[AFYC] Chapter 1

*Peerage order: King → Duke (royal family) → Marquis (nobility) → Earl → Baron

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The man thought the plan would work.

The intelligence was precise, and their sheer number of troops was overwhelming. Everything was in place for a swift and decisive victory. Yet now, as he lay on the ground amidst the carnage the figure above him had inflicted. The cold reality of his miscalculations bore down on him.

“Did you think it would work?” The voice was calm, almost mocking, as if the speaker already knew the answer. It was a rhetorical question, one not meant to be answered but to deepen the sting of failure. Oscar’s boots were pressed firmly against the neck of the man on the ground, a final act of dominance over someone who had underestimated him. 

The sky above was a dark canvas, devoid of stars as if the heavens themselves refused to bear witness to the gruesome scene below. The interrogator’s silhouette, backlit by the faint glow of a dying fire, loomed over his victim like a harbinger of death. He was a man who could sever limbs without the slightest hesitation, a man who had once walked to his death only to reverse the roles, guiding his would-be executioner to his doom instead. 

Oscar’s tousled black hair clung to his forehead, matted with sweat and grime, while his icy blue eyes—unblinking and unnervingly focused—glared down at the man who had dared to challenge him. His appearance, marred by the blood and dirt of battle, still held an inhuman beauty, his features sharp and unyielding like a finely sculpted statue. 

As he inhaled deeply from his cigarette, a smirk played on his lips, accentuating the cruel twist of his mouth. “If you knew it would turn out like this, would you have come? Eh?” His voice was laced with cold amusement, as if the answer, irrelevant as it was, might offer him some small comfort in this moment of grim satisfaction. 

The man on the ground, his life ebbing away with each laboured breath, could only manage a strangled gurgle in response. His hands clawed weakly at the dirt, trying in vain to push against the oppressive weight on his neck. But Oscar remained unmoved, merely watching as the life drained from his victim’s eyes, the final spark of defiance extinguished. 

Behind Oscar, the aftermath of the battle unfolded in eerie silence. The blood-soaked wilderness stretched out in every direction; a desolate landscape littered with the bodies of the fallen. Men in dark suits moved among the corpses with quiet efficiency, dragging the dead into shallow graves while vultures circled ominously above, waiting for their feast. 

“We’ve captured two alive,” one of the men reported, his voice cutting through the silence. “The rest are confirmed dead.” 

Oscar finally lifted his boot, allowing the now-lifeless body to slump to the ground. With a deliberate calm, he rubbed the blood off his boot using the dead man’s clothes as if wiping away an insignificant stain. “Bury the dead,” he ordered, “and make the ones we captured talk.” 

“Understood. What about the remaining schedule?” The man’s tone was respectful, almost reverent, as he awaited further instructions. 

Oscar took his time, finishing his cigarette before carelessly tossing it aside. Removing his black gloves, he glanced at the man beside him, his expression unreadable. “A promise is a promise, Simon,” he said, a hint of irony in his voice. “Of course, that idiot wanted me dead here, but too bad.” 

As he walked across the battlefield, stepping over bodies with a casual disregard, men dressed in black suits emerged from the shadows, forming a silent honour guard along his path. Their movements were precise and synchronised, a showing of the discipline and loyalty they held for their master. Oscar climbed into the waiting carriage, wiping his hands and face with a damp cloth. The blood on his sleeve was a minor inconvenience, not worth the effort of changing clothes. 

He tossed the blood-stained cloth into a corner, his gaze drifting to the window. The carnage outside was a stark reminder of the brutality of war, a constant presence in his life that he had grown weary of. There were only two ways to escape this endless cycle of violence: by severing the head of Luxen’s King Leopold or by succumbing to death himself. 

But death was not an option for Oscar. He had no intention of losing, of sacrificing any part of himself in the pursuit of victory. He wanted an absolute, overwhelming triumph that would leave no room for doubt or opposition. His mind was fixed on this goal, unwavering in its determination. 

He lit another cigarette, the bitter smoke filling the carriage, mingling with the lingering scent of blood. His eyes, cold and unyielding as ever, reflected the icy resolve within him. What he sought was not just any victory—it was a flawless, bloodless victory that would cement his place in history as an unrivalled strategist. 

♔♔♔ 

In the city of Felphe, there wasn’t a soul who didn’t know of the luxurious stone mansion by the Daube River. A relic of a bygone era, the mansion had once been a gift from a king to his beloved mistress, a woman who had captivated him like no other. Over the course of a century, the mansion had changed hands many times, serving various purposes—from a theatre to a summer residence for nobles. Yet, fifty years after the king’s mistress had passed away, the mansion reclaimed its original name: Arman Rose. 

Arman Rose was more than just a building; it was a symbol of Felphe’s history and culture, a place steeped in scandal and opulence. In a city where prostitution was not only legal but thriving, the Arman Rose Mansion was the most famous den of pleasure. Unlike the common brothels hidden away in back alleys, Arman Rose catered to a different clientele—royalty and nobility from across the Norfolk continent. A single night within its walls could cost as much as two months of living expenses for an average middle-class household. 

When the mansion hosted well-known figures on certain nights, its earnings could surpass those of an entire month for most businesses. Today was one of those nights. 

“He finally arrives!” The gatekeeper, ever vigilant, called out as a carriage approached the mansion’s grand entrance. Kathryn, the owner of Arman Rose, hurriedly stubbed out her cigarette, her hands trembling slightly with anticipation. “What is His Grace doing?” she asked, her voice betraying a rare hint of nervousness. 

The man who approached her shook his head; his expression grim. “It’s chaos already. The doors are locked and won’t open. The Duke’s secretary is pleading to buy some time.” 

Kathryn’s intuition, honed by decades in the business, told her that something was amiss. The guest who was expected to visit Arman Rose today was no ordinary patron. He was a figure of immense power and influence, known to everyone in East Norfolk. 

While Duke Baden, the half-brother of the King of Felphe and president of the Bank of Felphe, was indeed a significant person, he paled in comparison to the Marquis of Reinhardt of the Kingdom of Luxen. The Marquis’ presence at Arman Rose was not merely a social visit; it was an event of monumental importance that could have far-reaching consequences. 

Kathryn’s mind raced as she considered the implications. The Marquis of Reinhardt was not a man to be trifled with. His reputation for ruthlessness and cunning was well-deserved, and any misstep in dealing with him could be disastrous. 

As she stood at the entrance, waiting for the Marquis’ arrival, Kathryn couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight would be different from any other night at Arman Rose. The air was thick with tension, the kind that preceded a storm. And Kathryn, ever the shrewd businesswoman, knew that she had to be prepared for whatever might come her way.  

Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat as the carriage door opened and the Marquis stepped out. She forced herself to remain calm and greet him with the grace and poise that Arman Rose was known for. But deep down, she knew that this encounter would be anything but ordinary.