Kael Veyron

The chief of House Veyron was once among the Seven Great Dukes of the Empire, with their legacy being built in the sun shining light that has protected the northern borders for centuries with Rosenthal and Kallenhart. But their strength turned into their own downfall. 

Two generations back, Duke Harald Veyron was a great warrior, but not a cunning politician, and was convinced to lead a revolt against the throne. 

The Holy Families feared the ' influence Veyrons over the commonfolk, and fabricated incidents of imperial oppression, some of which was actually aided by some of the dark families: staged raids on villages, modified edicts that targeted the poor, and exaggerated claims of the Emperor's hatred for the "undeserving/lower class". 

As simple-minded and honorable as he was, Harald took the bait, and raised his banner in defiance of oppression, which earned him the title of traitor when the "rebellion" was quashed by the collaboration of the other Holy Families and Imperial Knights.

The Emperor, duped by the other plotting Dukes, stripped House Veyron of its titles, lands, and honor. Their ancestral aura techniques were forcibly stripped from them, and their name was scrubbed from the imperial books.

By the time Kael was born, the Veyrons were already exiles—a once-great house reduced to a minor noble family in the frozen north, their estate decaying, their former prominence merely demands mere memories.

Kael's father, Lord Gerran Veyron, was raised on tales of assassination. "They feared us," he would rant, softly brushing a fermented version of the Veyron crest on an almost-destroyed tapestry. "The Holy Families, the Emperor—they were unable to match with our strength, thus they destroyed us with lies. " Gerran's entire life has been a search for restoration; a continual, desperate and angry clawing back toward obscurity. When Kael was eight and did not show the slightest spark of mana, Gerran's rage rattled the rafters.

"You are the last hope of this house!" he would scream, and slap Kael across the face for stumbling during sword drills. "Act like it!"

Other noble families laughed at their demise. At the annual northern summit, the Kallenharts and Rosenthals knights would "give" Gerran bottles of cheap wine, and with grinning faces, sharper than blades, would toast and say, "To the Duke of Nothing." All the laughter would fill the hall as the two families mocked them.

Kael could see his father's pride turn sour. Gerran was drinking heavily and mumbling about justice and revenge. "They think we're finished," he would say, squeezing Kael's arm until the bruising started, "but we will rise again. And you will make them see."

The final insult came when Kael was twelve years old. Gerran, half insane with desperation, petitioned the Holy Families to restore the dukedom and cited Harald's "noble intent." Duke Valen Rosenthal presided over the hearing, looking bored. "The Veyron name," he said, "is a relic. Just let it stay buried."

Later that night, Gerran ransacked every bottle in the cellar and smashed them in a drunken rage. Kael found him searching for a moment of peace, curled up in the darkness with a rotted Veyron sword. "They took everything," he whispered, "but you… you'll take it back. You have to."

Kael's hands bled as he trained harder, longer, hating the Kallenharts' smugness, the Rosenthals' disdain, the merchants who spat at their gates. Most of all, he hated his own weakness.

I'll make you proud, he swore, hacking at a training dummy until his arms gave out. I'll make them all pay.

At the time when he Kael was filled with nothing but hate for other Dukedomes and empire also his obsession to make his father proud of him and to see the rise of his family someone stepped in his world like light in the dark.

Lira arrived at House Veyron deep in the dead of winter, wrapped in a patched cloak that was two sizes too large, trailing her father—the healer who had saved Lord Gerran from the fever that nearly killed him. 

In gratitude, and desperation for loyal assistance, the Veyrons offered Lira's father, a place at the estate as the family's medic, and since Lira's father had the thought of settling down due to his age agreed and became a quiet presence in the drafts of the estate's cold halls. 

Kael first saw her in the kitchen garden, kneeling in the frost, trying to coax some obstinate herb, from the icy earth. She did not shy away from him like the other servants, nor whisper behind his back; instead she gave Kael the shy yet steady nod of a smile and eyes that were clear enough to not be bothered by his anger or bruises. 

"You're Kael, right?" she said, offering him a sprig of lavender. "Your mom says you like stories. You want to hear one?"

Kael didn't know why but he nodded at her question and from that day on she came regularly to tell him stories.

On those long, lonely nights, Lira would sit near a fire and tell stories—stories of wandering knights who raised their swords for the weak, of healers who healed not just wounds but hearts, of heroes whose chest wasn't their greatest strength but their kindness. Her voice was soft but unwavering, conjuring worlds where valor was not measured by lineage or ancient magic, but by the power to stand for those who could not stand for themselves.

Kael, who had only ever heard stories of vengeance and forgotten glory, found himself hanging on her words. In Lira's stories the greatest victories were not earned by breaking someone down but lifting them up. For the first time, he began to wonder if there could be another way to be strong; a way that didn't depend on hate or the approval of those who had robbed everything from his family.

One night, as snow drifted against the window and the fire crackled low, Lira spun a tale that made the old cook pause to listen. She told a story about a nameless knight who roamed the whole empire, with a sword at his hip, never seeking fame or reward. This knight fought monsters that threatened villages, defied disgustingly cruel lords, and offered aid to anyone who said they had nothing to give. In the end, Lira said, no one could remember what battle this knight fought, but rather the heart he left behind wherever he went.

Sitting cross-legged by the hearth, Kael stared into the flames and felt the story settle in his chest, warm but aching.

"Lira," he asked quietly, "Do you think… someone like me could be like that knight? Even if I'm not strong or special?"

Lira's eyes grew large, then softened into a smile that was so bright, he thought it might chase the winter from the room. "Kael, you already are like him. You are kinder than anyone I know. Heroes do not come with swords—they are made by the hearts they look after are made by the choices they make!"

Lira paused, and there was all the gentleness in her gaze, yet seriousness too. "Just… promise you'll be careful. Sometimes, it's the kindest people that hurt themselves the most—trying to save everyone else. Don't forget your own heart, okay?"

Kael nodded but he knew, deep down, he would rather break himself than let anyone else suffer. And Lira's story hung in the air half remembered - he made a promise to himself: if he could not reclaim his family into honor, then at the very least, he would try to become the kind of hero she somehow believed in.