Duke Of Glorianda

Miles away from the town of BillowWood, in another province of the Kingdom of Oztera, lay the grand city of Glorianda. A city of towering spires and ancient halls, it had long been ruled by Duke Edward Grimshaw II. But now, the official seat of the duke sat empty, his rule cut short by a brutal assassination.

His sudden death left behind two sons—one, his adoptive heir, Aurelius Grimshaw, and the other, his blood-born son, Lysander Grimshaw. Yet, the duke's will was clear: only Aurelius was to inherit his title and estate.

But fate had its own cruel designs. Before Aurelius could claim his rightful place, he fell gravely ill, his presence in society vanishing as whispers of his deteriorating condition spread.

And as if that weren't enough, there remained another hurdle—the dukedom required a duchess. Without a wife to solidify his rule, his claim to power remained in limbo, leaving the fate of Glorianda hanging by a thread.

In the reflection of an ornate vintage mirror sat a timeless beauty. Her long, striking black hair cascaded down her back, lush and bewitching. Her face, delicate and flawless like a porcelain vase, held a serene yet commanding presence. Doe-like hazel eyes, warm as honey, gleamed under the soft glow of candlelight. A perfect nose, full, exquisitely shaped lips—every feature a masterpiece.

The image of perfection gazed back at her as the maids carefully arranged delicate gold jewelry around her neck and wrists. The minimalistic adornments complemented her beauty rather than overpowering it. That was how the Duchess of Glorianda preferred it—graceful, effortless, and undeniably regal.

"Your Royal Highness, the physician has arrived," announced the guard at the door, momentarily pulling her gaze away from her reflection. She cast a fleeting glance toward the entrance before returning to the mirror.

"Let him in," she commanded, lifting her hand with a languid gesture.

At once, the maids hurried toward the Duchess, draping a black tulle veil over her head—a solemn mark of her new status. A widow. A title despised across the nation. Widowed women were considered beneath all social classes, save for the fortunate few, like the Duchess, whose position was secured by a son to uphold her rank. and it seemed that she was trying to keep it that way. 

Moments later, the door creaked open, and a man stepped inside. His attire was impeccably formal—a long black wool coat reaching his knees, a subtly patterned silk waistcoat beneath, and a crisp white shirt with a high, stiff collar. A neatly tied cravat adorned his neck, and his dark cotton trousers fell perfectly over his polished leather boots.

Duchess Flora observed him intently as he entered, his head slightly lowered in deference.

He stopped at a respectable distance and spoke in a composed tone. "Greetings to Her Highness. I wish you continued health and strength."

"I am well," she replied coolly. "Now, take a seat and tell me—why have you come?"

Though she already knew the answer.

The physician let out a heavy sigh before speaking. "Your Highness, the young Duke's condition is worsening at an alarming rate. His liver is failing—each day, its function diminishes further."

"Young Duke?" Flora's voice rose with fury, her temper flaring as she shoved away the maids attempting to calm her. "How many times have I told you not to call him that?!"

The physician flinched but held his ground. "Your Highness, can we truly deny it? The late Duke explicitly wished for him to be his successor. It is only a matter of time before he takes over the land."

Flora's teeth clenched, her jaw tightening with barely contained rage. "Were you summoned here just to provoke me, Mr. Filch?" she seethed, her voice laced with venom.

"No, Your Highness," Filch said, his tone steady despite the tension in the room. "I came to request your permission to proceed with a surgery. If we act now, the young Duke may yet be saved."

Flora exhaled a long, weary breath before collapsing back into her seat. "That will not be happening."

"This is murder!" Filch nearly shouted, desperation creeping into his voice.

Flora's sharp gaze snapped to him, her next words slicing through the air like a blade. "Mr. Filch, might I remind you that your family resides under my roof?" Her tone turned ice-cold. "If you intend to oppose me, I may be forced to reconsider their place here."

Filch's face paled. His lips parted, but no words came. Slowly, his head lowered in defeat. He bowed deeply before retreating, his steps heavy with silent anguish.

Though she had successfully silenced the physician, Flora knew that his sentiments were shared by many. She could not rely on threats alone to maintain control—sooner or later, the tide would turn against her. Her choices were dwindling, and she had to find a way to eliminate him discreetly, ensuring her own survival and securing her son Lysander's inheritance.

Her mind was a tangled mess, desperation clawing at the edges of her thoughts. There was only one person she could trust to devise a solution.

"I need Sir Ken in my office by tonight," she ordered the maid standing behind her.

"Yes, Your Highness," the maid replied before swiftly leaving the room.

Flora pressed her fingertips to her forehead, massaging it gently as she tried to think. But before she could settle her thoughts, another maid entered, holding a letter in her hands.

"Your Highness, a letter has arrived for you."

"Throw it away. I have no interest in reading letters today," Flora snapped, irritation threading through her voice.

"It is from Countess Darla. Are you certain you do not wish to read it?" the maid asked hesitantly.

At the name, Flora's eyes widened. Her hand shot out almost instinctively, abandoning her initial refusal.

"Give it to me."

She tore the envelope open, and as she did, a small slip of paper fell from within, separate from the formal invitation inside.

Flora unfolded it quickly, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.

Dear Flora,

I miss you—I always have. I long to see you again. I know you are still in mourning, but it has been far too long since we last met. My health is failing, and I fear we may never have another chance. I hope you will accept my invitation to the ball at my humble abode.

Yours truly,

Darla

Flora's expression softened in an instant. A single tear welled in her eye, slipping down her cheek as a small, choked sob escaped her lips.

"Oh, my poor Darla…" she whispered, her fingers trembling as she clutched the letter to her chest.