The Clarentine
[12:30 PM – Clarentine Estate, Noble District]
Within the opulent dining hall of the Clarentine Estate, sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting colored light upon long, linen-draped tables set with silverware and porcelain. Dion Claren, patriarch of the House of Clarentine, was hosting a private feast for the extended family, including members of the cadet branches. The occasion was a proud one: the coming of age of two of their young scions—Claude Valias and Emma Salardi.
Following tradition, Dion had called upon his eldest son, Evran Claren, to deliver the opening address.
Evran stood with quiet authority, offering polished words of welcome and subtle nods to the family’s history, their values, and the bright future embodied by the two celebrated youths. A round of applause followed, gentle but sincere.
Once Evran stepped down, Dion himself took the helm again. With a theatrical flourish, he invited Claude and Emma to take seats at his sides, gently shooing away Laura and her mother, who surrendered their chairs with playful bows. Dion’s jest about exiling “old stars to make way for new ones” drew hearty laughter from all corners of the hall.
Lunch commenced with cheer and clamor. Wine flowed, conversations overlapped, and laughter echoed through the vaulted ceiling. The dining hall, usually a place of dignified meals and reserved company, became something far warmer: a gathering of kin.
When the final course was cleared, and the guests had settled back in their chairs, too content to continue the noise, the head chef rang a brass bell. It was time for dessert—and Dion once more stood.
“My dear family,” he began, raising his voice only slightly. “It gladdens me beyond words to share this table with all of you. A full table, loud voices, full stomachs—this is the music of our house.”
A ripple of approving nods and chuckles followed.
“I must remind you, as I always do, that the House of Clarentine stands because of unity. Let the curse of parricide and betrayal befall any other house—but never ours. We are not held together by duty alone, but by care. One that is mutual. One that is sacred.”
He paused, scanning the hall with measured fondness. Then, he began recounting past family quarrels and near-failures—only to follow them with how they had been mended. Each name he mentioned, each wound now scarred and healed, was tied back to his own intervention—gently, never boastfully, but with quiet assertion. His authority was not the kind that demanded obedience, but the kind that nurtured loyalty.
“And so,” he concluded, lifting his goblet, “it is in this spirit that we invest ourselves in each other’s triumphs. Today, we celebrate Claude and Emma’s first step into true growth. May they walk with confidence and purpose. Raise your glasses—for them!”
The toast rang out like a hymn, goblets clinked across the long table, and all eyes turned to the honored pair.
Emma stepped forward first. Dressed in a soft lilac gown with silver trim, she carried herself with composed elegance. She seated herself at the small platform by the hearth, lifted her lyre, and began a Barban folk song.
Her voice rose with a lilting sweetness, crisp and controlled, scaling difficult high notes with grace. It was the kind of singing that stirred something ancient in the soul—nostalgia for a place one had never known. The room stilled in reverent quiet until the last note dissolved into silence.
Emma’s parents, beaming, embraced her tightly, and her mother kissed her forehead with moist eyes.
Then came Claude.
He rose in silence, his step calm but unwavering. Dressed in formal black with crimson highlights, he held no instrument—only himself. He walked to the same space Emma had occupied and turned to face the family.
He closed his eyes and pressed his hands together.
“Disperse. Flutter. Preserve.”
A tiny orb of fire appeared between his palms. It pulsed softly like a heartbeat before bursting outward—no explosion, no noise—only beauty. Small butterflies made of living flame drifted upward in slow spirals, lighting the candles of the great chandelier one by one as they passed. When they reached the top, the last butterfly burst gently like a flower, sending sparks into the air like fireflies before fading into warm air.
Gasps broke into applause. Everyone rose.
Magic often bloomed at this age—it was expected, celebrated—but such precision, such artistry, was rare. Claude had not just cast a spell. He had told a story with it. One of focus, intention, and control.
Dion watched with approval as his pride turns into smile carried by both lips and eyes.
Today, the House of Clarentine was not just united. It was shining.
“Superb!” Dion declared, his voice full of mirth and pride. “We have been blessed with bright children—comely and talented!”
With familial affection, he placed a kiss upon the cheeks of Claude and Emma and wrapped his arms briefly around their shoulders. There was warmth in his touch, a gesture that transcended noble formality.
“Ingrid would be proud, Claude. I shall pay her a visit next month.”
“Please, Diopa,” Claude replied, using the family’s term of respect. “You are a busy man. There’s no need to trouble yourself. My late mother is at peace, and her resting place is well tended.”
Dion fell quiet for a breath. His hand lingered on Claude’s back, firm and reassuring.
“...I am so proud of you, son. You as well, Emma. Keep at it—both of you are doing splendidly.”
The two bowed deeply as he gave their shoulders a final tap, a silent blessing passed from one generation to the next. Light conversation resumed soon after—genteel laughter, softened voices, the clinking of porcelain.
Then came the throat-clearing. A sharp, deliberate note that sliced through the room like the strike of a gavel.
All heads turned, and all mirth faded as the most formidable woman in the room spoke: Clara Clarentine.
Dressed in a sleek black gown that evoked more mourning than celebration, Clara sat like a magistrate presiding over a courtroom. Her brows were set in their permanent line of judgment, her mouth fixed in a look that seemed forever disappointed. Her hair, tied in her signature fishtail-halo braid, gleamed like raven thread beneath the chandelier light. While Evran had been groomed to defend the house against the threats beyond its walls, Clara had forged herself into its iron core—a silent, unyielding watcher of the realm within.
“Speaking of coming of age,” she said coolly, “I trust the two of you already possess a clear long-term plan.”
Claude straightened in his seat. “Um… yes, Aunt Clara. I intend to further my studies—”
“I have little concern about that,” she cut in, her voice like a blade of glass. “The sons and daughters of this house—at the very least—walk the finest academic and career paths. That much is expected.”
Emma flinched slightly beside him. “Y-Yes, I’m sorry, Aunt Clara.”
Clara did not blink. “I speak of something far more crucial. Have either of you identified a promising marriage prospect?”
There it was. The tension that only she could conjure. Claude froze mid-breath.
“Clara,” Dion interjected, his tone still gentle but edged with caution. “They still have three years before—”
His daughter turned her eyes on him. A slow, sideways glance that was less a look than a silencing spell.
Dion, though head of the house, could only sigh and raise his goblet.
They had agreed before: this matter belonged to Clara. She had her reasons, and he, for all his authority, had consented to them.
He emptied his cup.
“Must I remind you,” Clara snapped, her voice cutting through the dining hall like a whip, “that your very own daughter is long past the prime age for marriage—thanks to you and Mother being too soft on her, nodding to every bit of nonsense she spouted like it were divine gospel?!”
At that, Dion, his wife Lara, and their daughter Laura all averted their gazes in perfect synchrony, like schoolchildren caught red-handed. None dared meet Clara’s glower.
“I—I don’t think being twenty-six is that late—”
“Oh, be quiet!” Clara’s voice rose, thunderous with indignation. “How dare you talk back to me after everything I’ve done for you?!”
In an instant, her folding fan was no longer an accessory but a weapon of familial correction. She struck Laura on the head with repeated smacks—sharp, practiced whaps that echoed with the weight of long-harbored frustration.
Laura’s husband, a robust merchant guildmaster from Soldanke, rushed to intervene, arms outstretched. “Now, now, my love. Let’s—”
Clara pivoted and landed a swift strike directly to his lower abdomen.
“UNGH!”
He doubled over, gasping as he crumpled to the side like a collapsed tent. The hall winced in sympathy.
Clara, cheeks flushing with fury and embarrassment, glared down at her sister. She had never wanted to air such grievances in front of the entire family—but her patience had long worn thin. If public shame was what it took to spur change, then so be it.
“Do you have any idea how long I spent setting you up with the Duke of Sarbonna’s son? The Marquess of Ostrya? The Marquess of Catalpa? And what about Knight Commander Tristan? A man of standing, no less! Instead of behaving like a normal lady, you poisoned him!”
“S-Sister, you’re exaggerating!” Laura cried, hands raised in protest. “It wasn’t poison! It was just a tonic! With... with a few minor side effects! But I’ve perfected it now! It won’t happen again, I swear!”
“He spent two hours in the privy thanks to your idiotic brew!”
“But he was very strong for four hours before that! And he agreed to take it! He liked it—more than he should’ve, I daresay!”
Clara clutched her temples as if the very air around her were poisoned now. “Oh, Goddess, deliver me. Seal her mouth before I do it myself with a needle and thread!”
The room burst into laughter, muffled only by the crunching of candied apples and chilled pears. Even Dion chuckled behind his goblet, the tension of moments before dissipating like morning mist.
Once the laughter ebbed and the table settled, Clara took a long, steady breath. She lowered her fan and slowly composed herself, straightening her spine once more.
She turned back to Claude and Emma, her expression regaining its glacial poise—stern, but no longer burning with fury.
“Now,” Clara continued, her voice cold and measured, “before either of you suffer the same miserable fate as this fool”—she gave a curt nod toward her still-sulking sister—“tell me plainly: have you found any worthy prospects for marriage?”
Claude and Emma glanced at one another. A long, uneasy silence hovered. Claude opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Finally, Emma drew a breath. Her hand rose halfway, shy and fluttering like a bird uncertain whether to take flight. Her eyes blinked far too often—an unmistakable sign of a young woman stricken with affection.
“A-Actually… I’ve been exchanging letters with someone. For about three months now, I think. And we’ve met a few times—whenever he travels to the capital, that is. He’s from Etherton.”
Clara narrowed her eyes. “Name and titles, Emma.”
“A-Ah, yes, Aunt Clara. His name is Pierre Juraine. He’s… a knight.”
Clara raised a single brow. The name clearly meant nothing to her. She turned toward the adults at the table. Dion, Lara, Laura—each gave a slight shake of the head.
Clara let out a sharp, dismissive tsk. “A fleeting infatuation, nothing more. Focus on your studies. When the proper time comes, we’ll find someone worthy of our name.”
“Wait,” Dion interrupted gently, raising a hand. He leaned toward his wife as she refilled his goblet with apple juice, and murmured something into her ear. She nodded once, slowly.
“Pierre Juraine…” Dion repeated aloud, tapping his chin. “Do you mean Pierre Juraine, the knight captain?”
Emma nodded timidly.
Clara froze.
Dion looked to the others, now with a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. “Several months ago, the Queen summoned the court for a confidential hearing—one concerning the alleged reappearance of the hero Randia. Your mother and I were both in attendance.”
Emma perked up at the name. Clara merely scoffed. “Randia? Honestly, Father, must we dignify rumors with state attention? If Her Majesty truly believes in ghosts and lost legends, perhaps she ought to schedule fewer councils and more rest.”
Dion smiled faintly, unfazed. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it. The testimony presented was… convincing. And more interesting still—there was confirmation from the Aramian envoy.”
“Mm. That envoy ... He's kinda young and just recently promoted four or five years back. What was his name again…” Dion murmured, glancing at his wife.
“. . . Nicholas,” Lady Lara said softly, almost reverently.
“Yes, that’s right. Nicholas.” Dion gave her hand a light squeeze. “Thank you, my love.”
Clara went quiet. She tapped the edge of her fan against her chin once, twice—her sharp eyes never leaving Emma. The air grew still as she exchanged a few murmured words with her husband, barely audible beneath the clinking of cutlery and rustle of apple peels on polished plates.
“I have heard nothing of House Juraine,” she said at last, her voice smooth, but edged. “Presumably just a barefoot szlachta—minor knightly stock, forgotten by history.”
Her fan snapped shut with a click. “That said… it takes a considerable amount of skill . . . or luck, to be granted an audience with the crown."
She turned back to Emma. “Hmph. Very well. I will observe. But let this be clear, child—if he wishes to court a Clarentine, he must prove himself worthy beyond medals and stories. I will not give my blessing lightly. Do you understand me?”
Emma straightened her back. “Y-Yes, Aunty. Certainly.”
Clara gave a single nod. Then, as if her eyes were drawn to a new target by instinct, she shifted her attention to Claude.
The young man looked away instinctively, as if hoping he might escape her gaze. But the room offered no refuge.
“Your turn,Auri.”
The nickname earned a quiet chuckle from Dion. It had followed Claude since childhood—auri, the golden one, named for the strands of flaxen hair that stood in contrast to the deep chestnut hues of the rest of the Clarentine line.
“Three years of study in Varnaria must’ve left a strong impression,” Clara said. “Now speak plainly—has any lady left her mark on your heart? What of the Duchess of Tuscany’s daughter? I believe you attended the same academy.”
Claude cleared his throat. “Lady Octavia is… intelligent. Beautiful. Gracious in speech.”
He paused.
“However, she is rather prone to illness. I heard she may have contracted consumption. I... wish her well.”
“A shame,” Clara said. “Her lineage is excellent. And her dowry generous.”
She tilted her head. “So then—anyone else? Anyone who’s caught your eye?”
Claude hesitated. His eyes drifted to the open window, toward the faint sounds of festival music rising from the town square.
“...Today, I saw a girl,” he said, almost to himself. “At the festival. But I don’t know her name.”
"Describe her then. One of us might recognize her."
Claude’s voice softened as he spoke, but his words carried a vivid light.
“She had platinum hair,” he began, “shimmering under the morning sun like silver dew. Her eyes—violet, deep and strange, like hardy geraniums caught in bloom. She wore a white dress with a sunflower insignia, perfectly cut to her figure, and a silhouette that flowed like water in motion. The fabric shimmered just enough to catch the eye, yet never once pleaded for attention. Everything about her—her style, her poise, her gait—was deliberate. Radiant. As though she’d stepped out of a world with higher taste and clearer intention.”
“Sunflower?” Clara echoed, frowning. She tapped her temple with her fan, trying to summon some old memory—but nothing came.
Then suddenly—
“Lisabelle Arbona?!” Laura burst out, startling everyone at the table. Her voice cracked with excitement, cutting through the hum of conversation like a dropped plate.
A wave of murmurs rose. Forks paused halfway to mouths. Names passed from one pair of lips to another like long-forgotten spells. Faces turned serious. Then, without warning, Lady Lara burst into tears.
Emma, concerned, stood up immediately and offered her seat. She helped steady the trembling matriarch, who covered her mouth with a kerchief as sobs escaped between her fingers.
Clara’s fan halted mid-air. Her brow furrowed, her usual composure showing signs of strain. “Ehm!” she cleared her throat. “Will someone explain to me—who is this Arbona girl?”
Dion, ever the calm presence, folded his hands and leaned forward.
“Don’t you remember, Clara?” he asked gently. “You were ten. We were vacationing at Lord Bartra’s villa in the northern hills. You snuck out to play in the snow with Haggi—your little dog. You got lost in the blizzard.”
Clara blinked. “I… vaguely remember being cold.”
“You had hypothermia,” Dion said. “Your mother cried the whole time. We searched for hours. Eventually, your brother found you huddled between three strangers—men who’d stripped down to their shirts to keep you warm beneath their coats.”
He paused, then placed a hand over his wife’s trembling back.
“They were Master Graham Arbon, Lieutenant Lubin, and Master Vincent Bidau. You lived because of them. Since then, we’ve always purchased our garments from the Arbona estate.”
Lady Lara wiped her eyes, her voice quavering. “Lisabelle… she’s Graham’s granddaughter.”
The name lingered like a ghost in the room.
“Her parents were murdered by bandits on a merchant road,” Lara continued, her voice breaking again. “She lost her unborn sibling that day too. Graham never recovered. He died soon after. Now… she only has her grandmother, Eleanor, and her uncle, Liam.”
“Duh, Mother,” Laura said softly, crouching beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “You’ve always been a crybaby about things like this. It’s in the past now. I’m sure she’s doing fine.”
Lara chuckled through a few tears, and the mood, though heavy, seemed to settle.
Until—
A voice spoke up from the far end of the table.
“I’m sorry to intrude on this... heartfelt moment,” said a junior cousin, raising his hand timidly. “But, Lady Clara… was this Lisabelle Arbona not tried in juvenile court several months ago? Charged with attempted murder of a military officer?”
The dining hall buzzed with uneasy voices, rising like a discordant choir as the name Lisabelle Arbona continued to spark debate. Accusations, suspicions, and polite doubts floated above plates of untouched fruits. Some muttered about propriety. Others fretted about bloodlines, about scandal. About risk. And though Lady Lara’s tearful recollections softened a few, most remained unconvinced. The weight of judgment teetered, ultimately balanced on the poised fingers of one woman; Clara Clarentine.
"Mother," she said, voice clear amidst the clamor, "when exactly did Master Graham pass away?"
"Seven years ago," Lady Lara murmured, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. "Nearly a year after his daughter and her husband... after they died."
Clara leaned back, lifted her glass, and took a small sip. Her expression—serene but sharp—left no doubt in anyone’s mind that her verdict had been reached.
"To lose so much so young would have shattered most children beyond repair. If Lisabelle endured such grief and still managed to survive in this capital, I would call that more than luck—it suggests a will forged in fire."
She tapped her folding fan against the edge of her glass, slow and deliberate.
"That said," Clara continued, her eyes sweeping across the faces at the table, "I will not endorse recklessness. I will look into the charges brought against her. Attempted murder is not a matter one glosses over with sob stories and sentimentality. If she was truly mad—broken in the mind—then Claude must abandon the thought."
She turned toward her son. The steel in her voice softened, though only slightly.
"But if there is more to that story—if she acted out of reason or perhaps, in self-defense—then I will judge her differently."
There was a brief pause as Clara’s gaze cut to her husband. He met her eyes with a nod, already sensing her train of thought. Clara tapped her fan once more, then folded it in a crisp, final motion.
"That matter aside, Master Vincent Bidau runs one of the largest companies in the entire Seraina, and there are certain melodramatic tales about him and Master Graham Arbon that are famous among tradesman."
“If his loyalty to Master Graham is even half as true as the stories say,” Clara began, folding her fan with a crisp tap, “then Lisabelle will undoubtedly inherit the Arbon Company.”
She pointed the closed fan at Claude like a judge’s gavel.
“That, Auri, could be very good—or very bad—news for you.”
The room went still.
“The good news,” she continued, her voice cutting through the air, “is that you will have my full support to pursue her. Should you choose to bring her into this family, I will ensure there is no rejection—not from this household, not from any quarter.”
Her eyes swept across the table, landing on the relatives who had murmured earlier in protest. Each met her gaze briefly before lowering theirs, faces flushed with shame, cold sweat prickling their necks beneath stiff collars and brocade.
“But the bad news…” Clara paused, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight settle.
“You will have to contend with a rival. Master Vincent’s firstborn—Armes Bidau.”
A few gasps escaped. Others leaned forward instinctively.
“He is an extremely decorated individual, Claude. He graduated the Emir Abbas Royal Academy of Engineering with flying color, and immediately entrusted with the construction of Salamah Aqueduct, including the Noria of Ramada - both completed ahead of schedule, under budget, and without a single incident of scandal or structural failure. On top of that, he is supposed to be very talented at archery."
Clara’s gaze hardened.
“And as if that weren’t enough, he is also supposed to be very talented in archery. Multitalented. Admired. A paragon of the new industrial nobility.”
She turned her full attention back to Claude, voice lowering into a measured challenge.
“So—now that you know what stands before you, I ask again: are you still bold enough to set your eyes on her, Auri?”
The air seemed to tighten around him. But Claude didn’t blink. He took a breath, calm and deliberate, then rose just slightly straighter in his seat.
"I will do what I must, Aunt Clara. I shall spare no effort for the glory of our house," Claude stared back right at Clara's eyes unblinking.
“. . . Hmph.” She exhaled, a quiet scoff of acknowledgment.
“I expected a more concrete resolve,” she said, folding her fan again with a faint snap. “But I suppose it’s an answer.”
She tapped the fan again, then rested it on her lap.
.
.
.
"Now, what should I do about you, Laura?"
Seeing her sister so out for blood on her, Laura Clarentine can do nothing but hide behind her mother and pray.