Kazmari… The relentless people who inhabited the sole desert of Asgardia's central continent. Isolated and fierce, they weren't just warriors; they were a primal force, shaped by scorching sands and a merciless sun, with death and honor lurking at every turn. Devotees of Zervash, the god of war and ecstasy, their rituals were a fervent tribute to the balance between lethal discipline and wild festivity.
Their crimson eyes burned like living flames, reflecting not only the passion of a people, but the power of a culture that thrived on battle and celebration. For them, each day was a dance between preparing for conflict and reveling in wine and music. Every victory was a consecration, and every defeat treated with equal severity—Kazmari did not accept failure, nor did they tolerate weakness.
The story of the Kazmari was written not just in their deeds, but in the unbreakable codes that governed their lives. To offend a Kazmari warrior was to insult an entire nation. Their women, their daughters, were sacred guardians, and any who dared even think of courting them without patriarchal blessing would be hunted to their last breath. Mercy had no place among them. The Kazmari princesses, as priestesses of Zervash, stood above all—they were living relics of a holy bloodline. The mere idea that one of them, of pure lineage, could be involved with a man... was heresy. And if such a thing ever came to light, it would be utterly eradicated.
And yet... the unthinkable happened. The patriarch of Dracknum, one of Allytheón's most powerful families, had formed a union with a Kazmari princess—a priestess of Zervash, bound to the very spirit of war and ecstasy. A union that flew in the face of everything the Kazmari stood for, echoing like thunder through the desert caverns and far beyond.
"This generation's patriarch is truly bold," muttered Galdric, the sentient golem, chuckling to himself. "If only I were alive to witness the fallout of this madness."
✦ ✦ ✦
In the Grand Duchy of Phoenix, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The streets, usually buzzing with chatter and the clinking of coins, now simmered in a silence heavy with unease. Soldiers patrolled every corner with unusual rigor, their eyes sharp and unyielding, sniffing out any sign of rebellion. Their harsh voices interrogated citizens, turning the city into a stage where fear and suspicion played out in every glance.
"Hey, did you hear? Miss Diana's been kidnapped!" whispered a man among the crowd, his voice trembling with disbelief.
"Kidnapped? By who?" asked another, his eyes widening at the thought of political intrigue.
"You've been fooled," chimed a third, puffing out his chest. "My cousin works at the castle—he said she ran away."
"Ran away? But why?" The question rippled through the crowd, each theory more unlikely than the last.
"Some say she was mistreated, others claim she simply didn't want to marry so soon..." The conversation tangled itself in contradiction, until the commanding voice of a guard cut through the murmurs.
"Attention! Cease spreading lies about Lady Diana. She has not been kidnapped, nor has she fled. She is resting in the castle, taken ill and under close care."
"Hey, let go of me!" someone muttered, but the warning was clear: those who kept stirring the pot would find themselves in the dungeons before long.
As the city simmered with rumors and suspicion, tension spread like wildfire, turning every alley into a quiet battlefield. Amid hushed whispers and darting glances, fear of retribution and dread of political plots hung in the air like smoke.
And through that haze approached a grand noble procession—four majestic carriages, adorned with noble crests etched in silver gears, sliced through the morning mist with both grace and power. Their horses, strong and well-kept, trotted elegantly, kicking up a soft dust that swirled into the dawn light.
Inside the central carriage—the heart of the procession—a young man with jet-black hair and piercing dark eyes scanned his surroundings. His expression was calm, but beneath the surface brewed a storm of unease and resolve as he tried to decode the whispers drifting through the streets.
'Damn it, Nicole!' the boy cursed inwardly, frustration and silent despair crackling through his thoughts. 'I know you didn't want to marry, or become some political pawn—but couldn't you have told me?'
'Couldn't she have waited until the negotiations were over? This is going to wreck everything!' he fumed, his mind seesawing between helpless frustration and the cold precision of a strategist.
The young man was none other than Carlos Barbosa—now known as Alistair Duskweld, heir to a renowned family of artificers and engineers. When he arrived in Asgardia and was introduced to the Duskweld lineage, he felt an instant affinity. He loved everything about them—for they were the vanguard of innovation in Allythéon. Alistair had carefully drawn up plans to Pioneer the Industrial Era In Phoenix. Every detail had been laid out. But now, this unexpected upheaval threatened to bring it all crashing down.
Alistair's gaze turned to his servant, Donald—a young man impeccably dressed, whose youth belied a deep well of competence and unwavering loyalty.
"Donald, you'd better work ten times harder on this negotiation," Alistair commanded firmly.
"Pardon, young Master?" Donald hesitated for a moment, uncertainty flashing in his eyes before his master's unyielding determination swept it away.
"Just follow the plan—along with the countermeasures we've already mapped out," Alistair reiterated, nodding toward the window where a cluster of soldiers were intimidating a few citizens, reinforcing the oppressive atmosphere gripping the city.
Donald, understanding the unspoken message, gave a silent nod. Deep down, he couldn't help but admire the brilliance and cunning of his young master. At only ten years old, Alistair had already displayed a sharp intellect. Originally gifted, yes—but not extraordinarily so. And yet, over the past six months, something had changed. Alistair's brilliance had intensified, grown sharper. Everyone had noticed it—and taken pride in it. After all, what family would resent another genius among their ranks?
'The gods have once again blessed the Duskwelds,' Donald thought to himself, watching Alistair's every move with quiet reverence.
Unlike Donald, Alistair wore a more complex expression. He had lived through experiences most people couldn't even imagine. Being taken in by the esteemed Duskweld family hadn't just given him access to the finest instruction from renowned artificers—it had allowed him to shine. He mastered technical terms, grasped intricate functions, and even began constructing his own mechanisms.
Today's meeting, therefore, was vital—not just for Duskweld, but for Alistair himself. He had poured every ounce of manipulation and talent-scouting into finding someone innocent enough to serve as a puppet—someone to execute his plans without ever questioning them. It was a golden opportunity, worth every calculated risk. If it worked, it would solidify his power and give wings to his ambitious innovations. Shame that just as everything seemed to be aligning... complications had surfaced, threatening to turn the tide against him.
As the echoes of orders and whispered debates mingled with the distant clatter of hooves and the anxious murmurs of the townspeople, the procession moved steadily toward the main residence of Phoenix's capital.
✦ ✦ ✦
At last, the carriages passed through the towering gates of the estate, entering a courtyard where a singular fountain stood with ethereal grandeur. At its center, two majestic statues—phoenixes reborn—rose with divine craftsmanship. Their partially spread wings seemed to capture the glow of a setting sun, while the fountain's gentle murmurs formed a melody so delicate it felt almost enchanted, echoing through the medieval surroundings like a trace of forgotten magic.
"They've truly earned the title Duchy of Wealth," murmured Alistair, his gaze drinking in the scenery with a mix of admiration and fascination.
The carriages rolled to a graceful stop at the entrance. Knights in gleaming armor swiftly stepped forward and opened the door for the young noble. With the precision of a rehearsed ritual, Alistair descended, followed closely by the ever-diligent Donald.
Waiting at the grand entrance was Victor—the newly appointed patriarch of Phoenix, firstborn of the late Duke, and now bearer of his legacy. Victor, his crimson eyes matching the deep red of his hair, stood tall, his posture straight, his expression a delicate balance of grief and resolve. He stepped forward to greet Alistair.
"Young Lord Alistair, I am honored to welcome you to my lands," Victor declared, his voice a blend of solemnity and quiet sorrow. He quickly added, with pronounced weight, "I only regret the circumstances. Phoenix is going through difficult times. My father has recently passed, and my sister, sweet Diana, lies bedridden."
Alistair, trained in an environment where facial expressions were finely curated tools, caught a flicker of insincerity behind Victor's sorrowful façade. Still, he responded with proper decorum.
"Lord Victor—"
"Phoenix," the patriarch interrupted, correcting him with resolute emphasis. "Call me Lord Phoenix."
"My apologies—how inconsiderate of me. Lord Phoenix," Alistair corrected himself with a slight tilt of the head. "I'm honored to be received so graciously, and in person no less."
"It is my duty," Victor replied, puffing his chest with pride. "If not me, who else would greet Phoenix's esteemed guests? Especially one as praised as Duskweld's prodigy."
They exchanged a few more words before a short pause fell over the gathering, with nobles and servants waiting in quiet anticipation.
"Regrettably, I wish I had more time to spare, but—" Victor began, only to be cut off by Alistair, who, with the composed serenity of someone far older than his years, said:
"Don't worry—I promised my father we wouldn't linger. Donald will accompany you to discuss the finer details of our venture."
Donald then stepped forward, exchanging polite greetings with Victor. The patriarch personally led the entourage into the mansion, instructing his servants to ensure that Alistair and his companions were treated with the same level of hospitality as any other distinguished guest who had ever crossed those grand doors. Though most of the entourage consisted of nobles of more modest rank, tradition demanded the utmost deference.
Minutes later, in a wide, ornately decorated corridor, Donald was arranging the negotiation team, preparing them to follow Victor and a group of Phoenix nobles to the hall where the talks would take place. It was then that Victor's gaze shifted toward Alistair, who was about to follow a servant toward the chambers prepared for him.
"Young Lord Alistair, if I'm not mistaken, you're somewhat acquainted with my little sister Diana, aren't you?" Victor asked, his eyes a curious blend of sorrow, amusement, and a trace of irony.
Inside Alistair's mind, a thought simmered:
'Oh? So this is the game we're playing? I just hope it doesn't drag on too long—the servants are already preparing the treats I asked for…'
"Yes, I had the pleasure of becoming one of her closest friends," Alistair replied, puffing out his chest and striking the sort of posture expected of someone his age, subtly using his boyish image to his advantage.
Victor offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, which quickly dissolved into a somber expression. Noticing the shift, Alistair made a subtle gesture. Donald, ever watchful, caught it instantly and turned toward Victor.
"Is something wrong, Lord Phoenix?" he inquired.
Victor inclined his head slightly, took a deep breath, and continued:
"Actually… my sister Diana isn't ill." He released a sigh that seemed to reverberate through the corridor, leaving the negotiation team visibly stunned and the Phoenix staff uneasy. "She's gone missing. We don't know if she ran away, was kidnapped, or simply wandered off without telling anyone. Truthfully, we have no explanation. There's no reason for her to flee."
No reason, really? Alistair thought dryly, concealing his disdain. He had spent the last two months listening to Diana vent about her brother and how he treated her like a political pawn.
Victor carried on, his tone now laced with both concern and subtle accusation:
"Young Lord Alistair, I understand that my sister used her magical keyboard to communicate with her closest friends. Forgive the suspicion, but… as one of her most intimate companions…" He trailed off, letting the implications linger in the air.
"Oh! Diana's missing?" Alistair replied with carefully crafted innocence, summoning every ounce of acting skill honed over six months of rigorous training. "Yes, we used to talk often, but ever since I began the journey here, we've been out of touch. I mean, who travels with a magical keyboard, really?" He let out a sigh. "They're bulky and terribly inconvenient."
"She never hinted at where she might want to go? Left no signs of frustration or unrest? Maybe a whisper of fear? A sudden desire to explore some secret corner of the world? Perhaps she was desperate to try that exotic dish everyone kept raving about? Or maybe she longed for the solitude of a hidden refuge, far from prying eyes?" Victor continued, his voice thick with question after question—some increasingly absurd and disconnected from any real logic.
Alistair struggled to maintain a neutral expression, his face as unmoved as if carved from marble, controlling every flicker of irritation boiling beneath the surface. He could hardly believe that Victor, under the guise of brotherly concern, was delving into such ridiculous minutiae.
Who, in such a situation, would seriously ask: "What's her favorite color? What dishes has she been enjoying lately? Did she say anything about her usual style of dress? What are her greatest fears? Her favorite things? Preferred outfits? The kind of boy she likes?"
Each question was more intrusive and disconnected than the last, and the atmosphere quickly grew unbearable.
Deep down, Alistair thought with biting irony: 'Does this man think I'm a stalker? Or has he completely lost it? If he goes as far as asking about her favorite color of underwear, screw the negotiation—I swear the punch is coming fast and hard…'