June 23rd, 1810 — London, Great Britain
The scene opened slowly over the farther grounds of London, where the grand palace of the Pendragon royal family stood visible even from a distance, its silhouette cutting through the pale morning sky. Parts of the city still lay scarred and unfinished, scaffolding clinging to wounded stone like fragile stitches. The attack—swift, merciless, inhuman—had left its mark. Though the public did not know the name of the perpetrator, they knew fear. And fear lingered long after fire faded.
If devastation could reach one of the most powerful nations within the human realm, then nowhere was truly safe.
Beyond the city's heart, where noise thinned and nature reclaimed its breath, lay a vast stretch of land owned by a young master. Upon it stood a mansion—smaller than a palace, yet far grander than any common estate. Within those walls lived the newest member of King Arthur's Round Table of Dukes and the Chosen Hero of Fate: Grand Duke Caelen Durandal.
And beside him—always beside him—his mother, Grand Duchess Miria Durandal.
Caelen sat at the head of a long dining table carved from dark polished oak, dressed in garments woven from the finest fabrics the empire could offer. Gold-thread embroidery traced the edges of his sleeves. Jewels fastened his collar. The weight of nobility rested lightly on his shoulders—at least outwardly.
Before him lay dishes most citizens would never even glimpse in their lifetime. Lobster seasoned with imported spices. Rare caviar served on porcelain trimmed in silver. Fresh bread still warm from the ovens. Fruits from distant colonies arranged like decorative offerings.
Everything had already been cut into careful portions for him.
With only his right hand remaining, such accommodations were necessary.
"Not bad," Caelen murmured after taking a measured bite. His voice was calm, almost indifferent.
A maid stepped forward at once, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a pure white cloth, movements precise and practiced.
"Though I still prefer Mother's cooking," he added quietly. "But for what high nobles eat… this isn't bad."
He was adjusting. Slowly.
To the wealth. To the servants. To the bowing heads. To the title.
Grand Duke.
In his previous life, survival had been the only luxury. Now comfort wrapped around him like silk—soft, suffocating, unreal.
His gaze shifted toward Miria.
She wore warm hues of orange and ivory, noble attire that seemed made to match her presence. Her sunlit hair—so similar to his own—rested gently over her shoulder. In this room of polished marble and gleaming silver, she was the only thing that felt familiar.
"Mama," Caelen called gently. "How is the food? Is it to your liking?"
Miria did not answer with words. She simply smiled—soft, almost shy—and nodded with a small, almost childlike motion.
For a fleeting second, Caelen's composure loosened.
He smiled too.
"That's good," he said, and there was sincerity in it. "I'm glad."
Her comfort mattered more than the title ever would.
The quiet clink of utensils was interrupted by approaching footsteps. A maid entered, escorted by several knights bearing the Durandal insignia. They bowed deeply.
"My Lord."
"Yes?"
"You have guests who have arrived to see you."
"Guests?"
"The royal family, my Lord."
Caelen paused.
He placed his fork down with deliberate calm and rose from his seat.
"You should have said that first."
"Forgive me, my Lord."
"It's fine." He waved it off lightly.
Turning to Miria, his tone softened again.
"Mama, we should go. We can finish later. We must pay our respects to those who granted us this life."
He extended his right hand toward her. Carefully—always carefully—he helped her to her feet.
Before leaving, he addressed the four chief cooks standing near the far wall.
"Keep everything prepared. We'll eat again once we return."
"As you wish, my Lord," they replied in unison, bowing deeply.
The walk toward the main hall was quiet.
Sunlight filtered through tall windows as they passed, casting shifting patterns across the marble floor. Caelen glanced outside at the sweeping land now under his authority.
It had only been a month.
A single month since everything changed.
And yet it felt like he was walking through someone else's story.
This house. These servants. These clothes. This land. The title.
Grand Duke of the British Empire.
He had asked for something small. Modest. Enough to live peacefully.
His Majesty had insisted otherwise.
A larger domain. People to govern. Responsibility.
Honor.
Caelen had not wanted subjects.
Governing lives meant shaping destinies. And shaping destinies meant carrying weight.
He was not afraid of weight.
He simply did not know if he deserved it.
As the grand doors of the entry hall came into view, a thought surfaced quietly—uninvited.
Do I really deserve all of this?
The question did not show on his face.
But it lingered within him like a shadow no sunlight could fully erase.
For a moment, Caelen's resolve wavered.
The thought had slipped through the cracks of his composure before he could stop it.
But he straightened almost instantly.
No.
What am I saying?
This was never about him.
This was about his mother.
That was all that mattered.
He had chosen the path of "heroism" for one reason alone—the leverage it granted him. Influence. Protection. Power. Security. A shield strong enough to ensure his mother would never suffer again.
He did not care about saving the world. He did not care about the universe. He did not care about humanity's grand narrative.
Not after what had been taken from them.
"I will only fight to create a safer place for Mother," he told himself quietly. "Nothing more. Nothing else."
His eyes—sharp and piercing like an eagle's—settled on Miria.
"This is the destiny I chose."
And unlike fate, it was one he would not allow anyone to rewrite.
They arrived at the entrance hall.
Tall doors of polished oak stood open, sunlight pouring in behind distinguished silhouettes.
The royal family of Great Britain.
"Greetings, Your Majesty. Your Highness," Caelen bowed deeply, one hand over his chest. Miria quickly followed his lead, her movements slightly delayed, still unfamiliar with the rigid etiquette of nobility.
"It is an honor to welcome you to my estate."
Before them stood King Arthur Aurelius Pendragon—commanding, composed, carrying the quiet authority of a ruler forged by both crown and conflict. Beside him was Queen Isolde Celestine Pendragon, her beauty refined yet warm, her presence neither overwhelming nor distant, but balanced.
Caelen stepped forward and respectfully kissed the back of the King's and Queen's hands.
Queen Isolde smiled.
"And how have you been adjusting to life as a Duke of the kingdom, Great Hero Caelen?" she asked, her tone gentle but observant.
"Just fine, Your Highness," Caelen replied evenly. "There are matters I am still unfamiliar with. However, I intend to continue my studies and tutoring so that I may better serve the royal family—and the kingdom."
A careful answer. Measured. Appropriate.
Queen Isolde placed a finger lightly against her cheek, amused. "How diligent. Truly admirable for someone so young."
"I am grateful for your praise," Caelen said, lowering his gaze modestly.
It was then that movement near the entrance drew his attention.
Two more figures entered.
Princess Aurora Pendragon.
And Prince Tristan Pendragon.
Aurora walked with natural elegance, posture straight, chin slightly lifted—not arrogantly, but confidently. Even at her age, she carried herself like someone fully aware of her position and unafraid of it. Her beauty was undeniable, but what stood out more was the sharpness in her eyes. She observed. Measured. Understood.
Tristan, in contrast, lingered half a step behind her. Softer. Quieter. His demeanor carried innocence untouched by politics.
"It is a pleasure to see you again, Great Hero," Aurora said, inclining her head slightly toward Caelen.
Caelen clicked his tongue under his breath.
"You again."
Aurora's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Indeed. And this time, I do not intend to let you escape so easily."
He exhaled slowly.
She was troublesome.
Not because she was loud. Not because she was arrogant.
But because she saw too much.
Caelen shifted his attention to Prince Tristan, who instinctively moved closer to his older sister.
The boy avoided eye contact, fingers lightly clutching Aurora's sleeve.
Caelen stared at him for a moment—expression unreadable.
"Staring at him will not help," Aurora remarked casually, though there was subtle intent behind her tone. "You must smile. I know it is not your specialty, but you could attempt it."
"You speak as if you know me," Caelen replied coolly.
Aurora's eyes softened, just slightly.
"Your type is difficult for most people," she said. "Quiet. Expressionless. Hard to read."
She tilted her head.
"But to me? You are rather simple."
He raised an eyebrow faintly.
"You reveal far more through what you do than what you say."
For a brief second—barely noticeable—Caelen's gaze sharpened.
She was closer to the truth than she realized.
He did not respond.
Instead, he crouched down before Prince Tristan. With deliberate control, he formed the practiced smile he often wore in public.
"You need not be shy, Your Highness," Caelen said, extending his right hand. "You may speak freely."
Tristan looked around uncertainly, seeking reassurance.
King Arthur watched with quiet interest. Queen Isolde smiled warmly. Aurora gave her brother a gentle nod.
Encouraged, the young prince stepped forward and placed his small hand into Caelen's.
"H-hello… M-Mister Hero," Tristan stammered, his voice soft and trembling.
The sight drew faint laughter and softened expressions from those present.
It was undeniably endearing.
Caelen maintained his smile.
To any observer, it would have appeared genuine.
Only Aurora noticed the slight stiffness in his eyes.
"See?" she said lightly. "It was not so difficult. You should heed my advice more often. Between the two of us, I am clearly the wiser."
Caelen rose to his feet, releasing Tristan's hand carefully.
He looked tired. Not physically. But internally.
"Of course," he replied flatly. "As you say, Your Highness."
Aurora studied him for a moment longer.
She did not expose him. She did not press him.
Instead, she simply smiled.
And for reasons Caelen did not fully understand, that smile felt less like mockery—and more like patience.
Several minutes passed after the royal family's arrival, and the atmosphere gradually settled into formal discussion.
Caelen now sat across from King Arthur, posture straight, expression composed.
His gaze drifted—just briefly—toward Miria.
She was seated beside Queen Isolde and Princess Aurora, gently drawn into their warmth. The Queen spoke with an ease that dissolved tension rather than enforcing it. Aurora added light remarks that coaxed shy laughter from Miria.
And Miria… smiled.
Not the polite smile she wore in public.
A real one.
Something inside Caelen softened at the sight.
For all his cold calculations and guarded thoughts, he could not deny the quiet relief that filled him whenever his mother looked at peace.
"Great Hero," King Arthur's voice called, steady and direct.
Caelen's attention returned immediately.
"You may be wondering why I have come to your estate today."
Caelen inclined his head slightly. "I assumed there was important news, Your Majesty."
"There is."
Arthur folded his hands upon his knee.
"We have received the Elven Kingdom's response regarding our proposal—to send you and the other human heroes to their realm. Both as protection… and as a means to accelerate your growth in strength."
Caelen remained silent, listening carefully.
"They have agreed."
The words settled heavily in the room.
"A date has been set," Arthur continued. "You will depart the human realm within the coming month."
For the first time since the meeting began, Caelen's composure fractured.
His body stiffened.
Within a month?
He had anticipated three—at least three. Time to prepare. Time to adjust. Time to breathe.
Everything was moving too quickly.
Too quickly for someone who had only just reclaimed what mattered most.
Arthur noticed.
"This is precisely why I wished to inform you personally," the King said, his tone softer now. "You have not been given the luxury of settling fully into your new life. And yet, you are being asked to leave it—once more."
The words struck deeper than intended.
It had only been months since Caelen had reunited with Miria. Months since he had been freed from Percival's chains. Months since his father, Adam, had given his life to protect him.
And now—
He would have to leave her.
"How long?" Caelen asked quietly.
"Approximately three years within the human realm," Arthur replied. "Four years within the elven realm. Time flows differently there."
Three years.
Four years.
An eternity.
Caelen's expression darkened—not outwardly emotional, but hollowed.
Would she be safe? Would loneliness return to her eyes? Would despair creep back into her heart after they had only just found each other again?
His right hand clenched tightly against his knee.
Should I abandon this path?
Should I forsake this 'hero' role entirely?
For a brief, dangerous moment, the thought felt tempting.
Then reality returned.
No.
To abandon it would mean relinquishing everything he had secured for her. The title. The protection. The power.
He could not afford that.
Not for himself.
But for her.
King Arthur suddenly placed a firm, steady hand upon Caelen's shoulder.
"Grand Duke Caelen," he said, his voice carrying both authority and sincerity. "You are worried for your mother. That much is evident—not through your words, but through your actions."
Caelen's eyes flickered slightly.
"I swear to you, upon the name of the House of Pendragon, that she will be protected. Not merely in body—but in spirit."
Arthur's gaze did not waver.
"I swear it upon my ancestors. And upon the heavens themselves."
The conviction in his voice was not political.
It was personal.
Slowly, the tension in Caelen's shoulders eased.
For the first time since the announcement, he exhaled properly.
"Thank you… Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head—not out of obligation, but genuine gratitude.
Moments later, after silence had settled once more, Caelen spoke again.
"There is one request I would make before my departure."
Arthur raised an eyebrow slightly. "Speak."
"I wish to meet the other chosen heroes before we leave. Especially…"
He paused.
"…the new Chosen Master of the Divine Blade of Salvation—Excalibur."
The King regarded him with mild surprise, but did not reject the request.
"That is reasonable," Arthur replied after a moment. "You will fight alongside one another for years. It is only proper that you become acquainted in advance."
He nodded once.
"I will arrange it."
Caelen lowered his gaze slightly, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
Xavier Ivanovich.
The Hero of Origin.
During his imprisonment within Percival's domain, the devil had spoken of that name constantly.
Obsessively.
Comparisons. Mockery. Admiration twisted into something darker.
Xavier.
As if the boy were the axis upon which Percival's entire world turned.
As if nothing else held equal weight.
It had irritated Caelen then.
Now… it intrigued him.
What kind of person commands such fixation from a devil?
What kind of hero does a monster refuse to stop speaking of?
Caelen's eyes darkened slightly.
He would see for himself.
And when he did—
He would decide what that boy truly was.