A Background Character’s Path to Power

The Luthaire Barony stood as a sentinel at the northwestern edge of the Orlan Kingdom, its lands carved between the jagged peaks of the Ashenfang Mountains and the churning gray waters of the Northern Maw Sea.

A territory of harsh beauty and harsher purpose—for it shared a border with the Hollowlands, the Fractured Zone where the very flow of Aura had shattered into corruption.

Though merely a barony in title, the Luthaire family's prestige rivaled that of counts and dukes. They were one of the three Shield Families, tasked with guarding the kingdom from the Hollowlands' creeping horrors.

House Viremont(County), the strongest, commanded the Iron Throat Pass—the only land route linking the other two Houses to the kingdom's heart.

House Fenvar, Barons of the Frostbite Coast, faced the relentless tides of the Northern Maw. These waters, along with those bordering a small portion of the Hollowlands, had become thick with the Hollowlands' creeping taint.

And the Luthaires, wedged between mountain and abyss, faced the worst of the corruption's bite. Maybe so, they were also called the Wardens of the Hollow Veil.

Their castle—Eclipse Keep—was not grand, but it was unyielding. Built into the bones of the Ashenfang, its obsidian-black walls bore the scars of countless incursions. The only land route in or out snaked through Viremont's territory, making the Luthaire lands a fortress—and a gilded cage.

Which was why the academy messengers had arrived late.

Even with Aura Portals, the journey had taken days longer than planned. Maybe Hollowlands' distortion warped spatial frequencies, or Viremont's border checks were notoriously thorough, inspecting every crate, every horse, every plea for haste.

Now, at last, the messengers stood in Eclipse Keep's high-ceilinged hall, their boots scuffing against the black-and-silver heraldry of the Luthaire sigil: an ancient oak tree, its gnarled roots burrowing deep into solid stone. The air smelled of cold iron and older stone.

Before them loomed Lord Nusayel Von Luthaire, his posture rigid, his storm-gray eyes unreadable.

And descending the staircase behind him—

Selvienne Von Luthaire.

She descended with measured grace, her modest winter coat of deep blue wool brushing against the stone steps, her hair concealed beneath a traditional northern headwrap.

Her smile was warm as she took in the two young men in their academy uniforms. "Welcome to our home," she said, offering a slight bow before moving to sit beside her husband. The glance they exchanged lasted barely a heartbeat, but it carried volumes.

The visitors rose immediately. "Our thanks for your hospitality, Lady Luthaire," the eldest replied, bowing deeper.

The others followed suit—all four of them, though Nusayel's sharp eyes noted how the golden-eyed youth's fingers curled into fists, how the silver-haired one studied him with unsettling focus.

Nusayel leaned forward, his voice gravel-rough. "We're grateful you made the journey despite the roads." A pause. "Had we known of your visit, preparations could have been made."

The bespectacled man—clearly their leader—shook his head. "No need, Lord Luthaire. This is the least we could do."

Something in his tone made the air thicken. Nusayel's gaze flicked to Selvienne's lap, where her fingers trembled against the fabric before stilling.

"How may I address you?" Nusayel asked, deliberate.

"Professor Alden Harken, of the Grand Arcanum Academy's Student Affairs faculty."

Nusayel nodded. "Professor Harken. What brings you here?" His knuckles whitened imperceptibly on the armrest. "It isn't because my son caused trouble, I hope?"

Harken's denial came too quick. "No! Not at all—"

"?" At Nusayel's calm stare, Harken quickly composed himself, clearing his throat.

"No, Lord Luthaire, your son didn't cause any trouble. In fact, he's... quite the opposite. He's one of our most promising students. Diligent, talented, and always willing to help others. He's been an exemplary member of the academy."

A faint warmth flickered in Nusayel's storm-gray eyes, and Selvienne's lips curled into a soft smile at the professor's sincere praise. The tension in the hall eased slightly—until the golden-eyed youth suddenly spoke up.

He still couldn't meet their gaze, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his uniform.

"Aman… he's my best friend," the young man said, voice tight. "He's helped me so many times—with studies, training, even just… life. Even when I was lost. He was the one who pointed me in the right direction. I—I'll always be grateful to him. And indebted." His breath hitched. "Thank you… for raising such a good son. And… and…"

"I... I'm..."

His voice cracked.

"...s-sorry."

The words hung in the air like a blade.

Nusayel's grip tightened on the armrest again. Selvienne's smile had frozen, her fingers now clenched in her lap.

The tremor in the youth's voice, the way his apology trembled at the end—none of it sat right. A cold weight settled in their chests.

Selvienne was the first to break the silence, her voice gentle but edged with something brittle. "Thank you for being his friend. It means a great deal to us to hear that." A pause. Then, softly, "Is my son… okay?"

The professor stiffened. The silver-haired youth's gaze sharpened, flickering between them. The golden-eyed boy flinched as if struck.

Harken opened his mouth—but it was the silver-haired one who answered, his voice quiet, deliberate.

"Lady Luthaire… Lord Luthaire." His pale eyes met theirs, flinching slightly. "There... There was an incident."

The words were a guillotine's drop.

Selvienne's breath caught. Nusayel's expression darkened like a gathering storm.

"What incident?" Nusayel asked, his voice was low and unsettlingly calm.

Harken glanced at the two youths—the golden-eyed one trembling, the silver-haired one rigid—and gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached into his spatial pouch and withdrew two rings, sliding them across the table toward Nusayel.

The baron's gaze dropped to them, but he did not touch them.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

Harken inhaled deeply, as if bracing himself.

"Three weeks ago," he began, "a monster horde struck the town near our academy. At the same time, a spatial tear opened within the campus grounds. The chaos was… unprecedented."

Selvienne's breath hitched. Her hands, folded tightly in her lap, had gone white-knuckled.

Nusayel frowned slightly, guessing where this was going.

"Everyone did their best." Harken continued. "But your son—" He hesitated, then forced himself onward. "He was the one who shone the most."

"He..."