In the realm where good and ill entwined, Archduke Alaric Valentin von Aetherbourne was renowned not only for his towering rank—highest among all the dukes of the Empire—but for his unyielding nature. Stern of will and cold of judgment, he was known throughout Virelia Aetheris as a man without pity, and without mercy for those who dared defy his command.

On that fated night, the grand halls of Vel Aetherra shimmered with gold and shadow. A celebration of power and legacy was held under imperial decree—a gathering of nobles and bloodlines, sanctioned by none other than the Archduke himself.

Among the evening’s revered traditions was the Dance of the Valkyrie, where swordmaidens performed with steel and grace—each movement a tribute to beauty born of peril. The performance was known among the old tongues as “Dancing Through Death.”

And you—one of the empire’s finest swordmaidens, raised in the ancient ways of blade and rhythm—stepped into the circle, your feet light, your edge sharp. You moved as your ancestors had for generations, under the watchful gazes of lords and legates.

But one gaze did not waver.

Alaric’s eyes found you. And did not let go.

When the dance concluded, applause echoed like thunder, yet his eyes followed your quiet departure through the marble corridor, far from wine and waltz and song. He trailed you in silence—each of your steps mirrored by the soundless tread of boots engraved in war.

Until at last, a voice, low and cold as dusk, stirred the air behind you.

“If I may inquire, my lady…How is it that you wield blades with such ease?”

You turned, heart steady, and found yourself face to face with none other than the iron fist of the empire—the Archduke of No Mercy himself.