"Marquis!"
A face appeared suddenly from around the corner—and he recognized it immediately.
"Dolores?"
"Marquis, it's me! Dolores!"
The Marquis of Guinness froze in disbelief.
"Dolores? How are you—"
"There's no time to explain! We have to go!" she interrupted, barely catching her breath.
The Marquis understood nothing.
*How had Dolores managed to slip past the security—especially one this strict? And what was she doing here in the first place?*
*He hadn't known her long. Their relationship was more transaction than affection. Risking herself to save him was certainly not in her nature.*
Yet she deftly unlocked the prison door with a key she'd brought and helped him escape with surprising ease. When they emerged, the Marquis noticed with shock that every guard lay unconscious. Someone had incapacitated them beforehand.
The servants Dolores had brought were already waiting in the courtyard. They climbed quickly into the waiting carriage, and only then did the Marquis allow himself to believe he had truly escaped.
"What the *hell* is going on?"
"The order was to release you, Marquis," Dolores replied curtly. She was clearly nervous.
"Orders? Whose orders?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
The carriage lurched into motion, carrying them away.
The Marquis peered out the window, his mind racing.
*Who could have organized this? Who possessed such power to silently bypass the Carlisle guards?*
*Of course!*
*He was a nobleman—a man of such standing would not be left without allies.*
Finally, confidence returned. Straightening his shoulders, he turned toward the coachman.
"Where are we heading?"
"To a safe place, my lord."
When he glanced back, Dolores had already vanished. But the coachman's voice was so calm that he paid it no attention.
"But first... I need—"
And then he noticed: he was still in shackles.
"Hey! Get these off me! *Now!*"
The carriage bounced along the mountain road. No one seemed to hear his cry.
Finally, the cart ground to a halt.
"Please step out."
The Marquis was pulled out rather roughly. He stumbled several unsteady steps and fell to his knees.
Atop the hill, despite the late hour, there was activity: horses, shadowy figures, the flickering glow of torches.
He noticed an old man seated with surprising dignity on a flat stone.
The stranger looked impressive, even in his advanced years.
"Hey, old man! Did you drag me here? What do you want?" the Marquis raised his voice in irritation. "If it's money you're after, no problem—I'll pay you generously."
He assumed the elderly figure was merely a servant of whoever had arranged his escape.
*But who? The Second Prince? Members of the Council of Nobles plotting a coup?*
At that moment, he heard a voice—not old, but young. Feminine. Melodic.
"Hello, Marquis."
He turned—and was struck dumb.
"Juliet Montague?"
She stood before him, dressed in simple black, without adornment or pretense.
A faint smile crossed her lips.
"Yes. It was I who arranged your escape."
"But... *why?*"
The Marquis could not comprehend it.
*She is the Duke of Carlisle's woman. Why would she help him?*
*Unless... it's because that woman was once your slave?*
He remembered Dahlia's words. She had assured him that if he introduced Dolores as his wife, Juliet—a former captive—would surely show sympathy.
He hadn't given the theory much thought at the time, but it had seemed logical enough.
*Apply a little pressure and she breaks. Trauma. Memories...*
*Ha! It seems my star hasn't faded yet.*
Convincing himself that everything was under control, the Marquis felt strong again.
*As expected, Dahlia foresaw everything!*
He studied Juliet.
*So fragile. So defenseless. He could easily subdue her. The key was avoiding the Duke. And with this girl? He could handle her.*
With these thoughts, he spoke haughtily:
"Be that as it may, you did the right thing. Well done. Now—remove these chains."
"Praise?" she repeated, covering her mouth with one hand.
Her shoulders trembled slightly. The Marquis assumed she was about to burst into tears.
But then—
"Pfft..." She burst into laughter. The sound echoed across the clearing.
"Are you... *mocking me?!*" The Marquis's face darkened. "You wretch! Should I have you whipped?! Remove these *immediately!*"
"With a whip? Ah, yes." Her expression went cold. "I remember."
"That red room..."
The Marquis shuddered.
"How do you... did the Duke tell you?"
"I came for one reason only." Her voice was ice. "I wanted to ask a question."
She no longer smiled. Coldly, with undisguised contempt, she looked down at the Marquis kneeling before her.
For the first time, he realized: this was not the gaze of a broken woman.
It was the gaze of someone capable of destruction.
*Gods...*
*Why had he ever assumed she would obey?*
Her icy eyes, tinted a deathly blue, stared without mercy—like a predator's.
"Curious? Fine. Promise to set me free, and I'll answer."
She didn't move.
"It was Dahlia Fran who told you that if you introduced Dolores as your eighth wife, I would begin to sympathize with you. Correct?"
"You... you know Lady Dahlia?" The Marquis gave himself away, forgetting all caution.
Juliet let out a soft laugh. It seemed that was enough.
"Yes. It really was her."
Without another word, she turned and said to someone behind her:
"I'm done."
"Wait! *Wait!*" the Marquis screamed, terrified of being left alone.
But Juliet didn't look back.
Instead, the silent old man who had been standing nearby approached him.
"My name is Lionel Lebatan."
The Marquis froze.
He had been a merchant once, a collector of gossip and secrets. He knew too many names not to recognize this one.
"Li... Lionel *Lebatan?*"
He whispered it with something close to reverence.
*It seemed absurd. But he knew this was no impostor. This was the Red King of the East—a man with fiery hair who had once terrorized entire lands.*
He was older now, faded—but still stood with a straight spine and a gaze cold enough to freeze blood.
"Could it be... that Lady Dahlia arranged all of this?"
Blindly clinging to hope, the Marquis began constructing his own version of events. Juliet no longer mattered. What mattered was who stood behind all of this.
*The Red King... Lionel Lebatan!*
*That's who snatched him from the clutches of the Duke of the North!*
Not understanding the reasons but flattered nonetheless, he bowed his head.
"It is an honor to meet you, Lord Lebatan."
The old man looked down at him in silence.
"You must be uncomfortable in those shackles."
"Well... yes. A little," the Marquis replied awkwardly, expecting an order to remove them.
But the Red King's subordinates didn't move. They only stared at him with empty, expressionless eyes.
"Lord Lebatan?"
"The moonlight is beautiful tonight."
The old man raised his gaze to the sky, as though the Marquis had ceased to exist. Yes, the night was clear, the moon full. But Guinness, still chained, was experiencing something else entirely.
And then Lebatan asked:
"On the night Count and Countess Montague died... was the moonlight like this too?"
"No... there was... a thunderstorm, I think..."
The Marquis faltered. His eyes widened.
"I... I misspoke... forgive me..."
"That was not a slip of the tongue." Lebatan's voice was soft. "It was an admission."
"What? No... you misunderstand!"
He tried to force a smile, but terror had carved itself into his face. He knew perfectly well that *he* had orchestrated the deaths of Juliet's parents.
*But what did the Red King care about that?*
"Let me explain... an error occurred..."
He stammered—and then remembered.
Countess Montague. They called her the daughter of a noble knight. Red-haired. Refined...
"Yes. She was my daughter."
The words were spoken calmly. But they struck harder than any whip.
The Marquis was rendered speechless.
Lebatan reached calmly into his coat and withdrew a small glass vial.
"You killed my daughter. And now you intended to kill my granddaughter as well?"
*There was no need to explain who he meant. Everything became terribly clear.*
The Duke of Carlisle had nothing to do with this.
*The granddaughter is Juliet.*
There was no anger in Lebatan's voice. No shouting. No threats. But what he held in his hand made the Marquis go pale.
"Have... have mercy... *please*..."
The Marquis knew little of dark magic. But he had already witnessed what happened when *this* entity entered someone's shadow.
"They say that if you release this into a person's shadow, they cannot lie."
The Marquis had tested it himself. On slaves. He had planned to use it on Juliet—but had never had the chance.
Now he no longer thought. He only prayed.
"With this bottle, you will confess everything you did to my daughter."
The Marquis went rigid.
A thought flashed through his mind: *Dolores... was all of this part of the plan?*
"We have time. We'll learn everything—gradually."
Lebatan uncorked the bottle and set it gently on the ground.
"Lord... *please*... have mercy..."
"Don't worry. After your testimony, my sons will render a fair sentence."
He didn't know what to fear more—the entity writhing within the glass, or the men surrounding him with cold, dead eyes.
The Marquis's shadow began to tremble.
And the entity—ominous, formless—surged into it.
For the last time, while his mind remained intact, the Marquis of Guinness looked up at the faces before him.
They gazed back as though he were already dead.
---