Episode 1
“Another party invitation?”
Ixor scoffed coldly as he brushed aside the curtain at the entrance of his tent and stepped out.
A stack of embroidered gold-thread invitations from Garion awaited him—concerts, balls, tea parties, and other pretexts for social interaction.
Nobles hoping to make him their son-in-law sent such gestures incessantly.
“Marriage is politics. All that matters is wealth and status. Why bother meeting their daughters in person?”
“If it’s about securing the best status and fortune, a princess would be the ideal choice,” retorted Zephar, his aide, following close behind.
“Women are all the same in the end. What matters is picking the one with the best conditions.”
Ixor cast him a sidelong glance before fixing his cold gaze ahead.
Realistically, Zephar was right. A faint, icy smirk tugged at Ixor’s lips.
“Still, somewhere in this world, there might be a woman who drives me mad—someone who could change my fate.”
“There’s no such woman.”
Zephar replied dryly, shrugging his shoulders.
Ixor snorted in agreement. The idea of a fated woman was laughable.
As they reached the highest point of a small hill, a vast view spread before them.
The wind billowed Ixor’s long black cloak dramatically. He narrowed his eyes at a small castle in the distance, his expression turning sharp.
“This hardly feels worth rushing here the moment old Count Drewbury’s death was announced,” he muttered.
The castle in question was Orlank Castle. Around its moat, his soldiers moved in precise formations, their movements exuding the sharp tension of an impending battle.
“Hurrah!”
Soldiers’ loud cheers erupted briefly before fading. Heavy carts loaded with weapons rattled by, and the enormous blue banners of Ixor’s army fluttered in the late summer wind.
Zephar, standing nearby, commented in a neutral tone.
“Your expression and tone suggest you’re enjoying yourself.”
Ixor, now perched lazily on a large wooden barrel, his cloak loosened and draped low, smirked.
It was true—he was enjoying himself. Conquests that were too easy weren’t worth his time, akin to drinking watered-down wine.
Orlank Castle wasn’t particularly defensible, nor did it boast many soldiers. The only thing holding his forces back was the determination of its citizens to resist his invasion.
Zephar tried to mollify him.
“This fight is ultimately a ruse to mislead outsiders about our true troop strength. If we take too long capturing this small castle, people will start to spread rumors that the Ixor Army is weak and incompetent. That’s the point, after all, so the current situation isn’t bad.”
“Not bad, but not ideal either. Their morale is too high.”
Ixor’s tone was laced with irritation. Even without siege engines or his cavalry—the backbone of his army—it stung his pride that the enemy was holding out so stubbornly.
He let out a cynical remark.
“Drewbury may have been a benevolent ruler, but he wasn’t beloved enough for people to risk their lives for him.”
As if on cue, Zephar handed him a letter tied to an arrow.
“A reply has arrived.”
The day before, Ixor had sent a threatening message: Open the gates if you don’t want to be massacred. And this was the response.
Unfolding the letter, Ixor read the elegant script aloud:
“We will not yield to one who does not intend to rule.”
“Such beautiful handwriting,” he mused.
Judging by the refined and precise strokes, it was written by a woman. Moreover, the contents pierced straight to the heart—refusing to bow to someone seeking conquest for conquest’s sake.
For Ixor, this war was little more than a game. Yet, here was someone speaking of governance amidst the threat of death.
A woman, talking about ruling.
He had traveled across nations and met countless women, but never one like this.
Who was she? His curiosity burned.
Still staring at the letter, he asked, “What did our spies report?”
“They plan to continue their siege within the castle walls. They won’t engage us directly but aim to outlast us like a stubborn turtle in its shell.”
“Drewbury had two sons, didn’t he?”
“Yes. The timid eldest, Alvin, and the younger son born to the second wife.”
“Then it’s safe to assume the second wife took power after Drewbury’s death. But this kind of resolute resistance—it doesn’t fit her reputation for extravagance and depravity.”
Zephar nodded in agreement.
“In fact, our spies reported that talks of surrender arose on the first day. The second wife’s faction even argued for opening the gates before our assault escalated.”
“Hah! So, you’re telling me that the person boldly opposing me from within that castle is the cowardly Alvin?”
Ixor chuckled in disbelief.
Zephar quickly pivoted to the core of his report.
“Alvin is accompanied by one of the late Count Drewbury’s slaves.”
“A slave?”
“A female slave. By law, a slave cannot be a concubine or lover, so officially, she’s merely a servant. However, it seems she was effectively Drewbury’s public mistress. She’s said to be exceptionally intelligent, and it’s likely that she…”
“…is the one pulling the strings behind Alvin. The woman I’m now facing now,” Ixor finished, his eyes gleaming with intrigue.
Ixor shifted his gaze to the letter in his hand, examining it once more.
The elegant handwriting carried an edge of precision and refinement.
It is a slave’s handwriting? He recalled hearing a rumor: Count Drewbury had found a foreign girl in the woods and raised her at his side for seven years. A striking beauty, they said. Ixor’s eyes gleamed with amusement.
“Her name… was it Daon?”
“You never forget a woman’s name,” Zephar replied dryly.
Ixor smirked, twisting his lips into a smile.
“So, the slave who clung to the father has now set her sights on the son.”
“Seems that way. While her exact age is uncertain since she’s a foreigner, she seems to be in her early twenties now. According to our spies, she’s a mesmerizing beauty—one that’s hard to look away from.”
“I’ll have to meet her.”
“Of course, you will.”
“But that means I need to take that castle down first, doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be easy,” Zephar replied, pausing as if to collect his thoughts—a rare occurrence during their conversations.
“Even with no external support or incoming supplies, they claim they only need to hold out for another month.”
“Who claims this? The slave?”
“Yes. She had three reasons for that: First, she predicts an early winter this year. Second, she believes that the coastal nature of your duchy will leave your lands vulnerable to pirate raids while your army is away…”
“Pirates will raid inland while I’m gone. Is that what she thinks?”
“Precisely. And there’s a third reason.”
“Go on.”
“The woman had the foresight, on the day Count Drewbury died, to entrust a soldier with a petition and hide him along the route to the royal capital. If invading forces approached, she instructed him to flee without hesitation and deliver it.”
“Oh?”
Ixor chuckled, impressed.
Her actions were calculated, political, and bold—a remarkable display of foresight. His curiosity about this unseen slave deepened.
Zephar, however, wore a grave expression.
“If that petition has reached the king, he will soon intervene to mediate.”
“And if mediation comes, I won’t even get to see her face.”
Ixor remarked, his tone betraying slight frustration.
“Still, a former mistress slave and a scheming second wife—there’s bound to be tension between them.”
“If not for Alvin’s intervention, she would’ve been executed the day Count Drewbury died. She’s a slave, after all. Even now, the second wife is more desperate to dispose of her than to win this war.”
Ixor’s smile was cold and calculated as he issued his command.
“Send word to Drewbury’s second wife that I wish to offer her a luxurious gift. Say that, having been confined for so long, she must be yearning for the joy of a grand feast, and I wish to send her something to lift her spirits. Assure her that my arrival is not driven by a lust for conquest but by a promise I made to the late Count—to protect her and her son from the clutches of other greedy lords. Deliver this with sincerity.”
He added a touch of his signature provocation and allure.
“Wouldn’t it be far better for all if she opened the gates gracefully, rather than being dragged out in humiliation? Moreover, tell her that the notorious Duke Gwin Ixor Malkuth, the richest and most infamous playboy in the land, wishes to dance with Orlank’s most beautiful widow.”
Zephar caught on immediately.
“You plan to sneak into the castle with the gift convoy to see the slave yourself.”
“Send the message and prepare the wagons by morning,” Ixor ordered.
He knew the second wife, with her penchant for extravagance, wouldn’t refuse the offer.
Zephar sighed and bowed briefly.
Ixor raised an eyebrow, prompting Zephar to reply in his usual dry tone, “Surely you don’t think I sighed out of contempt for you, my lord.”
“Get ready,” Ixor said with a sly grin.
“For what?”
“I’ll search the castle for the slave. You’ll handle the second wife—convince her to open the gates.”
Ixor thrust the letter into Zephar’s chest and turned his gaze toward Orlank Castle. The sunset painted its walls a fiery red. It was mid-September, and just as the slave had predicted, the first snow would likely fall soon.
Three hours after displaying the gift wagons, the castle gates opened.
Had Alvin held any real power, this wouldn’t have happened. But with authority firmly in the second wife’s hands, he had little choice but to relent.
Ixor adjusted the soldier’s helmet on his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.
His curiosity about the foreign beauty—this slave—burned fiercely, as did the anticipation of the delight he’d feel upon claiming her.
The convoy, consisting of ten soldiers, two standard-bearers, twenty attendants carrying silver trays, and heavily laden gift wagons, crossed the drawbridge. The sound of the portcullis rising echoed sharply as they entered. The air grew tense, and many held their breath.
It was a reckless move—entering enemy territory unarmed in the middle of a war.
“Do exercise caution,” Zephar whispered, his voice low.
“If they discover you’ve infiltrated the castle, things will spiral out of control.”
“Worried I might die?” Ixor teased.
“No. If you’re taken hostage, the disgrace will be irreparable.”
Blunt as ever, Zephar made it clear he’d rather see Ixor dead than captured.
Feigning carelessness, Ixor nudged his horse’s flank with his elbow, causing it to rear.
As Zephar clicked his tongue and calmed the animal, he turned to Sir Rob, one of their knights.
“Keep an eye on him,” Zephar instructed.
“When it’s time to retreat, I’ll blow the signal horn twice. Don’t miss it.”
Rob, a massive man built like a bear, adjusted the ill-fitting soldier’s armor with visible discomfort, scratching his side and nodding half-heartedly.
The armor, more toy-like than functional on his frame, seemed almost comical.
Ixor chuckled, defending the knight.
“He may look clumsy, but in a pinch, he’s the most reliable man I know.”
“I’m aware,” Zephar replied curtly, his focus shifting to the guards ahead.
With the portcullis fully raised, they finally entered the castle. At this point, there was no turning back.
The atmosphere inside the castle was calmer than expected. Morale was reasonably high, and there was no sign of food shortages.
Under his deeply pulled-down helmet, Ixor sharply observed his surroundings. Then, he sensed a gaze and looked up, momentarily stunned.
A young woman in white stood atop the castle wall, looking down at him. Though too far away to see her face, her slender figure and her aura that blended sultriness and mystique caught his eye.
His heart pounded violently. Her long, neatly braided black hair cascaded over her delicate shoulders.
“Not yet,” Zephar warned swiftly in a low voice, following Ixor’s gaze.
The woman, after observing him briefly, whispered something to a nearby militia member before disappearing from sight like the wind.
A surge of heated desire stirred deep within Ixor. His gaze remained fixed on the spot where she had vanished.
“Advisor, I must visit the latrine. My stomach’s been churning since dawn!”
Ixor exaggeratedly proclaimed, stomping his feet for effect, and wandered off without waiting for Zephar’s response.
The bear-like knight, Rob, trailed after him, grumbling about Ixor bringing embarrassment to their Lord.
Nearby, five soldiers of Drewbury sat on the ground, eating a late lunch. They barely gave Ixor and Rob a glance, showing neither interest nor vigilance.
Although still at war, the indifference displayed was striking. Even their weapons appeared poorly maintained—a testament to a life of peace under Drewbury’s rule.
The political landscape was complex. The kingdom had allowed nobles to engage in small-scale skirmishes, ensuring they weakened themselves without becoming strong enough to threaten royal authority. But this strategy left the monarchy’s influence increasingly eroded.
The small estate of Orlank, ruled by the late Count Drewbury, had been untouched by this volatile era—a bubble of peace.
“Ridiculous.”
Ixor muttered under his breath as he reached the spot where the woman had stood.
She was already gone. Frustration burned in him, fueled by an unfulfilled desire that made his skin prickle.
He hadn’t seen her up close, nor confirmed her beauty. Yet her presence had struck him with an inexplicable force. Whether she was conventionally beautiful or not mattered little—she was captivating.
“She went to the well,” he overheard from passersby.
Before he could pursue further, the blaring call of a horn signaled their group’s return.
Rob, following sluggishly, gave a knowing nod. If Ixor delayed further, he would be forcibly dragged back.
Grumbling, Ixor headed toward the well, muttering complaints about his subordinates prioritizing Zephar’s orders over his.
When he finally saw the well, his steps halted abruptly.
“Wow…”
Rob let out an exclamation before Ixor could say anything.
Sitting by the well was a young woman. She gazed at the blue sky with a faraway look, her hands loosely resting on her lap.
Despite her worn-out apron, frayed skirt, and plain face devoid of makeup, she radiated a magnetic allure.
When she turned her gaze toward him, Ixor’s breath caught. Her eyes were blacker than the night sky yet clearer than a mountain spring.
Was she the slave once favored by the late Count Drewbury? It didn’t matter. She was undoubtedly the woman from the wall.
I will have her.
Ixor approached her slowly, his gaze fixed, like a predator closing in on its prey.
“You don’t seem scared, even though you’re surrounded by enemy soldiers,” he said, a sly grin tugging at his lips.
She met his gaze, her tone steady.
“The horn has sounded. You should return.”
Her voice, low and composed, only stoked the fire in his chest.
“That’s quite a charming voice you’ve got.”
He deliberately laced his words with carnal intent, but she remained unaffected. This woman was an iceberg—aloof and impenetrable.
Every fiber of his being screamed to claim her. But today wasn’t the day. Instead, he opted for a pretense of civility.
“I’m thirsty,” he said, pretending nonchalance.
Without a word, she drew water with the well’s bucket, cupping her hand to offer it to him. Her movements were unhurried, precise, and utterly serene.
But Exer’s curiosity deepened. Was she truly just a slave? Her demeanor suggested otherwise.
On a sudden impulse, he grabbed her wrist and pulled. The bucket clattered to the ground as she stumbled into his arms.
Without hesitation, he pressed his lips to hers.
Her lips were dry but warm. He deepened the kiss, tightening his arm around her slim waist.
She did not resist, but neither did she respond. Her lips remained tightly shut.
When he finally pulled back, their faces were so close their eyelashes almost brushed.
Her unwavering gaze met his, devoid of fear or anger.
The horn blared again, signaling the final call.
“It’s time to go, my lord,” Rob urged.
Reluctantly, Ixor released her, a smirk curling his lips.
“Thank you for the water. I hope next time, it comes from a deeper well.”
The woman turned and walked away, unbothered.
Back at the camp, Zephar wasted no time.
“The castle gates will open tomorrow at 4 PM,” he reported.
“What are their terms?” Ixor asked.
“They demand we execute Count Drewbury’s eldest son, Alvin, and acknowledge the younger son as heir.”
Ixor mounted his horse with ease, tossing aside his cumbersome helmet.
“Fine. Prepare for lunch inside the castle tomorrow.”
At the appointed hour, Orlank’s gates opened and Ixor’s forces marched in triumphantly.
With Alvin’s execution swiftly carried out. The stage was set for the next act.
There were no rebellious or provocative soldiers from Drewbury. Most stood around blankly, quietly accepting the end of the war.
Women and children appeared to have been hidden away in the homes, as none were visible. Ixor forbade his soldiers from looting; the battle had not been fierce enough to warrant such behavior.
Inside the main castle, Drewbury’s young second wife, her child, and several administrators stood in a row.
The second wife was lavishly adorned in a luxurious dress, with jewels—hardly appropriate attire for a place where mourning attire would not have seemed out of place.
Ixor twisted his lips into a smirk.
His knights rode ahead to secure the place, their stern discipline instilling fear.
The second wife’s previously bright smile gave way to apprehension. Ixor stopped his horse right in front of her, offering a curt greeting without dismounting.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
After a brief hesitation, the second wife acknowledged him with the deference expected of a defeated party.
Still, Ixor remained wary, unsure if she had some hidden trick up her sleeve. He dismounted with a graceful motion, offering his hand.
She took it, rising to her feet with a slight blush on her cheeks.
“They say you’re the most beautiful woman in Orlank. For once, the rumors appear to be true.”
Ixor whispered a flirtatious compliment as he lightly placed his hand on her waist. The second wife’s eyes gleamed with a mix of intrigue and desire.
To her, Ixor wasn’t just any man. He was the infamous rogue who defied even the king’s control. A notorious playboy. A young nobleman who inherited the title of Lord at just 12 years old.
At the age of 28, he was unmarried, fabulously wealthy, and devastatingly handsome—he was, from a woman’s perspective, the ultimate prize.
“Alvin, long time no see.”
Ixor waved casually at Alvin, the young heir to Drewbury, whose lifeless body hung from the castle’s watchtower like a discarded sack of grain.
The second wife glanced at the sight with satisfaction, clearly glad to see the demise of her husband’s previous wife’s troublesome son.
Ixor led the second wife into the castle like he owned it. The banquet hall was already prepared with an extravagant feast.
To welcome enemy forces with such a celebration right after her husband’s death—it spoke volumes about her character. Had she been more intelligent, Ixor might have found her entertaining, but instead, he felt only revulsion.
Seated at the head of the table, Ixor found the second wife promptly taking the seat beside him.
A jester appeared to perform acrobatics, and a minstrel began to sing, his voice accompanied by the strumming of his instrument.
“Hahaha!”
The room filled with the laughter of women, the clinking of glasses, and the scent of roasted meat.
Ixor leaned on his hand, idly listening to the noise, his expression unreadable.
Then, the minstrel’s voice rose, and the room grew silent as he sang:
“The beautiful goddess of spring was trapped in the hands of the wicked king of winter. In his cold, barren kingdom, nothing could breathe…”
Ixor raised his hand slowly, and the minstrel’s song came to an abrupt halt.
A tense silence fell over the room.
“Is that supposed to mock me?”
Hello dear readers,
I really tried not to divide the chapters, but as you can see…
This divided chapter (after division) alone is 3300+ words while the average is less than 2000, so it’s personally impossible not to break the chapter apart( ⚈̥̥̥̥̥́⌢⚈̥̥̥̥̥̀)
I hope you liked this chapter though 💌
