15

~3 Years Later~

The squad room felt… different. No longer a chaotic space of oversized uniforms and clumsy attempts at self-sufficiency, it was now subtly tailored to Julian’s presence. His bunk was impeccably made, adorned with a small, intricately carved dragon figurine - a gift from Thaline. The air hummed with a quiet efficiency, a testament to the rigorous training he’d undergone.

Julian, now ten years old, stood a near shoulder to shoulder with most of the shorter dragoons-in-training. The childish softness had begun to harden into lean muscle, sculpted by years of relentless physical conditioning. His once-pale skin was now gently one shade darker but still vastly fair, from hours spent under the sun, honing his swordsmanship and mastering the art of dragoon combat. The silver feather earring Isolde had gifted him still graced his ear, a constant reminder of the freedom she’d encouraged... and the intimacy promised to him once he became a man and sought her out again.

“It’s your 10th birthday.”

Thaline said, her voice unsurprisingly devoid of warmth. It wasn't a lack of affection, but rather a deliberate attempt to maintain a professional distance. She ran a hand over Julian’s head, her fingers lightly tugging on his outgrown white locks of hair. The gesture was almost absentminded, a habitual check on his progress.

“You’ve managed to survive my training, thrive even.”

She continued, her gaze sweeping over him with a critical assessment.

“Your improvements leave me great hope and expectations for your future.”

It wasn’t praise, not exactly. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same stoicism she applied to battlefield reports. Her expectations were, and always had been, impossibly high. Julian had learned to interpret her ‘satisfaction’ as a temporary reprieve from further torment.

"That being said... your marriage has been arranged. You will marry the elderly Duchess of Mondbaie (Moonberry) and take care of her till she perishes in her old age. She has agreed to leave everything to you as her heir after her ****. Providing you are a good husband to her."

Thaline said firmly, giving Julian's head a firm squeeze as if daring him to refuse.

Thaline’s words landed like a physical blow, stealing the air from Julian’s lungs. He stared up at his aunt, his expression blank with shock. Marriage? At ten years old? To an 'elderly' Duchess? The absurdity of it all threatened to overwhelm him. He’d faced grueling training, sparred with seasoned warriors and incurred embarrassing beat downs from both his aunt and sister... but this was a non-physical battle of mental fortitude to endure if he wanted to inherit a Dukedom for himself...

"Um... and... and ah... how old... is she?"

His mouth was dry but the opportunity was too stupid to give up. Thaline’s grip on Julian’s head tightened, her knuckles white. It wasn’t a gesture of affection, but a firm assertion of control, a silent dare for him to voice any dissent. Her expression remained impassive, a mask of regal authority.

“Seventy-two years of age.”

Thaline stated flatly, as if reciting a statistic.

“The Duchess of Mondbaie is… past her prime, shall we say. She has no living heirs and wishes to secure a competent administrator for her estates. Her health is failing, and she requires a dedicated companion.”

Julian swallowed hard, the lump in his throat feeling immense. Seventy-two years old… the image that flashed in his mind was of a frail, withered woman with undoubtedly saggy boobs. But the prospect of inheriting a Dukedom, of wielding that kind of power and wealth… it was too tempting to dismiss outright. He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to meet Thaline’s gaze.

“Very well.”

Julian said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the turmoil within.

“I shall meet the Duchess.”

“Good, because she’s already here to pick you up.”

Thaline said, a flicker of something akin to amusement dancing in her eyes. It was a small, coy smirk, barely perceptible, but it was there, betraying a hint of satisfaction at his compliance. She enjoyed orchestrating these events, molding Julian into the weapon – and now, the political pawn – she needed him to be.

A moment later, a stern-faced guard announced the arrival of the Duchess of Mondbaie. Julian followed Thaline out of the squad room and into the courtyard, where a lavishly decorated carriage awaited. It was far more opulent than any he’d seen before, adorned with gilded carvings and plush velvet upholstery. Standing beside the carriage was a woman who, despite her age, radiated an air of formidable authority. She wore an expensive robe that hid most of her body and a facial veil that showcased only her honey-esque golden eyes to him.

“May I present my nephew, Julian Matteus Liano Wolflace.”

Thaline announced, her voice ringing with a practiced formality. She gestured towards Julian with a subtle flick of her wrist, presenting him as one might display a prized possession. Her eyes held a warning – behave.

Julian stepped into a halfway formal bow, a gesture he’d diligently practiced under Thaline’s instruction. It was a clumsy attempt at grace, but passable enough to convey a semblance of respect. The Duchess remained impassive, her veiled face offering no hint of her thoughts.

“The Duchess Zefeni Mond of the Mondbaie Dukedom accepts Mr. Julian Wolflace as her fiancee.”

The escort announced, his voice booming with the authority of a seasoned diplomat. It felt… strange. A formal declaration of betrothal, delivered as if it were a trade agreement. Julian felt a blush creep up his neck, acutely aware of the absurdity of the situation. He risked a glance at Thaline, who offered only a curt nod of approval.

There was no time for farewells. Thaline, ever efficient, practically shoved Julian towards the carriage after the Duchess, her grip firm on his shoulder. The other dragoons offered sympathetic glances, a few murmurs of 'good luck', but Julian barely registered them. He was swept into a whirlwind of silk and perfume, the carriage door closing behind him with a decisive click.

The carriage lurched into motion, the rhythmic sway a strange counterpoint to the turmoil in Julian’s stomach. The interior was even more lavish than the exterior, upholstered in rich velvet and adorned with intricate gold detailing. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and something else… something faintly medicinal.

“Come to me.”

Duchess Zefeni’s voice, when it came, was a low, raspy murmur, barely audible above the creaking of the carriage. It carried an undeniable command, a subtle expectation of obedience. She patted her lap, a surprisingly maternal gesture despite her imposing presence, her veiled eyes fixed on Julian with an unsettling intensity. It was clear she expected him to sit with her. The invitation felt… wrong. Intimate, in a way that made his skin crawl. But refusing the Duchess on their very first encounter seemed… unwise.

Julian’s jaw clenched, his small muscles straining with resistance. The idea of sitting on the lap of a woman several times his age, a woman he was betrothed to for purely political reasons, was deeply unsettling. But he’d been raised to obey, to prioritize duty above all else. He swallowed his pride, pushing aside the instinctive revulsion, and carefully settled onto the Duchess’s lap. It felt… wrong. Her robes were soft, but her body was surprisingly frail beneath them. He kept his limbs stiff, avoiding any unnecessary weight on her leg.

A soft sigh escaped the Duchess’s lips, a sound of contentment that sent a shiver down Julian’s spine. She didn’t speak, didn’t offer a word of greeting or explanation. Instead, she simply adjusted his position on her lap, her hands surprisingly strong for someone of her age. She then reached up and slowly, deliberately, began to smooth down his hair. It wasn’t a gentle caress, but a methodical, assessing touch, as if she were evaluating the quality of his hair, the texture of his skin. He remained rigidly still, his gaze fixed on the ornate carvings of the carriage wall, desperately trying to avoid looking at her veiled face. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the faint creaking of the carriage. It was a silence thick with unspoken expectations, a silence that felt buzzing to the ears.

“The marriage agreement has been drawn up.”

The Duchess murmured, her voice a low rumble that vibrated against Julian’s back. She inhaled the scent of his hair, a strangely possessive gesture, and tightened her grip around him, pulling him closer. He could feel the subtle pressure of her fingers digging into his sides, not painfully, but firmly, as if claiming ownership. It was a suffocating embrace, both physically and embarrassingly.

As if summoned by her words, a parchment materialized between them, hovering in the air as if suspended by an invisible thread. Beside it floated a delicate feather quill, shimmering with a faint, ethereal glow. It was clear the Duchess’s own magic was at play, effortlessly providing the tools for their union. The parchment itself was thick and ornate, sealed with the crest of the Mondbaie Dukedom. Julian could make out the intricate script, detailing the terms of the marriage – a transfer of ownership, a binding agreement of loyalty, a promise of heirs - whatever that meant in her old batty years. Wouldn't her womb be all dried up already? It was a cold, clinical document, devoid of any sentimentality. He hadn’t even realized how tightly he was holding his breath until a small cough escaped his lips.

Julian, feeling a strange sense of detachment, sheepishly reached for the quill. As his fingers brushed against the feather, the tip magically bloomed with bloodred ink, a stark contrast to the pristine parchment. It was an unsettling colour, a symbol of the binding nature of the agreement, a reminder that this was more than just a formality. He hesitated for a moment, his small hand trembling slightly, then steeled his resolve and signed his name –Julian Matteus Liano Wolflace– in a shaky scrawl, right beneath the elegant signature of Duchess Zefeni. The ink seemed to absorb into the parchment, the characters glowing momentarily before fading into the background. The moment the last stroke was complete, a faint pulse of magic emanated from the document, a silent confirmation of their binding. He quickly released the quill, as if it were burning his hand.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Duchess Zefeni’s face, her veiled eyes gleaming with a newfound possessiveness. She tightened her hold on Julian, drawing him even closer until his back was pressed firmly against her chest. The scent of her perfume, previously subtle, now felt overwhelming, suffocating.

“And now… you’re mine…”

She sighed happily, the words a low murmur against Julian’s ear. Her grip tightened further, her fingers tracing the line of his spine with a possessive touch. It wasn’t a violent hold, but a claiming one, a subtle assertion of ownership that sent a shiver down his spine. The carriage continued its journey, the rhythmic swaying now feeling less like motion and more like a rocking cradle, lulling him into a sense of helpless captivity.