THE CHOOSEN ONES

The heavy oak door of Selantia's room clicked shut behind Ezekian, the sound echoing through the dimly lit hallway.

The air was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the walls and settled in the cracks of the ornate marble floor. The hallway itself was a testament to the Nyxveil family's wealth and power—tall, arched windows lined the walls, their stained glass casting fractured patterns of moonlight onto the floor.

The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the family's storied history, their threads woven with gold and silver, shimmering faintly in the flickering light of the iron sconces. 

Ezekian's golden eyes, sharp and unreadable, fell upon Duke Zaphry Vael Nyxveil and his wife, Althea Noctis Nyxveil.

The Duke stood tall, his broad shoulders tense, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions. His pastel green aura, usually calm and serpentine, flickered faintly around him, betraying his inner turmoil.

Beside him, Althea stood with the poise of a queen, her silver eyes unreadable, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her aura, a muted silver, intertwined with Zaphry's, creating an almost ethereal glow around them. Yet, despite their regal bearing, there was a fragility in their stance, a crack in the façade of the powerful couple.

"Young Duke," Althea's voice broke the silence, her tone wavering ever so slightly. The worry in her eyes was unmistakable, though it was hard to tell if it was for Selantia or for the precarious situation they found themselves in. "How is Selantia?"

Ezekian's gaze was icy, his expression darker than the storm clouds that often hung over the northern mountains of Nordwyn. "I have treated her," he said, his voice low and measured, each word carrying the weight of his authority. "She is out of danger now."

Zaphry and Althea exhaled in unison, their relief palpable. They bowed their heads slightly, a gesture of respect.

"We will never forget this debt of yours, Young Duke," Zaphry said, his voice steady but laced with unease.

Ezekian's aura, a deep, midnight blue, began to ripple around him, dark and oppressive, like the depths of an ocean during a tempest. The air grew heavy, the pressure mounting until it felt as though the walls themselves might buckle under the strain.

Zaphry and Althea instinctively stepped back, their own auras flaring in response. Zaphry's serpentine green coiled defensively around him, while Althea's silver aura shimmered like a shield. It was too much for Ezekian to bear at that time. Yet the anger inside him didn't let him think rationally.

"Your younger daughter," Ezekian began, his voice a low growl, "dared to harm the future Arch Duchess of Nordwyn." The words hung in the air, each one a blade cutting through the fragile peace.

His aura surged, taking on the form of a roaring dragon, its breath scorching and relentless. The tapestries on the walls fluttered, the sconces flickered, and the floor beneath them trembled as if the very earth recoiled from his wrath.

Zaphry's jaw tightened, his own aura rising to meet Ezekian's. His serpentine green coiled and hissed, a king among beasts, but even it seemed to falter under the weight of Ezekian's dominance. "Young Duke," Zaphry said, his voice strained, "are you threatening the House of Nyxveil?"

Ezekian's lips curled into a cold, humorless smile. His golden eyes burned with an intensity that made even Althea, ever composed, take a step back.

"What if I am?" he said, his voice dripping with menace.

The hallway seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as the two auras clashed, their power tearing through the air like a storm.

Althea stepped forward, her silver aura flaring brighter. "Young Duke," she said, her voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight, "I am sure you do not wish for the relationship between Nordwyn and Nyxveil to turn bitter." Her words were a reminder, a warning, and a plea all at once.

For a moment, the tension held, the two auras locked in a silent battle of wills.

Then, slowly, Ezekian stepped back, his aura receding like the tide. He took a deep breath, his gaze flickering to the closed door behind which Selantia lay unconscious.

His anger, so sudden and violent, left him unsettled.

Why had he reacted this way? He had intended to use this situation to his advantage, to distance himself from the marriage arranged by the Emperor. But seeing Selantia fall, seeing her parents stand by and do nothing—it had ignited something primal within him, something he could not explain.

"I apologize, Your Grace," Ezekian said, his voice still cold but tempered now. "I was overwhelmed by the fact that someone I am supposed to marry was harmed by her own sister."

Before Zaphry or Althea could respond, a new voice cut through the tension. "You are wrong, Young Duke." Dain Nyxveil emerged from the shadows of the hallway, his expression a mask of controlled anger. His aura, a muted bronze, flickered faintly around him, but it was his words that carried the most weight.

"Dain," Zaphry said, his voice tinged with warning. The marriage between Selantia and Ezekian was a delicate matter, one that could not afford further complications.

Dain ignored his father's tone, his eyes locked on Ezekian. "Selantia is not the victim here," he said, his voice calm but laced with venom.

"She manipulated Alancia. She provoked her, insulted her, and then staged her own fall. She told Alancia that she would take over the family and send her to serve as a priest because she is 'useless.'" 

The words hung in the air, heavy and damning. Zaphry's eyes widened in shock, his aura flickering erratically.

Althea's composure cracked, her silver aura flaring with barely restrained anger. Ezekian, however, remained impassive. He had heard Selantia's words himself, and while Dain's retelling was skewed, it was not entirely false. Yet, something about the way the entire family turned against Selantia—so quickly, so vehemently—left him uneasy.

"Dain," Althea said, her voice sharp, "you should return to your room. This is not the time."

But Dain stood his ground, his resentment toward Selantia palpable. Ezekian found it both amusing and irritating. The Nyxveil family was a tangled web of secrets and rivalries, and he had no desire to be caught in its threads.

"I think it is best if the Young Duke retires to his chambers," Althea said, her tone polite but firm. "This is a family matter, and your involvement is no longer required."

Ezekian understood the unspoken threat. He was Selantia's fiancé, not her husband, and his interference would not be tolerated.

He glanced once more at the closed door; a strange sense of unease settled in his chest. But he was the Young Duke of Nordwyn, heir to the most powerful Arch Duchy in the empire. He could not afford to let his emotions dictate his actions.

As he walked away, the weight of the night's events pressed heavily on him.

He told himself it was none of his concern—what happened to Selantia, the dynamics of the Nyxveil family—none of it mattered. The marriage was a political arrangement, one he had no intention of honoring beyond its usefulness. Yet, as he left the hallway, the image of Selantia lying broken at the foot of the stairs lingered in his mind—a ghost he could not shake.

Little did he know, this night would mark the beginning of a chain of events that would unravel the carefully constructed walls around his heart. And when the time came, he would look back on this moment with nothing but regret.