Chapter 1: Inheritance of Ash
1.1 The Four Hundred Year Rot
For nearly four centuries, the Duchy of Valtoria had served as the Empire's Western Gate. Its true strength lay not in legions of soldiers, but in its sprawling, deep-water harbor—the vital nexus for trade that laced together three distinct kingdoms. It funneled timber, grain, and exotic spices into the imperial heartland.
But prosperity, like all great things, carried the seeds of its own demise.
Two decades prior, the Empire began to succumb to a slow, internal rot. Famine gnawed at the core provinces; drought and locusts crippled the harvests; the treasury bled dry. Emperor Caldrien IV, aged and distracted by bitter succession struggles, ceded effective control to his scheming court. Nobles, sensing the center's weakness, quietly began the work of self-preservation.
The Duchy of Valtoria reacted with pragmatic haste. They stockpiled grain, reinforced old fort walls, and expanded border guards. It was preparation against chaos—not defiance of the Emperor.
Yet, in a paranoid, starving empire, caution is easily rebranded as conspiracy.
A whisper started it: "The Duke raises troops." Then, a rumor: "He is cutting forbidden timber to build warships." Finally, the lie: "He has pledged the port to a foreign power."
Pressured by fearful princes and the High Treasurer, the Emperor chose stability over truth. Troops marched. The Duke's pleas that he was preparing for famine, not treason, were drowned out by the roar of cannons.
The final act of destruction was the betrayal from within: the branch family of Eastern Valtoria, Kalen's own kin, provided the "evidence" necessary to justify the execution order. It didn't matter that the claims were baseless. Truth was a luxury the falling Empire could no longer afford.
The Duchy burned. The ancient manor was reduced to cinders, the docks shattered by bombardment. The ducal family was largely exterminated in the flight, and the remaining population scattered.
To quiet international outrage, the Emperor eventually restored the title—but the lands themselves were a scorched, politically poisoned ruin.
A symbol was needed: a new Duke for a dead land.
1.2 The Spare and the Scapegoat
Kalen Valtoria had been born and raised in the Eastern County manor, a life defined by comfortable irrelevance. As the second son, he was the spare—the boy permitted to indulge in quiet studies and the shadows of the estate while his elder brother, Marcus, diligently mastered the ruthless art of courtly manipulation. Kalen was groomed for nothing, expected to be nothing.
This changed two weeks ago.
The arrival of the Imperial Messenger was heralded not by fanfares, but by the cold, ceremonial weight of a golden decree, sealed with the Emperor's faded crest. The Messenger's voice sliced through the dinner hall silence:
"By Imperial Will, Kalen Valtoria is hereby appointed Duke of the Reconstituted Duchy of Valtoria. He is ordered to proceed immediately to his charge."
Marcus's practiced, political smile shattered. His father's jaw went slack. Kalen's mother pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, recognizing the decree not as a promotion, but as a sentence.
Kalen felt no pride. He understood the brutal simplicity of the move. He was chosen not for his competence, but for his insignificance. He was a branch name, distant enough to hold no threat, yet close enough to the bloodline to satisfy the populace.
He was the perfect, controllable offering.
He was expendable.
1.3 Inheritance of Ash
The final leg of the journey was silent, the carriage wheels crunching over roads long unmaintained. Kalen pressed his face to the dusty glass, his first view of his dominion: a coastline drained of vitality.
The great port was a skeleton. Charred timbers jutted from the sand like the broken ribs of a giant creature. Warehouses, half-melted, leaned into the pervasive salt wind, destined for collapse. The once-grand lighthouse stood cleaved down the center, a permanent monument to the bombardment. The silence was broken only by the mournful cries of seabirds circling the desolation.
This was the Duchy of Valtoria. His inheritance.
The carriage shuddered to a halt before the manor—a desolate husk. Only a single service wing stood partially intact, its roof a patchwork of hastily placed slate and wood.
Standing rigid at the entrance was a woman, thin and worn, yet possessing a remnant of stately grace.
She executed a deep, formal bow, her gaze heavy with unspoken history. "I am Mira, former servant of the late Duke. Welcome home, Your Grace. The hearth is cold, but the title remains yours."
Beside her stood Captain Luthor Graye, his patched armor signifying more token imperial presence than actual military might. He gave a stiff salute. "We have been waiting, Your Grace. The matters requiring your attention are, regrettably, beyond count."
Kalen stepped out onto the ash-stained ground, inhaling the bitter smell of burnt timber and stagnant seawater.
Regrettably, beyond count. The list was already forming in his mind: Famine. Plague. Refugees. Foreign encroachment. And the constant, lurking political knife of the court that sent him here.
Kalen Valtoria, the spare son, had arrived to rule his ruin. His position was simple: he was the Emperor's symbolic proof of stability, a safe sacrifice, and the designated failure for the inevitable collapse.