bookstagram – Jeanne Nest

House Castelvain stands as a pillar of refinement, wealth, and quiet dominion. While others wage war with steel and fire, Castelvain’s power is woven through whispered agreements, unbreakable contracts, and the weight of gold and reputation. Their wealth is vast, but their influence is greater—it is said that no noble rises without their blessing, and none fall without their consent. Justice, honour, and duty are their creed, but behind closed doors, one must wonder: what price is paid for such order?

The Blood of Castelvain is Golden

A man of many faces, Lucien Castelvain is both admired and feared. He speaks with measured grace, his words shaping futures as effortlessly as coin flows through his fingers. Some say he has never uttered an uncalculated sentence, nor made a move that was not foreseen long before. Yet, behind the charm lies a ruler who will not tolerate disorder, nor suffer betrayal. What happens to those who cross him? No one dares speak of it.

Graceful and enigmatic, Evelyne Castelvain is the whisper behind every decision, the shadow behind every throne. Some say she sees the truth in every lie, the weakness in every man. A patron of the arts, a guardian of noble traditions, she upholds the family’s unyielding code of honor. And yet, those who seek to deceive her often find themselves cast into oblivion, their names struck from history as if they had never been.

Two faces of the same coin, yet nothing alike. One is a master of deception, the other a guardian of order. Vesper, a whisper in the dark, knows the desires of all and wields them like a dagger. She glides through Orrenvale’s courts unseen yet ever-present, leaving behind secrets in place of footprints. But to whom does she truly owe her allegiance? Seraphina, cold and unyielding, speaks in ledgers and contracts, shaping the fate of men with the stroke of a quill. She has never lost a negotiation, never made a bargain that did not tilt in her favor. Or so they say.

A prince of impeccable charm and precise control, Dorian Castelvain is the perfect heir—or so the world believes. He moves with the effortless grace of one who knows the weight of expectation, and yet, his gaze lingers too long on doors not meant to be opened, paths not meant to be taken.

The Solgryph, regal and all-seeing, perches upon their banner—a fusion of lion and eagle, embodying wisdom, strength, and silent, merciless judgment. Some say its gaze pierces through deception, its talons gripping the fate of Orrenvale itself. Others whisper that it never truly dies—only watches, waiting for its next prey.

“Gold is the blood of power—hoard it well.”

To live under House Castelvain is to walk upon a golden thread—prosperity for the worthy, ruin for the reckless. Some say they are fair, that honour is their guiding hand. Others whisper of deals gone wrong, of names erased, of noble lines that vanished overnight. Justice is their creed, but who, in the end, decides what is just?

If power is measured in gold and justice shaped by those who hold it, then tell me—does true nobility lie in wealth, or in the way it is spent?

House Veyndral stands as the unbreakable shield and iron fist of Orrenvale, ruling through sheer military dominance and discipline. Where other houses maneuver with politics or wealth, Veyndral speaks the language of steel and blood. Their warriors are trained from birth to serve, fight, and die with honor. To stand against House Veyndral is to face an unstoppable force, one that does not bend or break. They are the inferno that consumes the weak, the flames that forge the worthy, and the fist that crushes dissent. None truly know the depths of their power, only that those who stand in their way are reduced to ashes.

The Hot Blood of Veyndral

A towering figure of unyielding strength and brutal pragmatism, Duke Garran Veyndral is a warlord first and a ruler second. He sees Orrenvale as a land in need of order through force, and he does not hesitate to enforce it. Those who defy him do not live to regret it. With eyes as cold as the embers of a dying battlefield, he weighs every decision with the mind of a conqueror, knowing that weakness invites ruin. Some whisper that he has never lost a battle—not because he is invincible, but because those who oppose him are swallowed by fire before they can tell their story.

Astrid Veyndral is as formidable as her husband, a warrior-queen whose name alone is enough to send shivers down the spines of lesser lords. She is known for her merciless battlefield strategies, and there are whispers that she does not fight for conquest, but for the sheer thrill of destruction. Some say she has no patience for diplomacy, that her blade speaks in place of words. Others claim she does not need to raise her weapon at all—her mere presence is enough to make men kneel.

The Duke’s eldest son and a warrior without equal, Edric commands the house’s elite cavalry, leading devastating charges that leave only scorched earth in their wake. His name alone is enough to make seasoned warriors falter. He is known for his unrelenting aggression and fearlessness in battle, earning his moniker through his ability to burn through enemy ranks, no matter how fortified. Some say that when Edric rides, the inferno follows, and no wall—stone or steel—can keep him out.

Garran’s younger son and the house’s most cunning tactician. Unlike the warriors around him, Varian’s strength lies in strategy, deception, and ensuring Veyndral’s dominance through careful planning rather than brute force. He is the shadow behind every victory, the whisper in the general’s ear, and the architect of inevitable conquest. Some say he sees the battlefield like a chessboard, moving pieces before his enemies even realize the game has begun. Others say that by the time his enemies recognize the trap, it is already too late.

House Veyndral controls the largest and best-trained army in Orrenvale. Their forces are disciplined, ruthless, and conditioned to obey without question. How many soldiers march under their banner? None outside the house truly know, and those who seek to count them never return. Unlike other houses where scheming and betrayal thrive, Veyndral’s power lies in unshakable loyalty to their hierarchy. Soldiers fight not for wealth, but for duty, honor, and their house’s survival. To betray Veyndral is to vanish from history itself.

House Veyndral’s sigil features the Dreadsteed, a monstrous warhorse forged in the heart of battle. With its obsidian-plated body, smoldering ember eyes, and jagged black horns, the Dreadsteed is a symbol of unstoppable force and unwavering loyalty. It does not retreat, does not falter, and will trample anything that dares stand against it. Some say that when the Dreadsteed rides, war follows, and its hooves leave behind not footprints, but scorched earth.

“Iron bows to none—only the strong endure.”

To live under House Veyndral is to live under discipline, strength, and absolute rule. They offer protection at a cost—serve, obey, and fight, or perish in the flames of war. While other houses scheme and manipulate, Veyndral thrives on raw, unbreakable might. They are the inferno that cannot be extinguished, the warriors that never surrender. In Orrenvale, if you are not with House Veyndral, you are against them—and that is a dangerous place to be. Their banners rise with the coming dawn, and when they march, the earth itself trembles beneath their feet. Those who survive their conquest do not speak of it; they simply kneel.

Would you stand against the fire, or be reforged within it?