---
"So you won?"
Marin straightened her shoulders.
*Won* was perhaps too strong a word. But she certainly hadn't lost. If anyone was keeping score, she'd landed more hits than she'd received.
"I didn't lose."
"Winning is what matters." The Duke's voice carried no inflection. "It's not enough for those under my protection to merely *not lose*."
"Those maids are also under your protection, Your Grace."
He ignored this entirely, turning his attention elsewhere.
"Olive. Go to the studio."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Marin watched their exchange with growing frustration.
*This concerns me, and yet I'm being pushed aside again?*
"Your Grace, is this truly about my dress?"
"Olive. Leave us."
Complete dismissal. As if she hadn't spoken at all.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Olive bowed crisply and departed. Marin watched his retreating back with naked longing.
*Take me with you...*
The door clicked shut.
Silence descended over the study—heavy, awkward, pressing against her eardrums like something physical.
The Duke let it stretch before finally speaking.
"What shall we do?"
"Pardon?"
"Are you not here to work?"
"Oh—yes! Should I read?"
"I'm not a coward, after all."
The words emerged casual. Almost offhand.
Marin's breath caught. Her eyes went wide.
*He heard. He heard me call him a coward. No—that's impossible. He couldn't have. He* shouldn't *have. Please, please let him not have heard.*
She prayed fervently, silently, desperately.
"I've told you before." His voice cut through her panic. "I dislike repeating myself."
"Yes! Yes, I'm reading now!"
She fumbled the book open—then noticed her wrist still rested in his grip.
"Your hand, please..."
He released her without comment and leaned back in his chair.
Marin cleared her throat and began.
"*Once upon a time, there lived an emperor whom the people of the empire extolled—*"
"Lie."
She pressed on, pretending not to hear.
"*The people of the empire loved their emperor dearly—*"
"Also a lie."
*I can't hear you. I refuse to hear you.*
"*The emperor loved his people in return and bestowed his mercy upon them—*"
"That's a lie as well."
Marin looked up from the page and fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare.
"Perhaps I shouldn't read at all?"
"Why?"
"You don't seem to be in the mood to listen."
"On the contrary." His lips twitched—almost a smile. "I'm not a coward, remember."
*Vindictive. Absolutely vindictive.*
"What was that?"
"Nothing at all, Your Grace."
"Continue."
She returned her attention to the book, mentally cursing whoever had reported her whispered insult.
"*The emperor had a beautiful empress. Together they were happy, but one sorrow plagued them: they had no heir. And so they prayed to the gods each night.*"
Marin paused, bracing herself.
Usually the Duke interjected at moments like these—some dry observation, some cynical comment. But this time, silence answered her.
She waited. Still nothing.
*Perhaps...*
She resumed reading, and gradually the story pulled her in.
When the beautiful princess fell into danger, Marin's voice grew soft with sympathy. When the princess encountered the prince from a distant land, warmth crept into her tone. And at the end—when princess and prince set off together toward their future—her heart ached with bittersweet tenderness.
"*And so they traveled far, far away, and lived happily ever after.*"
She closed the book with care.
The study had grown quieter still. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.
Marin lowered her gaze and stole a glance at the Duke.
He sat motionless in his chair, head tilted back, shoulders relaxed.
*Is he... asleep?*
If he'd truly fallen asleep, that would be wonderful. Perfect. Everything she'd hoped for.
"Good night," she whispered, barely audible, terrified of waking him.
Clutching the fairy tale to her chest, she turned to leave—
—and her gaze snagged on something atop his desk.
A letter opener. Thin, long, silver.
Her heart plummeted.
*It can't be...*
She looked quickly to his ear, searching for fresh blood.
Nothing. No crimson. No injury.
Relief flooded through her, followed immediately by a wave of sorrow.
*But what if he uses it again? When I'm not here? When no one's watching?*
The thought gnawed at her.
*I should hide it. Take it away, just in case.*
Her hand drifted toward the desk—then stopped.
*First accused of being a spy. Now I'd be a thief as well? No. Absolutely not.*
With one last lingering look at the silver blade, Marin turned and slipped from the study.
---
## — Ten Days West: The Sairan Desert —
Travel ten days west from the Omen Empire, and you will discover the endless Sairan Desert.
This vast wasteland sits between two great powers—the Sanders Empire to the west, the Omen Empire to the east. Within its sun-scorched expanse dwell thousands of species of monsters, each more terrible than the last.
Paradoxically, it was these very monsters that had allowed peace between the empires. Neither side could hope to invade through monster-infested territory. And so, a hundred years past, the two nations had signed a treaty of non-intervention.
As the decades passed, scholars studied the desert's creatures. Trade routes emerged, threading carefully between known monster territories. Commerce began to flow across the sands, connecting east and west.
The House of Vines had defended the western border for generations. When monsters spilled from the desert, the Dukes of Vines met them with steel and blood. Every season brought battle. Every season demanded sacrifice.
This was their duty. This was their burden. This was their legacy.
---
The two-week campaign had finally ended.
Duke Gerald and his knights crossed back through the mountain passes, their horses weary, their bodies exhausted. The men rode in worn silence, conserving what strength remained for the journey home.
Then the scouts failed to return.
The search parties sent after them vanished as well.
The army was forced to halt in unfavorable terrain—exposed, ill-suited for defense, far from water. As hours stretched into a day, unrest rippled through the ranks. Tired soldiers grew restless. Whispers spread.
Gerald observed it all from horseback, his expression betraying nothing.
Finally, he summoned a knight from the rear guard.
"Henders."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Henders approached with his head bowed, his voice thick and nasal. A cold had been plaguing him for days.
"Observe only. Whatever you see, do not attempt to help. Assess the situation and return with a report."
"Understood."
Gerald had chosen his most intelligent, most cautious soldier. A man who knew when discretion outweighed valor.
Henders rode out.
He returned far faster than expected, his horse lathered, his face grim.
"Your Grace. You need to see this yourself."
---
Gerald dismounted and followed the knight into the thicket.
The trees thinned, the underbrush parted—
—and a garden of impossible beauty opened before them.
Flowers rose as tall as men, their petals unfurled in brilliant colors: crimson, gold, violet, white. They swayed gently despite the still air, as though dancing to music only they could hear.
A sweet fragrance washed over Gerald—thick, intoxicating, almost overwhelming.
Mixed beneath that cloying sweetness lurked something else. Something *wrong*.
Gerald forced his heightened senses to shut down. His ability to suppress individual perceptions—honed through years of training—had never felt more necessary.
"When I saw what was happening, I immediately retreated," Henders reported, his voice muffled by the hand clamped over his nose. "The cold saved me. I could barely smell anything."
Gerald's attention fixed on the soldiers stumbling through the flower garden.
They moved like drunkards—staggering, swaying, laughing at nothing. Some had dropped their weapons. Others had removed their armor. They wandered among the beautiful blooms with expressions of vacant bliss.
If not for their graceless movements, the scene might have been lovely.
Then one soldier strayed too close.
A flower bent toward him, petals brushing his face in what seemed almost like a caress. The man leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed.
The bloom opened wider.
Its interior was not the golden center of an ordinary flower. It was *flesh*—wet, red, pulsing. A throat lined with hooked teeth.
The flower swallowed him whole.
No scream. No struggle. Just... gone.
Henders made a choked sound of horror.
Gerald's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady.
"Inform the men. These are scent-based predators. Everyone must cover their nose and mouth. All units are to fall back immediately—maximum distance from this location."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Have the main force wait at the rear. No one approaches."
"But—" Henders' eyes widened. "Your Grace, there are dozens of them. Hundreds. You can't possibly—"
"Can anyone fight while holding their breath?"
Gerald drew his sword. The steel sang as it cleared the scabbard.
Every knight was trained from childhood to control their breathing. Respiration was fundamental to combat—to stance, to power, to endurance. Fighting without drawing breath through the nose was like fighting with one arm bound.
"You must not inhale the fragrance under any circumstances," Gerald continued. "If you find anyone capable of suppressing their sense of smell, bring them. Otherwise, wait."
Henders stared at him for a long moment.
Then he bowed—deep, formal, absolute.
"Yes, Your Grace."
He turned and ran, his faith in his Duke unwavering.
---
Gerald advanced alone.
The flowers had arranged themselves in concentric rings, growing denser toward some central point. They swayed as he approached, their petals trembling, their colors brightening—as though eager to greet him.
The fragrance intensified. Layer upon layer of sweetness poured from the blooms: honey, jasmine, ripe fruit, something darker beneath. Scents designed to intoxicate, to seduce, to lure prey close enough to devour.
Gerald felt none of it.
His sense of smell had been locked away, sealed behind iron will. The flowers could release their entire arsenal; it would make no difference.
He walked on.
The petals stretched toward him, brushing against his armor, his hands, his face. When he failed to react—when no dreamy expression crossed his features, when he didn't slow or sway or stumble—the flowers grew agitated.
New scents erupted from them. Muskier. Sharper. Desperate.
Gerald raised his sword.
---