The Duke’s Reborn Daughter Sometimes Chooses Violence.

The Veyne District was, by any civilized measure, an eyesore. Duke Julian Greenward surveyed it from atop his horse. Everywhere he looked, he saw cracked facades and faded shop signs. He saw Magical Implements that gave off an anemic blue. Nothing like the rich emerald glow of his own District.

The streets were wide enough, he supposed, but that was a small mercy to his eyes. Weeds pushed through some cobblestone joints. Julian wrinkled his nose. Even the smell here was distasteful. It was nothing like the flowery scent his entire District had. It would be much better soon. All of it.

The procession moved at a stately pace through these dilapidated streets. Julian rode at its head, flanked by two columns of guards in polished green livery. Behind them came the carriages and the banners.

Free bread had been distributed at strategic corners that morning. Two of his musicians played triumphant tunes. You didn’t march through another House’s District with subtlety. You marched through it with pomp. At the heart of the procession rode his prize. His future.

Alexander Bulwark sat straight atop a dark stallion, three paces behind Julian. He was sixteen years old and tall for his age, still growing into his frame. The boy had his father’s cold eyes. His Bulwark military dress was immaculate. It was a dark steel-grey with crimson trimmings. The boy carried himself well. Far better than most his age. When he spoke, he was eloquent. He wasn’t quite warm with Cordelia yet. That would come. Julian would ensure it came.

Julian Greenward was a man who saw far beyond one pathetic city in one tiny part of the Kingdom.

His daughter rode beside Alexander. Cordelia’s posture was perfect, so was her smile. The emerald gown she wore caught the light as it was meant to, and she inclined her head to the watching crowds with the exact warmth Julian had instructed. It had been some time since she had slipped. Since that…day. That day’s error had been thoroughly corrected.

Julian allowed himself satisfaction. The crowds that lined the Veyne streets were thin, but present. Most watched in uncertain silence. That would change too, eventually. The message had arrived six days ago. It was coded and it had come through the most hidden channels. Esra Veyne was dead.

Julian had felt relief. A deep relief, the kind that came when you learned a fire had been put out before it reached the granary. He had not felt joy, Julian Greenward was not a monster.

Now the Veyne District was a body without a head. House Indri had lost its Duke and gained a feral girl in his place, and that feral girl was conveniently out in the Wastes too. It was perfect. Already, his people had been reaching out to the merchants who operated in the Veyne Districct. Already, the Counts under House Veyne had been receiving invitations to dine at Greenward Manor.

They had declined so far, but that was fine. Julian Greenward was nothing if not a patient man. This had been his ultimate intention for many decades. He had sped his plan along because of the girl, but he could slow it, just a tad.

The procession turned a corner. Julian’s gaze swept the street ahead. He saw a bookshop. He knew it at once. He had entered through its back door months ago. His hands tightened on the reins.

He remembered her face. It was her face that unsettled him the most, even now. Julian Greenward had sat across from Generals and men who killed for coin and their faces had all blurred together over the years. Esra Veyne’s had not.

She had been injured and hours removed from an attack that had killed that fool Indri in his own manor, and there she’d sat with an open book as if she’d actually been reading.

The girl was only fourteen, with skin so pale it looked like she had been bled out. Then there was her strange white hair. How could he forget her unsettling red eyes? It was her expression that unsettled him most. A face that betrayed nothing.

This girl’s features had been perfectly still. The kind of stillness that required practice. Years of practice, of forcing one’s face into submission over and over until the mask was indistinguishable from the skin beneath it.

Julian had seen that look before. He had it himself, as did many of his peers in the capital. It was the kind of look a mercenary captain might have. It was the look of a monster. It belonged to people who had trained themselves to feel nothing, so they could do the unspeakable.

He had never seen it on a child, not once.

She had told him a story, and it had been a tidy, convenient story involving a foreign Hero and Alestia. It had worked for an instant. Julian’s blood had gone cold at the sound of it, and the girl had watched his reaction with those red eyes. He hadn’t believed her. What frightened him was that she knew he wouldn’t believe her but the situation meant it wouldn’t matter.

A child had done that, hours after nearly dying. All while sitting in a chair built for a man twice times her size. That had been terrifying enough. Then, midway through their conversation, something had happened.

Her face had twitched, that was all the reaction she’d given. A flicker had passed across her face, so brief that Julian might have missed it had he not been watching. The girl’s mask slipped. Just for an instant. What he saw underneath was not a girl or a grieving heir playing at statecraft. What he saw was something that hated him. Something white hot and feral. The rage was human enough. Julian understood rage well.

What was not human was the control, the speed with which the mask returned. That was the moment Julian Greenward decided that Esra Veyne could not be allowed to grow up. Finally, at the end, he had asked for her price.

“Cherish your daughter more.”

She had asked for nothing else. No concessions beyond lifting the blockade he was already going to lift. Just those four words. He could negotiate with a generous request. He could understand a greedy request. This was neither. This was a warning, one delivered so subtly it was an arrow fashioned for Julian Greenward himself.

I know where you live. I know what matters to you. I was here, and you didn’t even notice until I wanted you to. Julian had lain awake that night. Cordelia was his most valuable asset. The future of his house. He had given the order.

It was hard to find the right man for the task, but he had found him, eventually. A C Class adventurer, one who supposedly had a simple Gift that made him physically stronger. It was a lie. His real Gift was far more suited to the task Julian had in mind. He also didn’t mind going on a mission he would never return from.

The man was not the perfect knife, but the best one Julian could find in haste. One sharp enough to kill a threat that had not yet fully bloomed. That girl could not be allowed to grow up.

A distant shout woke Julian from the nightmare. A messenger had been trying to reach him.

Julian became aware of this slowly. A man in Greenward livery was pushing through the crowd at the roadside, waving and being turned away by the perimeter guards. He had been at it for some time, Julian realized. Julian had been elsewhere in his mind, in a bookshop that no longer mattered.

He raised a hand and the guards parted. The messenger stumbled forward. “My Lord- My Lord, please, I’ve been trying-”

“Compose yourself.”

The man swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “There are men ahead, My Lord. They’re blocking the road.”

Julian looked up. The procession had already begun to slow. He could see it now. There were a cluster of figures at the far end of the street, where the road widened into a broader square. He saw dark uniforms, and recognized them in an instant. Those were Veyne colors. Expeditioners. Julian’s first thought was very satisfying. How perfectly timed.

The dead girl’s soldiers, returning home without their Lady, stumbling into the very procession that heralded their District’s new reality. He almost smiled. You could not choreograph something this poetic. Then he noticed the mood was wrong.

The expeditioners were not mourning. There were far fewer of them than had left, but they were not mourning. They stood in formation, one designed to show power. There was something behind them.

It was a massive shape, draped in heavy cloth, mounted on a mechanical cart that took up most of the road. The cart was reinforced with iron bands. The shape was enormous -far too large to be supplies. Julian turned to his guard captain. “What is-” Then he saw her.

Esra Veyne walked at the head of the column. Julian’s hands went cold. The warmth literally drained from his fingers so quickly that his grip on the reins slackened, and for one absurd moment he thought he might simply slide from his horse. She was alive.

She looked different. Not in ways he could easily name. She was still pale, still had that strange white hair pulled back from that strange white face. Julian still saw it. Something had changed in the way she carried herself. There was a sureness to her stride that had not been there before.

She wore dark leather armor over a black riding coat, both bearing the Veyne sword and sickle. She wore no gowns and was not draped in any silk. This fourteen year old girl looked every inch a commander.

Violet Indri was at her shoulder. The girl’s hand rested on a warhammer slung across her back, and her eyes found his and her lips sneered. Behind them came the column of battered expeditioners walking in tight formation, a boy in Veyne blue with dust in his hair, a small blonde girl with one arm in a sling, and a nervous-looking woman clutching a Scrylens. And behind all of them, that cart.

Julian’s mind raced. The calculations started before the shock had fully landed: damage control, reframing, how to minimize this, how to salvage the parade, how to-

Esra’s eyes found him through the crowd. Her eerie red eyes locked onto his green ones. She smiled. It was a dangerous smile. “Lord Greenward.” Her voice carried easily. “How fortunate that you are here to welcome me home. I could not have arranged a better reception myself.” She did not wait for a response.

Esra turned to the crowd. His crowd. The people he had gathered to watch his parade. She turned to them and projected her voice with mana, and the sound of it rolled down the street like a great bell. “Citizens of the Veyne District,” she said. “I have returned from the Everfrost. I bring news, and I bring proof.”

She let those words settle before she continued. ”When I left, I told you to wait for my return and see for yourself. So I will tell you what happened, and you may decide what it is worth.” She paused again. ”Three days west of Aelheim, past the Ashen Wastes and across the Everfrost Plain, there is a village called Iron Hollow. Most of you have never heard of it. It has no great walls. No Golden Five to argue over its future.”

She let that sit for a moment. The exact length of time Julian himself would have. ”Their walls are cracking. The people there fix them with scrap and their bare hands, and then the walls crack again. They have been doing this for more than two decades. Nobody from Aelheim has helped them, nobody from Aelheim has asked.”

The murmuring had quieted. ”A dragon crashed into the mountain above their village a month ago..” She took a breath as she looked around the crowd. “I left with almost sixty brave men and women. I return with less than thirty.” There was silence. ”I will name them, because someone should.”

And she did. Every name -one by one. Julian Greenward could only sit and stare. Each name was spoken with a profound sadness. As if they had been esteemed Lords rather than petty laborers.

“....Harren.” She finished, and seemed to take a deep breath again. ”We killed the dragon. The village still stands, but they are still alone, and there are more sanctuaries scattered across the Wastes just like them.” She looked out across the crowd. ”I am here to tell you what I saw, nothing more. The Wastes are not going to reclaim themselves. They need us to remember that they exist. I found that the Dragon, this great beast named Vyranthos, was the source of their despair. The Everfrost will see spring again. In a year. Perhaps two, when the snow finally melts.”

It was an absurd fantasy. A lie so bold Julian wanted to burst out laughing, and to hell with composure. Yet now…yet now in this terrible moment, a small part of Julian believed.

She stopped and tilted her head. ”And of course, I have brought you proof.”

Two expeditioners moved to the cart’s flanks. They gripped the edges of the cloth, and heaved as they pulled. The cloth fell away.

The skull alone was larger than Julian’s carriage. It sat on the cart at an angle, jaw slightly open. The scales were the color of a winter sky and where the afternoon sun caught them, they shimmered bright. Just the teeth were longer than swords.

Julian Greenward had only ever seen dragons in picture books as a child. He had never thought he would see the real thing. And then…Vyranthos. Something about the name tickled at Julian’s mind, though he could not remember what. Did it matter?

The silence that followed was absolute. There were hundreds of people, and yet still, there was perfect and absolute silence. Julian stared at it. His mind, for the first time in as long as he could remember, produced nothing.

He looked at Alexander Bulwark. The boy’s mouth was slightly open. For the first time since arriving in Aelheim, Alexander Bulwark looked exactly like what he was: a sixteen year old boy.

The crowd erupted. There were so many screams and cheers they almost deafened Julian. It was a loud sound, for what had been a small crowd. The crowd was not looking at his parade anymore. They were not looking at Alexander Bulwark or at Cordelia. Julian might as well not have been there.

Julian’s mind restarted. Think. There has to be a- The memory crashed through his composure like a stone through glass. That empty face, and that convenient lie.

He had been right to be afraid. He had been right to send the knife. He should have sent a better one. He should have sent more. It was too late.

Esra Veyne stepped away from the crowd. The cheering faded behind her as she walked through the parted crowd. She did not toward Julian, nor did she toward Alexander. She walked directly toward Cordelia.

Julian’s blood went cold. He was sweating, holding the reigns so tight either the reins might turn to dust or his fingers.

Every instinct screamed at him to intervene. He could not. Not here. Not in front of half the Veyne District and a roaring crowd and a Scrylens and the severed head of a beast that his entire contingent could not have dreamed of killing. He could only watch.

Esra stopped in front of Cordelia’s horse. She looked up at his daughter with those red eyes. And she bowed. She did not curtsy.

Julian noticed. Everyone must have. Esra Veyne bowed the way a knight bowed before a Lady in the stories, deep and formal, one arm pressed across her chest.

Cordelia stared down at her. Julian watched his daughter’s face from across that distance. He watched the mask he had spent years building flicker, just for a moment. Julian saw confusion there. Confusion, terror and…something else. Just for a moment, before it was gone. Esra held out her hand, palm up and waiting.

Cordelia dismounted. Her eyes never left Esra’s face. She extended her gloved hand. Esra took it. Gently. And then she raised it to her lips and pressed a kiss to the back of Cordelia’s fingers. The gesture of a knight to a Lady.

Julian felt the ground shift beneath him. He wished it could swallow him whole. I see your daughter. I know she matters. I can reach her whenever I wish.

Esra looked up from Cordelia’s hand. Her red eyes were bright and steady. Her smile was warm, and it did not waver. “Lady Cordelia,” she said. “I have missed your company so terribly.” The crowd roared behind them. The Scrylens clicked. The dragon’s dead eye caught the sun.

“Would you do me the honor of joining me for tea tomorrow?”