Emmelyne raised a gloved finger, mildly bored.

  "Take those hands."

  Cedric reacted on instinct, his weight dropping into a combat stance in the instant the command left her lips. Twisting away from the lunging shadow, he threw up a defensive arm.

  "Emmelyne!" he shouted, his voice cracking with a desperate disbelief. "Are you truly ordering my death?" He scrabbled for purchase on the loose gravel, the fine pebbles offering no traction for his polished boots.

  He managed to stay upright for a heartbeat, backing away—a sword-dance performed without a blade—but the beast was faster.

  Nero launched, a heavy projectile of muscle and fury, hitting his chest like a battering ram, driving the air from his lungs as he slammed into the dirt with a heavy thud.

  "Get off!"

  Cedric roared, straining every muscle to push the massive head away, but Nero was an immovable wall. The dog pinned Cedric's right arm to the stone with a massive paw, yet even as the beast’s jaws unhinged, Cedric’s struggle shifted.

  His hands continued to push, but his head craned back with a desperate, jerky motion, his eyes locking onto Emmelyne’s. They were wide, frantic, and searching—darting across her features as if looking for a ghost of the woman who had once held his hand. His lips parted, trembling, hovering in the silence as he waited for a single word of retraction.

  He didn't even look at the teeth. He looked only at her, his unblinking gaze a silent, harrowing plea for the "Stop" that never came.

  The jaws snapped shut.

  The sound was distinct—wet, grinding, final.

  Cedric's guttural scream rang out.

  Emmelyne watched the bone snap. She felt no pity. Only a dull, rhythmic throb in her chest, an old wound agitating beneath her corset. She smoothed the fabric, pressing down the ache.

  The dog released the mangled right hand only to snap at the left as Cedric writhed, pinning the man to the ground with sheer weight.

  "Stop! Stop!"

  A woman’s voice shrieked from the darkness. Countess Devon ran toward them, her shoes scraping against the gravel. There was no grace in her approach. Countess Devon clawed past a stunned nobleman, tripping over her own heavy skirts, her breathing loud and ragged in the silence.

  She saw the massive beast snarling over her son, its muzzle stained red, but she didn't stop.

  "Get away!"

  With a cry of sheer desperation, she threw herself onto the gravel, sliding between the predator and her son. She curled over Cedric's body, shielding him with her own trembling back, offering herself to the beast to save what was left of her boy.

  "Please! No more!"

  Nero snarled, its crimson muzzle inches from the Countess’s face, hot foam erupting from its jaws. Instead of lunging, it held its ground, massive frame quivering with muscle, waiting for its master's next command.

  "Mo... mother," he wheezed, his head lolling as his muscles turned to water. "My... hands..."

  The words trailed off into a faint, uneven murmur. His eyelids fluttered—a jagged, involuntary struggle to stay awake—before his gaze finally lost its focus. He slumped into the gravel, his chest still rising in shallow, rapid hitches, finally oblivious to the carnage.

  "My boy... my sweet, sweet boy..." the Countess choked out. Her hands were frantic, pressing desperate, trembling kisses to Cedric's matted hair even as the predatory heat of the beast radiated over her. "Every morning... he practiced," she sobbed, the words fragmented. "A wooden sword... before he could even walk..." She gasped, her voice breaking into a hollow, jagged wail. "And you..."

  Emmelyne looked down at the sobbing woman. The noise was becoming tedious.

  "Come back, Nero. We need to be back," Emmelyne commanded the beast. The Mastiff, Nero, immediately ceased its aggression. With a heavy huff, it turned away from the cowering mother and trotted back to Emmelyne’s side.

  "Why… At the very least, give me an answer… He only wanted to talk… He loved you. He believed in you." The Countess’s voice choked with tears. "Just why did you…?"

  Emmelyne's gaze drifted to a wine stain on her glove as the Countess wailed.

  "Adoration is a common tax paid to my House, Countess," Emmelyne said, her voice flat. "I am not obligated to provide a receipt for every contribution."

  She turned and stepped into the velvet interior of the carriage. Nero bounded up the steps after her, settling at her feet. Mina scrambled in last, trembling.

  The heavy carriage door swung shut. The soft thud felt final. With a creak of harnessed horses, the vehicle prepared to move.

  The weeping stopped. When the Countess looked up, the tears still tracked through the grime on her cheeks, but the trembling in her jaw had vanished. "He offered you his soul... and you call it a transaction?"

  The carriage lurched forward, wheels grinding into the gravel as if to punctuate the silence. The Countess’s voice dropped, each word torn from her throat like a prayer.

  "I curse you, Emmelyne Viremont."

  The Countess had realized that no law of man would help her here, so she looked higher.

  "One day," she intoned, her eyes unblinking, "you will understand what it means to stand helpless while someone destroys you... and everything you love."

  Emmelyne turned her head and leaned against the plush seat, closing her eyes. The sound of spinning wheels ground the gravel into dust, drowning out the wailing of a mother whose son would never wield a sword again. It was just noise.

  High above, on a balcony overlooking the gates, Consort Rosa watched the carriage disappear into the night.

  She ran a slow, lingering fingertip along the cold stone railing, her lips twitching with the faint, rhythmic pulse of a hidden amusement. "A pity," she purred, her voice laced with a low, vibrating mirth. "Little Emmelyne was so busy looking down her nose, she forgot to look at who was holding the boy's back."

  Rosa’s smile sharpened. "The Commander of the Radiant Sun certainly won't forgive the breaking of his favorite son."

  Her fingers gripped the stone tightly. Her gaze sharpened, intense and hungry. "I suspect Lady Emmelyne's engagement prospects have just been shattered along with those bones."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Rosa turned to face Jenna, the silk of her gown brushing against the marble floor.

  Jenna’s didn’t look back at the gates; she tilted her head to align with her mother’s profile, her eyes widening to hold the same hungry stare.

  [Emerald Castle — Prince Alden's Bedchamber

  The castle was silent. Alden leaned in, eyes half-lidded.

  Code 39, Sill, entered through the open window, landing silently on the window ledge. He kept one hand tucked formally behind his back.

  Kneeling before Alden, his head bowed low, he produced a sealed case from his cloak. "The research," he said, "everything else is ashes." He placed it on the desk. "The tower is empty."

  "As you predicted, they persist in sending assassins to silence Gelbart," Sill said, tilting his head. "Extremely skilled. All of them took their own lives before we could interrogate them."

  Alden merely swirled the wine in his glass. "Did 06 find out the one who infiltrated my bedchamber?"

  "He did. But even the assassin is unaware of the true Mastermind. He could only point to a secret organization: Reaper Hand."

  Sill bowed his head. "Should we grind them to ashes?"

  Alden watched the moon glow outside, before muttering. "No. That would expose the Phantom. We can't risk it yet."

  "We still can..."

  "Sill..." Alden interjected. "How long do you think they'll stay quiet? My uncle and the consorts..."

  Sill froze, recalling what he was about to report.

  "Duke Helbart is already preparing his next move. Consort Rosa's goals remain opaque. But... it almost feels like..." Sill swallowed before opening his mouth. "She is infatuated..." He peeked at Alden's face before continuing. "With you... She keeps dyeing her lovers' hair black... asks about your schedules, and tries to recruit your people. Unless she’s insane....”

  Alden remained silent, watching the red liquid coil against the glass.

  "How can the Emperor tolerate this, Master?" Sill whispered.

  Alden smirked. "Do you know who wants me dead the most?"

  "Are you saying... it's the Emperor?" Sill spasmed, his pupils blown wide, scouring the shadows. "Is he the one... sending assassins?" Stammering, he added, "Master... we must..."

  "No," Alden replied plainly. "Father is not the one... yet."

  "Yet? what do you mean..." Sill forced his head up, finally meeting the dark stare that pinned him in place. "Sill, recall Code 03. He is to abandon his earlier Master's mission, and submit to me."

  Sill stood up. "Understood. I will immediately..."

  "Wait..." Alden stopped him, looking at the pouch at Sill's waist. "Give it."

  Sill shifted his weight, hiding the pouch with his hand. A twitch of his mouth preceded a long breath as he asked, "Master, are you truly… alright?"

  At last, Alden's lips curved—just barely. "What do you think?"

  Sill's jaw tightened. After a moment of silence, he straightened slightly, producing a leather pouch from his robes with his free hand.

  "I brought Sulfuric, as you asked." Sill’s voice dropped.

  Alden nodded, tapping his finger on the armrest.

  Sill's head dipped again. "Code 19 was horrified. He said no matter how strong the body of a Swordmaster is, if you keep pushing your body to your limit like this, you will inevitably break. Why not stop now?"

  Alden took the pouch, his gaze shifting. "What about the box you’re hiding?"

  Sill's features hardened. He reached behind his back, revealing the sealed container he’d held in a white-knuckled grip. "This contains the Sun Stones you requested..." His breath shuddered. "But..."

  "Well done," Alden whispered, swirling his goblet. "Bring Code 06 here. Tell him to act as my body double again... for a few more nights. I'd be returning every dawn."

  Sill's hands clenched at his sides. "Master..." But the Prince's expression had already closed. He bowed his head deeper. "Understood."

  “Also, refrain from using the window for a while. I’ll inform you of our next communication point.” Alden gestured dismissively with two fingers.

  Sill rose and withdrew, the curtains shifting softly behind him.

  The moonlight ascended higher into the chamber. The wine in Alden’s glass absorbed the pale light, transforming into a dark, glossy liquid, resembling spilled blood.

  He rose and proceeded directly towards the Underground dungeon.

  [Emerald Castle — Underground Dungeon

  Deep within the living quarters of the Emerald Castle, the air had a metallic and stagnant water taste.

  Geralt sat in the corner of his cell. His fine robes—once the mark of a Tower Master—were now expensive rags. The shock had given way to a cold, trembling clarity.

  He heard the heavy thud of boots approaching. A key rattled in the iron lock.

  Geralt scrambled up, the chains biting into his wrists. He pressed his ear against the damp stone, breath hitching. The Broker. It had to be. Who else would come here to save me?

  The heavy iron door creaked open.

  It was a single guard, holding a wooden tray with a small loaf of bread and a goblet of wine. The guard’s face was shadowed by his helmet.

  "Last meal," the guard grunted, setting the tray on the floor.

  "Not interested."

  "You must, Lord." The guard's gaze sharpened.

  Geralt slumped against the wall. "Who sent you?" his voice rasped, the words slurring slightly through his broken teeth.

  The guard didn't answer. He drew a short dagger from his belt. "They cannot risk a public execution, Master Geralt. Drink the wine. It is quick. Or I make it look like a suicide with this blade."

  Geralt looked at the wine. The faint, bitter scent of almonds wafted from the goblet. 'Cyanide.'

  "I served them," Geralt hissed, backing away. "For twenty years, I did their dirty work!"

  The guard didn't waste time on a response. He lunged.

  Geralt shrieked, raising his shackled hands—

  A sword pierced through the guard’s chest from behind. The man stiffened, eyes rolling back, and collapsed forward without a sound.

  Alden stepped over the fallen body.

  He wore a nightrobe of midnight blue, the silk hem dragging carelessly through the filth of the dungeon floor.

  "I can't let you die just yet," Alden said, his voice flat. "I made a promise."

  Geralt stared at the body, then at the Prince. Alden nudged the goblet of poisoned wine with his slippered foot, tipping it over. The liquid pooled harmlessly on the stone. "Who else has it, Geralt? The formula of Will-Sapper."

  Geralt’s eyes darted around the cell. He saw an opening. "I'll tell you... if you let me live. Get me out of the Capital. Guarantee my safety."

  Alden stared at him, then sighed and turned away.

  "Wa... wait." Geralt shouted. "Do you not want to know?"

  Alden replied without looking back, "You misunderstand your position, Geralt. I don’t need you to survive. I have other means. This is my way of giving you an opportunity."

  Geralt snorted, "That’s a lie. You wouldn’t have come here if it were true."

  He sneered at Alden, "I’m willing to help you. Just let me out."

  Alden tilted his head slightly before a soft laugh escaped. "Are you creating all this suspense just because some other prince is involved? Geralt. Those princes may assist you in your research, but can they save your life?"

  He whispered above his shoulder, "And regarding Prince Aran, he detests nuisances the most. Right now, I’m the one saving you from him." He resumed his walk.

  Panic gripped Geralt. Alden had known the truth all along. He had been privy to everything from the very start. If the Prince left that door, the next assassin would strike without hesitation.

  "Wait! Wait!" Geralt scrambled forward, the chains snapping taut. "Not just Aran! There is someone else!"

  Alden stopped. He didn't turn.

  "A Dark Elf!" Geralt screamed the words, spittle flying from his ruined mouth. "From Ravencliff! He bought a copy! The latest formula!"

  Alden turned his head slightly. "A Dark Elf?"

  "Yes! Yes! I don't know his name, but I know the seal he used! I can draw it! Please!" Geralt nodded frantically, desperate to prove his worth. "If you let me out, I will help you find him! Now please... let me live! I can be your spy! I'll do anything!"

  Alden turned fully around then. He looked down at the pathetic figure groveling in the straw.

  "I see." Alden nodded softly, “You sold a weapon formula to our enemy nation. It’s like a dog biting its own master’s hand.”

  Alden took a step closer.

  “Your Highness?” Geralt stumbled, “You misunderstood. I was merely…”

  Alden’s hand moved swiftly, clamping onto Geralt’s jaw and forcing it open with crushing strength. Geralt’s eyes bulged as he struggled to bite down, but Alden’s grip remained firm. His other hand reached in and gripped the wet muscle of Geralt’s tongue.

  A wet, tearing sound reverberated through the cell.

  Geralt collapsed back, gagging, clutching his mouth. Blood poured between his fingers, soaking his clothes. He made a high-pitched, gurgling keening noise, rocking back and forth in the corner.

  Alden stood over him, holding the severed piece of flesh. He dropped it onto the floor with a wet splat, right next to the dead guard.

  Two figures stepped into the cell from the corridor.

  Geralt, choking on his own blood, looked up with wide, terrified eyes. His disciples. His students.

  Rhodri stepped forward and offered a fresh pair of gloves. Feroz stood behind him, holding a basin of water.

  Alden, sliding his fingers into the new gloves with a soft snap of leather, said, "Clean this up and ensure he survives the night."

  "Understood, Master," both men replied in unison.

  Alden walked out. The door shut with a cold metallic click.

  Rhodri and Feroz stood motionless, their eyes fixed on the heavy iron door where Alden had disappeared. Only when the footsteps faded completely did they turn back to the figure slumped against the damp stone wall.

  "He has her eyes, doesn't he?" Rhodri whispered, staring at the closed door. "Finally."

  Feroz dipped a rag into the water, the water turning pink. "Sharper, I think. She would have hesitated at the tongue."

  Rhodri smiled, a soft, beatific expression holding a bucket of blood. "She is watching. I can feel the warmth."

  Geralt sagged in his bindings, blood dripping onto his chest. He looked at the men he had raised. They didn't look at him. They were looking at the door, their eyes glazed with a devotion he had never once seen in twenty years of mentorship. He was not their master. He never had been.