# ⚔️ Chapter 12 – A Duke's Quiet Storm
The solar chamber of Stormgrave was silent, save for the low creak of leather and the faint scrape of ink across parchment.
Duke Arcturus Vaelstrom sat behind the high desk of midnight-stained oakenwood. A sealed letter lay open before him, marked not with ink—but with a **glyph of red wax**, one only used by Imperial Eyes.
He read the letter again.
And again.
Then he burned it with a touch of his gauntleted thumb. No flame. Just heat—heat from the core that pulsed beneath his flesh, his Knight's Core trained to perfection through fifteen relentless realms of cultivation.
He had broken mountains in his youth. Slain horrors beneath shattered skies. Commanded battalions that made lesser duchies kneel.
But it was the words in that letter that had tightened the muscles in his jaw.
**"Codex. Confirmed active."**
**"Heir. Unsealed Broken Stone."**
**"Obsidian interests possibly compromised."**
**"Transfer of strategic rights proposed."**
Proposed.
He looked to the window. The skies above Stormgrave were the color of steel, the air brittle with frost. Riders moved across the outer courtyard far below—routine drills, banners of House Vaelstrom trailing behind them. Knights. Real ones.
Not the puppets stationed at Broken Stone.
Arcturus turned as the heavy doors opened.
His seneschal bowed deeply. "My lord, the delegation from Norhall has arrived. Two lords, three scribes. Imperial standard. No delay."
"Of course," Arcturus said quietly. "The wolves smell blood."
The chamber below was all shadowed banners and cold marble. The two noblemen wore crimson-lined cloaks, their rings showing the seal of Norhall—lesser nobles, but backed by the capital.
They bowed with the shallow ease of men who had never fought with a blade.
Arcturus didn't rise from his seat at the head of the stone dais.
"We come bearing Imperial concern," said the taller one, his voice too smooth. "Reports from the western frontier indicate... movement. An awakening, even."
"A shrine ruin was disturbed," Arcturus said. "My son intervened. The threat was contained."
"Was it?" The other scribe stepped forward, opening a thin scroll. "Witnesses mention the Codex. That it stirred for the first time in decades. That your son survived a beast no knight of his level should withstand. Surely, you understand how such news might alarm certain parties."
"I understand it would excite them," Arcturus said.
"And concern them."
"Concern is not grounds for reassignment," Arcturus said. "Stormgrave is sovereign under Ducal Mandate. If the Empire wishes to remove that, it can try."
Silence fell. Cold. Heavy.
The scribe hesitated. "The Obsidian Council has requested an audience."
Now Arcturus did rise.
The weight of his presence filled the chamber like a drawn blade. Not just his power—but his *aura*. Even without releasing his Oath Aura, the pressure that surrounded him made the scribes visibly sweat.
"I do not answer to shadows," Arcturus said. "And I will not let my son be measured by those who serve nothing but fear."
The taller envoy swallowed.
"Then... may we ask what your son intends to do?"
Arcturus turned away.
"He intends to become a knight. That should terrify you enough."
Later, Arcturus walked the long hall alone.
Here, beneath the keep, the Wall of Names stretched from floor to vault—every Vaelstrom who had borne a Codex and died with it unbroken. Thousands of names. Carved not in gold or steel, but blackstone—etched by oathfire.
His fingers brushed the most recent.
Aelric Vaelstrom.
His brother.
Lost in the Wildspire Campaign. Codex bearer. Never found.
Arthur had not known him. But Arcturus had once held Aelric's broken blade in silence for three days.
He looked at the empty space beneath.
Space for more names. Space for Arthur's name.
And for the first time in years, Arcturus wasn't sure what fate would carve there.