The Duchy of Asheville had always been an imposing place. A towering estate of white marble and silver-adorned halls, it stood as a testament to the power of the Asheville bloodline. A family of white dragon contractors, a lineage so strong that it left its mark in their very appearance.
Silver hair.
It was the mark of an Asheville heir. The birthright of the eldest child in every generation.
Yet, at this moment, within the grand halls of the duchy, a problem was brewing.
---
William Asheville strode through the corridors of the grand estate, his every step echoing against the polished marble floors. His frown deepened as he glanced at the setting sun through the tall windows. Seven days. Their father, Grand Duke Damien Asheville, had been absent for a full week without a single proper explanation.
"The Duke is handling important matters."
That was the official statement. A vague excuse repeated by the butler, the knights, and the estate staff, none of whom dared to say more.
But William was not a fool. The Asheville patriarch never left without announcing his plans, not when it came to internal affairs. If it was a matter of war, if he had been summoned by the Emperor, they would have been informed. This secrecy—this silence—was unnatural.
He stopped in front of the butler, a man who had served the family for decades, his loyalty unquestionable. William's golden eyes narrowed.
"You've served us for a long time, haven't you?"
The butler bowed slightly. "Indeed, Young Master."
"Then tell me, what kind of 'matters' require my father to vanish for seven days without a single letter?"
The butler did not flinch under the sharp gaze. He was trained for this, prepared to endure the scrutiny of the Asheville heirs.
"My apologies, Young Master. The Duke has not disclosed the details."
A pause. Then, the butler added carefully, "He will return when he deems it necessary."
William's jaw tightened. That wasn't an answer. It was a dismissal.
His fingers curled into a fist before he let out a sharp breath and turned away. Fine. If they won't tell me, I'll find out myself.
---
As he made his way through the estate, he ran into his younger sister, Emilia Asheville.
Unlike William, Emilia had blonde hair—a rarity in their family. But even so, as the eldest daughter, she held her own authority. She was waiting for him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You too?" she asked without preamble.
William nodded. "The butler refused to answer. What about you?"
Emilia sighed, her fingers drumming against her forearm. "Same."
She glanced toward the far end of the hallway, toward their father's study—the one room no one had been allowed to enter for days. "Father is clearly hiding something."
She wasn't the only one who thought so. Behind her stood two children—her own twins, a boy and a girl, both of whom had the signature silver hair of the Asheville bloodline.
That was the rule.
The firstborn always inherited silver hair—or their father's, if their blood was strong enough to resist the dragon's blessing.
William's daughter had silver hair.
Emilia's twins had silver hair.
So why didn't Julianna's daughter?
William and Emilia exchanged glances.
They weren't the only ones suspicious.
---
Julianna Hansford arrived at the estate later that evening.
She didn't come alone.
By her side stood Fiona Hansford, a golden-haired girl clinging to her mother's arm, small fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeve.
Julianna walked with careful grace, her expression neutral, unreadable.
She had been denied entry to their father's study. Twice.
Even she—his eldest daughter—was turned away.
And she knew what that meant.
Father is searching for her firstborn child.
Violet.
Julianna's grip on Fiona's hand tightened.
She had abandoned Violet long ago. She had no regrets about that choice. None.
And yet…
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to keep her pace even, forcing herself to ignore the weight of her siblings' gazes as they stood waiting for her.
William. Emilia. And the rest of their silver-haired kin.
She met their judgmental stares with indifference, ignoring the tension simmering in the air.
Fiona, however, was not as composed. She fidgeted beside her mother, sensing the hostility even if she did not fully understand it.
Emilia was the first to break the silence.
"You came with her?"
Her eyes flickered toward Fiona.
Julianna's expression did not change. "She is my daughter."
William let out a soft laugh, one devoid of humor. "Is that so?"
He tilted his head slightly, gaze sweeping over the girl.
"I see," he mused, voice light yet cutting. "So you do know the rules of our family, don't you, Julianna?"
Julianna's eyes narrowed. "Say what you mean."
William smiled, slow and sharp. "It's funny, isn't it? How every firstborn child in our family has silver hair."
His gaze lingered on Fiona for a fraction too long before returning to Julianna.
"Except for her."
Fiona shrank under the weight of their stares.
Emilia stepped forward, lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.
"William's daughter has silver hair. My twins have silver hair. Even the youngest generation—the new twins—both have silver hair."
Her head tilted slightly, mock curiosity in her voice.
"So, tell me, Julianna… where's your silver-haired child?"
A cold silence filled the hall.
Julianna's fingers twitched.
She had prepared for this.
She had told herself over and over again that she did not care.
But standing here, in front of her siblings, she felt cornered.
William hummed thoughtfully. "So the rumors were true after all. You abandoned your real heir outside."
Julianna clenched her jaw.
Emilia scoffed. "You know, if you were going to do that, you should have at least made sure Fiona looked the part."
Her gaze flickered toward the girl, unimpressed.
"Blonde hair in this family? It's laughable."
Fiona flinched at the words, her grip on her mother's sleeve tightening.
Julianna stayed quiet.
The whispers grew louder.
"She doesn't even look like an Asheville."
"A representative? More like a joke."
"Does the Marquis think he can throw any child at us?"
Julianna's nails dug into her palm. She could feel her siblings tearing into her with every word, with every glance.
And she hated it.
She hated how they still held power over her.
Taking a slow breath, she forced a smirk to her lips.
"Didn't our eldest brother also have a mistress with a commoner?"
The words cut through the tension like a blade.
The hall fell into silence.
Julianna's smirk widened slightly.
"But unlike me, he was at least smart enough to wear protection."
A sharp gasp echoed through the halls.
William's expression darkened.
And just like that—
The family fight began.
---
The argument was ruthless.
Insults were thrown like daggers, each sharper than the last.
William accused Julianna of shaming the bloodline.
Emilia mocked her for trying to pass off an imposter as an heir.
Julianna fired back, dragging up old scandals, old affairs, old mistakes.
The battle of words escalated, growing sharper, crueler—
And in the midst of it all, the younger generation watched.
Silver-haired children stood in silence.
Watching their parents fight.
Watching their legacies be questioned.
Watching the weight of the Asheville name crush those who were not strong enough to carry it.
And in the middle of it all, Fiona stood alone.
The only child without silver hair.
She did not speak.
She did not cry.
She only clenched her fists.
And for the first time, she understood.
She did not belong here.
*****
Callian was not going to the capital.
That was final.
He had told Damien that much with his usual polite indifference, and he meant it.
Violet would not grow up as an Asheville. She wouldn't be bound by noble obligations, shackled to power struggles, or used as a pawn in some empire-wide game.
She was his daughter. His.
She would live happily in this quiet place, safe from the world.
That was the plan.
And yet—
Here he was, days later, standing in the doorway of their home, watching Violet happily pack her things.
Callian exhaled slowly, his fingers pressing against his temple.
His daughter—his sweet, innocent, utterly oblivious daughter—was stuffing her small bag with everything she could get her hands on. A handful of cookies, a lumpy knitted scarf, a well-loved storybook, and a few wooden animal carvings Callian had made for her.
She turned with a proud smile, hugging the overstuffed bag to her chest.
"Papa, I'm ready!"
Callian sighed.
Weak. He was too weak.
Not against monsters. Not against assassins. Not against anything that threatened his life.
But against those eyes.
Her big, pleading, hopeful eyes that glowed like violets under the morning sun.
How was he supposed to say no to that?
"Violet," he tried, voice firm but gentle. "Are you absolutely sure you want to go?"
She nodded enthusiastically, bouncing on her toes.
"Grandpapa said there's a big library!" she chirped. "With lots and lots of books! And he said there are fluffy birdies in the garden!"
Fluffy birdies?
Callian stared at her for a moment before realization struck.
Griffins. She meant the duchy's griffins.
He exhaled sharply, pressing a hand over his face.
Damien. That cunning old bastard. He had figured out exactly how to tempt her.
Books and animals.
Of course, Violet had no idea what an Ashville heir truly meant. No idea that she was stepping into a world of sharp tongues, hidden daggers, and merciless expectations.
She just wanted to see books and fluffy creatures.
Damn it.
"Papa?" Violet tilted her head, her silver hair falling over her shoulders. "Can we bring Kitty too?"
She held up the massive demonic wolf that she had affectionately claimed as her pet. The beast—an apex predator feared by adventurers—let out a deep, resigned huff as if already accepting its fate.
Callian stared.
Violet stared back.
A long silence stretched between them.
Then Callian raised a hand, murmuring a soft incantation. A golden glow surrounded the creature, and in an instant, the towering wolf shrank to the size of a house cat.
Violet gasped in delight, hugging the now-miniature wolf to her chest. "Kitty!"
The wolf let out a pitiful sigh but did not resist.
Callian shook his head.
He could refuse Damien. He could refuse the empire. He could refuse fate itself.
But against his daughter?
He had never stood a chance.
Three nights ago, Callian had thought everything would be fine.
Damien was not in his house. That was good.
The man had moved to the café, staying there instead, and Callian had assumed—naively—that he would leave soon.
That should have been the end of it.
But it wasn't.
Not when, in the dead of night, Callian woke to the sound of his daughter's scream.
The world snapped into clarity.
His body moved before thought. His feet hit the floor, his senses sharpening as he rushed toward her room.
Violet was running toward him, her small feet pattering against the wooden floor. Her face was streaked with tears, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Behind her—
A shadow moved.
Kill it.
His sword was already in his hands.
A single swing. A dull thud.
The body hit the ground. Blood pooled.
Callian didn't even glance at it.
His focus was on Violet.
She crashed into his arms, sobbing into his chest, her tiny fingers clutching his shirt with all the strength her little hands could muster.
He held her tightly, his heart pounding with a fear he had long forgotten how to feel.
"Shh… you're safe now, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "Papa's here."
Her little body trembled against him.
His grip tightened.
Slowly, his golden eyes lifted—finally settling on the fallen figure sprawled across the floor.
An assassin.
The scent of blood was thick in the air.
And beneath the assassin's cloak—
A faint glow.
Callian reached forward, fingers brushing against cold metal.
An amulet.
Magic pulsed beneath his touch. Ancient. Strong.
His expression darkened.
If this were his past life, it would be classified as L-rank.
A stealth artifact. One powerful enough to slip through the most secure defenses unnoticed.
How long?
How long had he been blind?
How long had he been telling himself this place was safe?
How long had he been pretending that ignorance could protect them?
How long—
How long before Violet was hurt because of his negligence?
A rustle.
His head snapped up, sword raised—
And then he saw them.
Knights.
Lined up outside his home, silver armor gleaming under the moonlight.
And at the center of it all—
Damien Asheville.
His silver hair caught the faint glow of the torches, his emerald eyes sharp as they met Callian's.
Ah.
They knew.
Not just about Violet.
But about who she truly was.
Callian's fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword.
He had been so sure Damien would leave. That the old man would accept defeat and move on.
But he had underestimated him.
Damien had never planned to leave without his granddaughter.
And now—
Callian had no choice but to face reality.
Callian exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair as he watched Violet happily chatter to her "kitty."
There was no turning back now.
Damien had forced his hand.
But more than that—
The assassin had been a warning.
Someone wanted Violet dead.
And Callian, despite all his power, had been unprepared for it.
It was his fault.
His fault for letting himself become too comfortable. His fault for not knowing enough. His fault for believing, even for a moment, that he could keep Violet hidden forever.
He needed information.
He needed to know who was after her.
And to do that…
They would go to the capital.
Not because Damien wanted it.
Not because fate demanded it.
But because Callian had already made one mistake.
He would not make another.
He turned back to Violet, who was now struggling to fit more cookies into her bag.
"Papa!" she beamed up at him. "Can we ride a big birdie when we get there?"
Callian let out a long, weary sigh.
"Yes, sweetheart," he muttered. "We'll ride the big birdie."
Violet cheered.
And Callian, despite himself, couldn't help but smile.
He would protect her.
No matter what.