip or share news. Plenty have used such places to dig up what they need.”

The group made their way toward the nearest tavern, a modest yet lively establishment despite the dreary weather. Inside, commoners sat huddled around wooden tables, tankards of rum in hand as they spoke in hushed voices. The scent of stale alcohol and damp wood filled the air. Jacob and his men approached the bartender, tossing two silver coins onto the counter. The people inside looked at them, clearly noting them as unfamiliar faces.

“Give us the best booze you have. Enough for six,” Jacob said.

As their drinks were poured, one of the mercenaries leaned toward a group of locals, intent on gathering information.

“Hey,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “There were rumors that this dukedom was in need of knights. Is that true?”

The bar fell into an uneasy silence. The commoners exchanged glances before an older man finally spoke.

“Yes… this is the right place,” he admitted, his voice tinged with sorrow. It was common knowledge that many mercenaries eventually became knights under noble families, especially when those families lacked knights of their own or were actively recruiting due to political decline or war.

Jacob, sensing something unusual, leaned forward. “What happened here? This place doesn’t seem to have many knights.” When Jacob and his company arrived at the Dukedom, there hadn't been a single knight stationed at the gates—no inspection, no guards, just emptiness.

A grizzled old man sitting in the corner looked up from his drink, his eyes weary. “You kids aren’t from this country, are you?” he asked. “Because there isn’t a soul in this empire who doesn’t know about the Ravengards.”

Jacob crossed his arms. “No, we’re not from here. We used to live in the mountains of Aconia, so we don’t know much about this place. That’s why I asked.”

The old man exhaled heavily. “Then listen well. This place wasn’t always like this. The Dukedom of Ravengard was one of the Five Pillars of the Empire, a stronghold that supported the king himself. The knights of Ravengard were once among the most feared and respected, and the Ravengard banner flew high and proud. But everything changed after the previous duke and his son perished. With their deaths, the duchy began to decline. Its influence waned, and the once-loyal knights slowly abandoned their posts, some out of fear, others out of opportunism.”

The mercenaries listened intently as the old man continued.

“The previous duke’s son, Raisel de Ravengard, was the one who really held the title of duke. He was a kind and noble man, well-respected across the empire, and known for his fairness in both war and governance. But he died nine years ago. Some say he perished in a monster horde near the eastern frontier, others whisper betrayal by those close to him. His wife, Duchess Elizabeth de Ravengard, held the duchy together with iron resolve after his death. But a year and a half later, she too was ambushed and murdered while traveling to a council meeting in the capital. That’s when the duchy truly began to fall apart. After that, the aging Arthur de Ravengard—the previous duke and Raisel’s father—was forced to take the reins once more in his twilight years, though his heart had long grown weary.”

The tavern grew somber as the old man’s words settled. Jacob asked curiously, “And now? Who holds the title?”

“Their eldest son, Kaisel de Ravengard.” Another man cut into the conversation, his voice hushed. “But most people believe he’s cursed.”

“Cursed?” one of the mercenaries scoffed. “Why?”

“Because of his skin,” the old man replied darkly. “Unlike the rest of the Ravengard bloodline, he has a darker complexion—a dark copper skin tone that sets him apart. The nobles hate what they can’t understand, and the Ravengards have always been fair-skinned and silver-haired. His very existence became a source of ridicule and slander.”

He paused before continuing. “After his mother’s death, instead of rallying around him, the nobles and merchants who once supported the duchy abandoned it. They stopped paying taxes, withdrew their backing, and spread rumors. They branded him unfit to rule, some even accusing him of being illegitimate. But despite everything, the young duke remains unmoved. And we—his people—we will support him even if none of the nobles do.”

A heavy silence settled over the tavern. Jacob, intrigued, took a slow sip of his drink. “Well, well… this place is starting to get interesting.”

Suddenly, the doors burst open, and a man rushed inside, breathless.

“The lord is coming out on horseback!” he announced, his voice filled with urgency. The people in there rushed out to see the lord.

The bartender glanced at the mercenaries. “Follow us if you want to see the lord.”

The group quickly joined the townsfolk outside, where a large crowd had already gathered. Jacob pushed his way through, his curiosity piqued. The people murmured amongst themselves, their eyes locked onto a lone rider emerging from the manor gates.

Atop a pitch-black stallion sat a man whose presence alone commanded attention. He wore a white long-sleeved shirt tucked into black pants, polished boots resting firmly in the stirrups. His physique was well-built, a balance of power and refinement. But what truly set him apart were his features—Ruby-red eyes gleaming under the dim light, framed by long black hair that cascaded to just above his shoulders, partially veiling his right eye. His skin was an unusual shade of brown, a stark contrast to the pale complexions of the Ravengard bloodline. A single platinum earring adorned his left ear, catching the faintest glint of light.

There was something about him, something intangible that sent a shiver down the spine. The atmosphere around him was heavy, suffocating yet magnetic.

The old man beside Jacob exhaled, almost reverently. “That’s our lord,” he murmured. “Kaisel de Ravengard.”

To be continued.