Just after finishing his daily morning training, Jack was approached by a maid with a message in hand.
A formal summon—stamped with the seal of the Ignis family.
Now, Jack stood dressed in formal attire: a deep red gown lined with gold, matching accessories carefully placed by the servants. The insignia of House Ignis rested proudly on the left side of his chest, stitched over a crisp white linen shirt beneath.
This was to be his first official appearance at the court—his first step into the world of nobles and politics as the future successor. So, thorough preparation was required.
Mr. Smith, his etiquette teacher, hovered around him like a restless hawk, nagging nonstop. He kept repeating lessons they had drilled for years: how to walk, how to bow, how to greet nobles and officials, what expressions to wear and what words to avoid.
Jack, however, wasn't listening.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere.
He could already guess the reason behind the summons. After last night's conversation with his father, the meaning seemed obvious.
He was likely to be announced as the next Count of Greenriver—a traditional honorary title bestowed upon the heir of the House of Ignis. A title not held lightly.
It was a step forward.
A public one.
And there was no turning back now.
in last few years jack had somewhat cut from rest of the world only pepole he intracted were teachers forced on to him by his father , and his maid Rowan aside from these few he only had books and his sword as company .
Being a self-aware individual, Jack knew he lacked finesse in the social department. Words didn't flow from him like they did from courtiers, and he had no talent for the layered games of nobility.
And now, to undertake the role of Count of Greenriver—a title not only steeped in history, but crafted explicitly to mold the future Duke—was overwhelming. The weight of it pressed on his back like a silent verdict.
Lost in thought, Jack barely noticed they had reached the edge of the courtyard—until the sound struck him.
A sharp, rhythmic clang of metal boots hitting stone. It echoed like a memory, and a jolt ran down his spine. Something cold and unpleasant stirred in his chest. He'd heard that sound before, long ago—when steel and screams filled the air.
The courtyard stilled as the gates creaked open with a low groan.
Then came the sight.
Three rows of armored knights marched in with chilling precision, each movement rehearsed and flawless. Crimson cloaks snapped in the wind like wildfire made flesh. Their armor was dark, almost black, with a sheen like dried blood. Each breastplate bore the sigil of the Red Blades: a crimson sword driven through a black flame.
They were no palace guards.
These were warriors carved from war and violence—handpicked by the Duke himself. His personal enforcers. His hounds.
Jack stood firm, his gaze narrowing as the front line parted.
A figure in red armor strode forward, every step deliberate, measured, like a statement. His armor bore etched black runes that whispered with each motion, as if the metal remembered every strike it had ever endured.
He halted before Jack and gave a short, formal bow. Then he removed his helmet.
The man beneath looked far younger than Jack had expected. His face was all sharp lines and old scars, framed by windswept grey hair and anchored by piercing blue eyes that saw too much. Despite appearing no older than his late twenties, he carried himself like a man who had survived a dozen lives.
"I am Captain Garren Thorne, member of the Red Blades," he said, voice rough but steady. "By the Duke's order, we are assigned to your protection, Lord Jack."
His head had dipped, but the air around him did not bend. There was no respect in his voice—nor hatred. Only cold, hard formality. Superiority wrapped in the thinnest veil of obedience.
Jack noticed.
And ignored it—for now.
If they would not offer the respect his station demanded, then tradition said he owed them nothing in return. A knight was to kneel before his liege, offering sword and oath in submission and loyalty. They were to become their lord's sword. But these men did not kneel.
And Jack was not surprised.
Rumors about him had festered in the shadows of the castle for years. The boy lord. The orphan heir. The cracked vessel of a once-noble house. The Red Blades hadn't come to serve him—they had come to watch him. Maybe even judge him.
Still, Jack turned his back on them without hesitation.
If Garren took offense, he gave no sign.
With a flick of his hand, the formation moved. Thirty Red Blades marched forward with perfect timing, their discipline terrifying in its silence. At his signal, five broke off and fell into step around Jack, forming a loose ring of protection—or perhaps containment.
The rest continued on, red cloaks streaming like blood through the gray air, heading toward Jack's mansion.
Jack didn't slow. His boots struck the stone with purpose. Shoulders squared, eyes forward, he walked as if nothing in the world could touch him.
And behind him, Captain Thorne followed—silent, calculating, and watchful. Like a blade half-drawn.
The heavy doors of the courtroom creaked open. The clanking footsteps of armored boots echoed a moment before silence reclaimed the grand hall. All eyes turned.
Captain Garren Thorne stepped in first, his crimson cloak dragging behind him. His voice rang out, clipped and clear:
"Announcing the arrival of Lord Jack of House Ignis, Count of Greenriver—by blood and decree, heir to the Duchy."
He did not raise his voice more than necessary. There was no fanfare, no theatrical pause, only the cold authority of a soldier stating facts. He stepped aside after speaking, offering the barest gesture of deference—enough to honor tradition, but no more.
And then Jack entered, his shadow long behind him.