Lennox walked out of the bedroom with the same confident, measured stride he always possessed.
*The Marquis of Guinness. The punishment room.*
Words whose full meaning he did not yet grasp swirled chaotically through his mind.
With an impassive expression, he traversed the hallway until he found himself in a dark, empty drawing room. There, without wasting a second, he drew his black sword.
He gripped the blade with his right hand and ran it across the edge without so much as flinching.
It burned.
Blood immediately stained his palm.
But strangely, instead of dripping to the floor, the droplets evaporated instantly—as though the sword were greedily absorbing them.
**(The taste of blood is always tempting.)**
And in the next moment, a massive black panther materialized before him, familiar down to the smallest detail.
"Finally decided to show yourself."
**(We are not so intimately acquainted that I would answer at your first call. Wouldn't you agree?)**
The panther grinned, eyes narrowing lazily.
**(It's amusing to hear such complaints from you—didn't you declare you had no intention of making deals with demons?)**
"It doesn't matter anymore."
Lennox's voice was flat, devoid of warmth.
He understood better than anyone what he was risking. But none of it mattered now.
**(Is that so.)**
The panther's tail swayed slowly through the air, as though she were in high spirits.
**(Why did you summon me?)**
"I need to know something."
**(Listen—dreams and memories aren't exactly my specialty.)**
The demon chuckled, as though she already knew precisely what this conversation would entail.
**(We are forbidden to cross into another's memories uninvited.)**
"So you *can't*?"
**(Why do you sound so disappointed?)**
The panther turned her back on him with the haughty air of a capricious cat, then began lazily licking her paw.
**(A demon can do anything. Just remember: distorting memories and crafting nightmares is far from the extent of my abilities.)**
Her voice grew more boastful.
**(I am far more magnificent than my lesser kin.)**
"Then what is your true strength?"
**(To devour souls.)**
**(With exquisite, excruciating care.)**
She said it almost with pride.
But Lennox remained unmoved.
"Show me."
**(Very well. Just this once.)**
---
## — The Vision —
The world shifted in an instant.
Now he stood in the corridor of an old, unfamiliar castle.
Screams echoed from distant chambers. The clash of weapons reverberated through stone halls—as though a war had erupted within these very walls. Everything felt alien, chaotic.
"The eighth wife of the Marquis of Guinness."
The words appeared in his mind like a whisper—or a curse.
Suddenly, he found himself standing before a door. It led to a secret room.
What Lennox saw when he barely cracked it open was no less brutal than a battlefield.
There was a woman inside.
Servants stood at a distance, clearly unwilling to approach. They murmured quietly amongst themselves:
"She's... unlucky. Cursed, even. You should stay away."
But Lennox ignored their warnings.
The moment he stepped inside, reality fractured.
---
A small chamber. The walls were decorated in deep crimson tones—as though they had absorbed years of spilled blood.
In the center hung a woman, suspended by her wrists. Her back was a canvas of raw, bleeding wounds. Her eyes were lifeless—yet she looked up at him.
And he recognized her.
***Juliet.***
---
## — At Dawn —
The prison block in the capital was unusually noisy as dawn broke.
"Call the Duke! Or at least Countess Montague!"
"Be *quiet*, for God's sake!"
The Marquis of Guinness, shackled in heavy chains, strained against his bonds, demanding to see anyone who might listen.
The knight from the Duke's household standing guard at the gate looked utterly exhausted.
"If you don't want to be hanged, you'd better bite your tongue, Marquis."
It was Jude. He was barely containing his fury.
He was already sick of listening to this man hurl insults at Juliet.
"Fools..." the Marquis croaked, nearly delirious. "I am the great Lord of the South! Do you think your Duke can deal with me as he pleases?"
"Shut your mouth, Guinness."
The words were harsh—but inwardly, Jude felt uneasy.
The Marquis of Guinness appeared noble on the surface. But beneath that veneer lay rot.
He had taken seven wives. All of them had either died "of illness" or vanished without a trace.
Everyone knew the cause wasn't illness. But no one dared investigate. The Marquis—one of the Empire's pillars—remained untouchable.
*Yes, the Duke of Carlisle is not susceptible to bribes or empty promises. And he will never forgive anyone who tried to destroy Juliet.*
*But the Council of Nobles is another matter entirely.*
They were easy to buy. And the southern lands that belonged to Guinness were a prize too tempting to ignore.
Jude Hayon was himself a nobleman. He knew all too well how the aristocracy thought.
*If the Marquis secures the Council's support, even the Duke will find himself in a precarious position.*
But despite his outward composure, Guinness himself was beginning to lose confidence.
*Damn it... how did she not succumb to the hypnosis?*
The Marquis ground his teeth in frustration, mentally cursing the Archbishop.
*I never should have trusted that incompetent holy fool! Damned imbecile...*
Yet beneath his irritation lurked something deeper—genuine fear.
Because the Marquis wasn't afraid of failure. Or public shame.
He was afraid of something no one should ever discover.
*If someone finds the storage room...*
In a secret chamber hidden deep within his southern mansion, something was concealed that could cost him not just his freedom, but his life. Even if the Duke's knights ransacked the entire estate, they would never find the entrance.
But if someone *did* stumble upon it...
The Marquis shuddered.
*Dahlia will not forgive failure.*
His fingers trembled. Even the thought of her wrath filled him with far greater terror than the prospect of imprisonment or execution.
He knew his only option was to secure an audience with the Duke of Carlisle.
He had already offered everything imaginable—deals, concessions, land, gold. But the Duke remained utterly unmoved. Moreover, he refused to allow any letters to leave the prison.
"Call the Duke! Immediately!"
Guinness's voice trembled, though he tried to mask his fear with bluster.
But Jude Hayon, knight of the House of Carlisle, remained calm.
"Oh, how noisy you are."
***Clank.***
The next moment, Jude opened the cell door and, without ceremony, gagged the Marquis.
"You... what are you *doing?!*"
"Ah, yes. Much better."
Jude didn't even pretend to listen.
"Now there's silence. Sleep peacefully, Marquis."
---
But there was no peace.
A few minutes later, strange sounds echoed through the dungeon.
Grinding. Clicking.
Guinness raised his head sharply, peering into the darkness.
*A visitor? At this hour?*
"Who's there?!" Jude demanded, already gripping his sword.
But then—
"Release him."
A voice, commanding and cold, sliced through the silence.
It was difficult to make out the figure in the shadows—but the moment the torchlight illuminated the silhouette, the Marquis understood.
The Duke of Carlisle.
"Mmm... Duke. Good evening." The Marquis forced a condescending smile. "It seems you've finally realized it's wiser to negotiate with me than to fight. Much easier to discuss matters without shackles, wouldn't you agree?"
"Certainly."
The Marquis's smile widened. Inwardly, he was already celebrating his victory.
*No matter how much power this northern duke wields, he cannot go against half the Empire's nobility. And I've bought them all. These lands are his weakness. He won't hold out.*
The Marquis straightened his shoulders, his tone growing magnanimous.
"You have made a wise choice, Duke. You will not regret extending your hand in alliance. Let us proceed to the details of our arrangement..."
*But something was wrong.*
The Duke had not spoken a single word.
He simply stood there.
Cold. Motionless. Without a flicker of emotion on his face.
And in that moment, realization dawned on the Marquis:
He had made a grave mistake.
---