Baron Eryth Belphar

Baron Eryth Belphar was a man of mystery, a noble whose presence carried an air of quiet intensity. Unlike the flamboyant aristocrats who relished in excess and politics, he moved through the social circles of the empire with a measured, deliberate grace. He spoke little, yet his silence held more weight than most men’s words.     There were whispers about Baron Belphar—rumors that followed him like shadows. Some said he had dealings in the empire’s underworld, that his wealth was not merely the product of his ancestral lands but of blood and wagers. It was said that he funded underground dueling rings, where men wagered coin, honor, and even their lives for a chance at glory. Others claimed that his interest in such affairs was not merely financial, but personal—that he had once been a duelist himself, though no one could confirm the truth of it.     What was undeniable, however, was his discerning eye for combat. Even at the grand banquet hosted by Duke Samuel Greeve, he spent much of the evening not indulging in conversation, but watching—assessing the other guests with sharp, calculating eyes, as though he were studying opponents in an unseen arena.     A Man of Cold Composure   Baron Belphar was a man in his early fifties, yet age had not softened him. He was lean and well-kept, his sharp cheekbones and deep-set gray eyes giving him the look of a seasoned tactician. His raven-black hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was neatly combed back, emphasizing the stern lines of his face.     His attire was as understated as his demeanor. He wore a dark charcoal tunic with crimson embroidery, its fine stitching the only hint of extravagance. A high-collared black cloak draped over his shoulders, and his belt, though unadorned, was fastened with a silver buckle shaped like a duelist’s crossed swords—a subtle nod to the rumors that surrounded him. Even his gloves, crafted from supple black leather, seemed chosen to conceal more than they revealed.     He was not the type to wear excessive jewelry, but on his right hand, he bore a single ring—a heavy signet of his house, etched with an emblem resembling a falcon in mid-dive, talons bared.     A Man of Few Words, Many Secrets     Unlike other nobles who filled the banquet hall with laughter and boasts, Baron Belphar remained reserved, speaking only when spoken to and even then offering only what was necessary. He did not waste words on flattery or idle pleasantries. When asked for his opinion, his responses were direct, cutting through pretense like a duelist’s blade through cloth.     This made him an enigma to many, and an object of fascination to some. Those who sought to pry into his affairs found little beyond speculation. Even Duke Greeve, a man known for his keen insight into the character of his guests, once admitted that Baron Belphar was difficult to read.     Yet, despite his distant demeanor, he was not wholly without connections. There were those who respected him, those who knew of his rumored dueling rings and sought his favor. Some admired him for his ruthless efficiency in business, others feared him for the same reason.     The Massacre: A Duel Without Rules   When the assassins struck, chaos descended upon the banquet hall. The air filled with the clang of steel, the cries of the dying, and the acrid scent of spilled wine and blood.     Unlike some nobles who froze in fear, Baron Belphar reacted immediately. He may not have been a soldier, but he understood combat. His eyes scanned the battlefield of the banquet hall, calculating. But this was not a duel—this was slaughter. There was no code of honor here, no measured exchange of blows. It was a ruthless ambush, and even the sharpest tactician could not plan for such treachery.     He fought. Not with a soldier’s discipline, nor with a knight’s valor, but with the precision of a man who had seen death up close and had learned to recognize its approach. He disarmed an attacker, turned a dagger against its owner, and made every movement count. But even he could not hold out forever.     His end came not from a single duel, but from the overwhelming numbers that descended upon him. A blade found his side, then another. He fell to one knee, his breath ragged, his hand grasping at the wound as blood seeped between his fingers. Even then, he refused to beg, refused to show fear. His gray eyes, once so piercing, dulled as the life drained from him, and the man who had spent his life watching others fell, unseen by all but the dead around him.     Reason for Invitation: A Calculated Presence   Baron Eryth Belphar was invited to Duke Greeve’s banquet not out of friendship, but out of respect. The Duke, ever the strategist, understood the importance of having a man like Belphar in his circle.     Though the rumors surrounding him were troubling, there was no denying his influence. His supposed dueling rings may have been illegal, but they cultivated some of the finest swordsmen in the empire. Some of the empire’s most renowned warriors had, at some point, been whispered to have tested their mettle in Baron Belphar’s hidden arenas. To have him present at the banquet was not just a formality—it was a strategic move, a way to keep him within the Duke’s sight and influence.     But the banquet proved to be Baron Belphar’s final game. No calculating gaze or sharp wit could have predicted the carnage that would unfold. And when the night ended, the duelist-turned-noble lay among the fallen, his silence finally unbroken.