They’re still passing another three human villages before the envoy of Grand Duke Borgia with her newly wedded wife arrives at the Borgi territory in the North. They will be going past the long, arduous journey through the harsh Vinterre forest.
Located in the bleak expanse of the Northern region, before the Borgia territory, where daylight lingers like a whispered mory and winter never fully recedes, is where the ancient and accursed woodland known as Vinterre lies.
The forest is a frozen labyrinth of black-needled pines, frost-covered thickets, and glassy lakes sealed beneath layers of eternal ice. Snow never lts here—it falls in endless spirals, silent and suffocating.
The air is thick with a biting cold that sinks through fur and flesh alike, numbing the senses and swallowing sound. Light filters in silver and gray, casting long, misshapen shadows across the drifts.
But Vinterre is not feared for its cold alone; the forest is alive with monsters—creatures twisted by age-old curses and forgotten gods. Pale-eyed beasts with breath like smoke and claws like obsidian stalk between the trees.
Spirits drift through the fog, moaning in languages older than kings. Travelers speak of bone serpents coiled beneath frozen ponds and will-o’-the-wisps that lure the lost to icy graves.
Not many humans dare to venture forth into the forest, which makes the Borgia territory practically safe from the people from the Empire. And the monster in the Vinterre is one of the Borgia’s citizens.
Once a month, they will do an expedition to the forest and hunt all the monsters inside. Then selling the fur, skin, blood, ats, and their soul crystals to the people of the empire.
The rchants will stand by in the city near Vinterre, Eidrith. Located in the shadow of the ever-frozen Vinterre, the city of Eidrith stands as a paradox—equal parts thriving and threatened, ancient and alive.
Despite the bone-deep chill that settles over the city year-round, Eidrith is a beacon of comrce and curiosity. Its high stone walls glisten with permafrost, yet its streets are alive with the clamor of rchant calls, the scent of spiced ad, and the shuffle of fur-lined boots on cobblestone.
Traders and travelers from across the realm risk the cold and the monsters for a chance to buy or sell in Eidrith’s fad frost markets. What makes Eidrith so unique isn’t just its proximity to Vinterre—it’s how it has learned to live with the forest.
Vinterre’s edge is only a day’s ride from the city’s northern gate, and while most see the forest as a cursed no-man’s land, Eidrith sees opportunity. Rare alchemical herbs, arcane relics, enchanted bones, and monster parts—things only found in or near the forest—have made Eidrith wealthy and dangerously dependent.
The city is ruled by the High rchant Council, a guild of powerful trade lords and scholars who walk a fine line between greed and survival. They fund expeditions into the forest, pay bounties for rare beasts, and quietly fund arcane research into the secrets of Vinterre—so say to control it, others to survive what sleeps within it.
The citizen of Borgia freely cos in and out of Eidrith and moves freely between the city and Eidrith. Hunters, rcenaries, hedge mages, and scavengers—all walk the treacherous paths of the forest, chasing glory, gold, or simply food for the table.
The beasts they hunted are not rely trophies—they are currency, traded in open-air markets for wheat, barley, root vegetables, and other staple crops cultivated in the Council’s vast terraces and outlying estates. The economy thrives on blood and barter, and so Borgia never knows hunger, not while its blades are sharp and its hunters are brave.
"If you’re still feeling insecure about your condition, sweetheart," Roxanne murmured, her voice a velvet drawl laced with mischief, "we can stop at the next village. You’ll see just how strong my mark is on you."
Vivianne blinked, caught off guard not just by the words but by how easily Roxanne had reached into the core of her anxious thoughts. "H-how do you know that?" she asked, her voice small but curious.
Roxanne glanced at her with a knowing, sultry smile, one brow raised in playful arrogance. "It’s written all over your pretty face, dear wife," she purred, the title slipping off her tongue like silk.
Vivianne’s cheeks flushed a deeper red, heat blooming from her neck to her ears. Her pulse quickened.
"You’re still in heat," Roxanne continued smoothly, her gaze slow and lingering, "and yet I’m being very good and keeping my hands to myself... for now." Her eyes sparkled with challenge. "The real question is—can you handle it until the next village?"
Vivianne narrowed her eyes, biting down on her pout. "Of course I can!" she snapped, though her fidgeting hands betrayed her inner conflict.
Roxanne leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "Mmm, brave young wife."
-
The tension in the throne hall was suffocating, thick as fog clinging to the breathless silence that followed the chancellor’s report. The high priest’s words echoed with grim finality: "The Grand Duke has already marked her, Your Highness. The union has been consummated."
For a mont, no one breathed.
Then Emperor Dietrich rose from his obsidian throne with a snarl that shook the very air. His voice, deep and thunderous, cracked like a whip through the chamber. "No! Vivianne de Rothschild is mine!" His fury surged like a storm, palpable and oppressive. "That damned Roxanne has no claim to her!"
A wave of invisible energy radiated from him—an overpowering surge of alpha dominance so intense that courtiers, servants, and even seasoned knights staggered beneath its weight. The temperature in the hall plumted. Walls groaned. A low whimper escaped from a clerk near the marble columns, clutching his chest as though air itself had been stolen from his lungs.
The chancellor, pale but composed, stepped forward with practiced diplomacy. "Your Majesty, please. Liselotte de Rothschild remains unclaid. She, too, is an oga of exceptional grace and lineage—"
"Have you seen Vivianne de Rothschild?" Dietrich snapped, his voice low and dangerous. The chancellor swallowed hard.
"N-no, Your Highness. I have not. Forgive my ignorance."
"I have," ca a quiet voice from the back—a voice young but steady. All heads turned to the young priest who had been dispatched to Blackwood Territory. He stepped forward, reverently holding up a small, glowing orb. "This was recorded during the confirmation of their union. I offer it as proof."
A hush fell as the orb shimred to life, projecting its contents in ethereal clarity. Gasps rippled through the room.
There she stood—Roxanne de Bordia, half-human, half-demon, the blood of royalty pulsing through her veins. Her very presence on the recording radiated raw power and ancient nace.
She’s beautiful in a way that made the soul recoil, with red, fiery eyes that blazed strongly and a stance that exuded both nobility and deadly precision. Even in re illusion, her aura pressed down on those who watched, as though daring them to look away.
And beside her stood Vivianne, a vision of elegance and purity, with silver hair cascading like liquid moonlight and eyes of athyst fire that shimred with a quiet, tragic strength.
Her beauty shone as if she’s not a mortal. Like, she was sculpted from sothing more divine, sothing no ink or poetry could capture—too delicate for war, too fierce for peace. A living contradiction. An oga born to ruin kingdoms, because she can make the alphas bend on their knees for her.
No one spoke. "She’s..." the chancellor whispered, breath stolen.
"She is perfect," Dietrich said, his voice low and trembling—not with admiration, but with rage.
He stared at the image, his jaw tightening. Jealousy twisted through his chest like a blade. Even without scent, even across magical projection, Vivianne’s presence lured attention like a siren’s song. His oga. The one he’d been promised. The one Roxanne had stolen right from under his nose—and marked irreversibly.
Dietrich’s fists trembled at his sides. His gaze, fixed on the woman in the vision, burned with longing and possessive rage. "She was ant to be mine," he growled, his voice barely more than a whisper. "That monster has stolen her."
"There’s nothing we can do, Your Highness," the chancellor said quietly, but with the weight of finality. His voice echoed in the silent throne hall, a tremor of unwelco truth slipping through the cracks of power.
Dietrich’s jaw tightened. His breath ca sharp, ragged with fury. "Then make a way," he growled. "Kill Roxanne de Borgia." Gasps rang out like shattered glass. The court froze.
The chancellor turned, pale as moonlight, eyes wide with disbelief. "You—Your Majesty..." he began, then stopped himself, choosing his words with desperate care. "You cannot kill Grand Duke Roxanne de Borgia. She is the shield that holds back the nightmares of the North. Without her, the border would fall. The monsters would pour in. Cities would burn."
Dietrich’s eyes glead, mad with obsession. "Let them burn," he whispered. "Let the North fall, if it ans I get her back. She—Vivianne—was ant to be mine!"
"Your Highness!" the chancellor shouted, breaking protocol, his voice rising in open defiance. "She is stronger than you!" The words struck like a slap.
"She stayed in the North by your father’s command, not as exile, but as rcy—for your throne, for your pride. She bends to no crown, no command. You cannot touch her." The chancellor added again.
"But she has Vivianne," Dietrich spat, eyes wild, trembling with desperation.
The chancellor stepped forward, eyes filled with sothing between pity and fear. "And she chose her, Your Highness. Lady Vivianne chose her. She chose to be the Grand Duchess, not the Empress." Silence.
Dietrich’s breath hitched, chest rising and falling like a caged beast. But in his heart, buried under wrath and wounded pride, the truth settled in like ash:
"Your Highness! Please!" The chancellor shouts, trying to make his words heard by the stubborn emperor.
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