Legacy of House Bloodstrong

A/N: Art by Andreas Rocha

Bloodstrong is an ancient noble house in the Kingdom of Anglia, renowned for the rich copper ores from its mines in the deep mountains. House Bloodstrong rules its territories from its seat, Redstone Keep, an ancient castle teeming with guards and servants.

Your father, Lord Alder Bloodstrong, is the current lord. He is a middle-aged man of adequate but unremarkable talent. Your mother, Lady Jenna Bloodstrong, is a proud and determined noblewoman, ever watchful over your family's legacy.

You are Eland Bloodstrong, the heir to Redstone Keep, and today marks your eighteenth birthday. This is where your story begins.

'You are a man now, my son,' your father declares, his voice echoing through the stone halls of Redstone Keep. 'You need to take a wife and father an heir. Redstone Keep must have a future - our future.'

The words weigh down on you, pressing into your chest like a fist tightening around your lungs. You know what he means, what this place demands. It’s the same story for every lord’s heir. Marry. Breed. Rule. The Bloodstrong legacy cannot die with you.

Before you can respond, your mother, Lady Jenna Bloodstrong, interjects, her sharp voice slicing through the air like a blade. 'Only a son born from your legal wife can inherit Redstone Keep.' Her eyes narrow, watching your father, who shifts uncomfortably at the implication. She knows his dalliances - everyone does - but she will never allow the bastards born of whores and tavern maids to taint the Bloodstrong line. 'Bastards have no claim. You will marry well, Eland. And your lady wife will bear the true heir.'

Your father’s face flushes slightly, the discomfort visible in the way his hands fidget on the table. He knows better than to argue with her. He always has.

You feel their eyes on you, waiting for your answer. The weight of tradition, duty, expectation - all of it crushes down at once. But even in this moment, a spark of defiance flickers in your chest. You straighten your back, your voice steady as you speak.

'I will marry,' you say, your voice firm, though your heart beats harder than before. 'And I will father an heir, as is my responsibility.'

You see your father nod, the faintest relief in his eyes, but your mother’s stare remains unwavering. She waits for the next part, the part where you accept the match she’s surely already plotted in her mind.

'But,' you add, locking eyes with her, 'I will choose my wife. No one else.'

The thought of who you might marry swirls in your mind. A commoner childhood friend from the castle, someone who knows you for more than your title? A highborn lady with titles and lands, as your mother undoubtedly expects? Or maybe you’ll defy them all and choose someone unthinkable - a servant girl, or even one of the whores your father has so often indulged in.

The choice is yours to make.