fiction – Jeanne Nest

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?

The sea does not bow. It does not yield. It takes.

And so does House Velmora.

Perched upon the storm-lashed cliffs of Orrenvale’s western coast, their fortress stands unshaken against the crashing waves, carved from the very rock that has defied the tides for centuries. Those who stand upon its high walls can see the endless expanse of the ocean stretching far beyond sight—a reminder that power is not about holding one’s ground, but about knowing when to let the current pull and when to strike like a storm.

To outsiders, Velmora is a house of traders, merchants, and seafarers, the gatekeepers of Orrenvale’s most valuable ports. To those who know better, they are rulers of the unseen battlefield, where wars are not fought with steel, but with coin, whispered deals, and the quiet erasure of obstacles. They control the flow of goods, weapons, and even secrets, their reach stretching far beyond their own duchy, far beyond the borders of the South.

And yet, behind the grandeur and control, House Velmora is a house of ghosts.

Their halls are vast, but cold. Their people whisper of things left unsaid, of grudges salted into wounds, of betrayal carried on the winds like an omen. A house like theirs, built on the ever-moving tides, cannot afford to be stagnant. Every decision is calculated. Every word is measured. Even family is not immune to the shifting currents of power.

The Blood of Velmora Runs Cold

They say a child born of Velmora does not cry. That they enter the world silent, as if already listening. Watching. Learning where the weakness lies.

No man commands the tides, but Duke Alastair Velmora—The Drowning Lord—has come close. A man feared not for his wrath, but for his patience. He does not threaten. He simply waits—for the sea to claim what does not belong.

His eldest son, Cassian Velmora—The Silent Tide—walks in his father’s shadow, watching, learning. He speaks little, but words are not needed when silence is its own kind of warning.

His daughter, Lady Selene Velmora—The Stormborn—is a force of nature in her own right. A woman raised in the heart of a tempest, who refuses to break, no matter how hard the winds rage against her.

And then there is Lord Marcellus Velmora—The Shadow Beneath the Waves. If Cassian is the tide, Marcellus is the trench—the place where light does not reach.

But even the strongest currents shift. And House Velmora?

Even they cannot control every tide that rises.

Storms Gather on the Horizon

Not all fear House Velmora, but none underestimate them. Their control is absolute, their power quiet but crushing. And yet, power breeds resentment, and shadows whisper of tides that may soon turn.

In a world where gods have fallen silent, who will seize the right to rule?

That answer, like the storm, is coming.

Would you trust a house built on the shifting tides, or would you fight to drown them first?