Not even a full day had passed since Evangeline Rohanson was locked away, yet her dreary cell had already been transformed into something resembling a cozy sitting room. Someone had clearly accepted a bribe from the Rohanson household and turned a blind eye while furniture was smuggled in.
Antenor became the prime suspect.
He had resolutely refused to accept any bribes. He had not helped carry a single item. But that mattered to no one.
An enraged Polus raised his leg to kick him again, but their superior's sharp voice cut through the corridor.
"What are you standing there for? Change shifts—quickly!"
Polus lowered his foot with visible reluctance. Antenor, gritting his teeth against the pain, rose from the filthy floor.
Yesterday's wounds hadn't even begun to heal before new ones were layered on top. His leg had either been struck or twisted—he couldn't remember which anymore—and with every step, his joints screamed in protest. He limped now. Always limped.
Dragging his battered body down the stone stairs into the dungeon, he found Argenti waiting to be relieved. The knight greeted him with a smug grin and clapped him hard on the shoulder.
"It's rough, I know, but keep at it." Argenti's smile widened. "Oh, and I made a bit of a mess down here. Clean it up, won't you, Antenor? If it's too much trouble to do it alone, you can always call Rohanson's people for help."
The other knights chuckled as though they'd heard a brilliant joke. Antenor watched Argenti retreat up the stairs, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
"Looks like Argenti's been having fun again." Polus surveyed the scattered food on the floor—the meal meant for Evangeline Rohanson, now trampled and ruined. His expression suggested this mess only confirmed Argenti's incorruptibility. "Clean it up."
Antenor had always been an outcast among the Imperial Guard. But after Argenti began openly displaying hostility, the beatings had only intensified. Everyone rallied around their golden boy. Argenti was Captain Mudzeta's maternal grandnephew, enjoyed special favor with the higher-ups, and came from a respected family.
And who was Antenor? His parents were farmhands in some forgotten village. He had a difficult personality. Instead of inspiring camaraderie, he only ever seemed to provoke irritation.
_A knight of humble birth, reeking of poverty. A boorish, stubborn fool. A half-wit who'd sell his honor for profit. A pawn of the order, willing to do any dirty work._
That's what they called him.
That's why he had once respected Captain Gabriel.
They served in different units, but Gabriel—an orphan without family support—had risen to the rank of Order Commander through his own merits. He had seemed truly great. Even wretches like Argenti admired him. Putting himself in Gabriel's place, Antenor had dreamed that if he could just endure this filthy order long enough, he too might one day achieve recognition.
But Captain Gabriel had broken.
Could one still call a man who rejected God and chose carnal passion a holy knight? Could one call a man who betrayed his own convictions a knight at all?
Having lost his faith and his code of honor, Gabriel had become a pathetic creature, unworthy of the title he bore.
And the one who had turned him into a fool sat right before Antenor now.
Some called her a witch who had bewitched the holy knight. Others called her a merciless demon who had murdered the Crown Prince.
She sat serenely on her sofa, leafing through a book. Her calm was so absolute that it seemed the prisoner wasn't Evangeline Rohanson at all—but rather Antenor himself, on his hands and knees, scrubbing food waste from the stone floor.
"Ahem... mhm..."
Polus, who claimed to have been wandering gambling dens all night, had abandoned his promised vigilance almost immediately. He slumped in a chair and nodded off, his snores filling the dungeon's oppressive silence.
It would have continued that way—the quiet broken only by his rattling breath—if Evangeline Rohanson hadn't suddenly spoken.
"How did you get so hurt?"
The voice slithered into Antenor's ears like poison wrapped in silk. _How did you get hurt? And who caused you to suffer?_ Evangeline Rohanson had brought the furniture here on a whim, and the blame for it had fallen on innocent Antenor.
"It's because of you."
The words escaped before he could stop them. Having vented his anger, he immediately regretted it. He glanced furtively at Polus—
And met wide-open eyes staring back at him.
The man's unpleasant face, all creases and shadows, split into a blissful smile. When had he stopped snoring?
"What are you two secretly chatting about?" Polus rose from his chair, cracking his knuckles. "I told you. You're definitely in cahoots with her."
The kick caught Antenor in the temple. He hit the floor hard, and before he could orient himself, thick fingers tangled in his hair and dragged him toward the bars. Polus couldn't reach Evangeline, so he vented his frustration like this instead.
"Lady Rohanson," Polus called out mockingly, shoving Antenor's face against the iron. "This pathetic creature is suffering because of you. Look closely."
Through his bleary, pain-hazed vision, Antenor caught sight of Evangeline. In the dark dungeon, lit only by the guttering flame of a single candle, she alone remained bright and distinct—as though the shadows dared not touch her.
Their gazes met.
The color of her eyes was **_terrifying_**.
When the polite smile faded from her face, something savage emerged from beneath the surface. _The witch who bewitched Captain Gabriel?_ No. Her nature could not be contained by such simple words.
She was something to be **worshiped**.
The slightest flicker of displeasure crossed her impassive features, and Antenor felt an overwhelming urge to strangle himself in apology.
In that moment, he feared her gaze far more than Polus's beatings.
Such a powerful, terrifying creature—contained within such a frail and beautiful body—sat obediently behind iron bars. Did the others truly believe those pitiful grates could hold Evangeline Rohanson?
_That_ was why Argenti threw food and sneered with impunity. _That_ was why Polus allowed himself to relax and fall asleep.
And Antenor himself had thought the same thing. That's why he'd been angry.
But in truth, the bars held nothing at all.
"Cough—W-what is this—!"
Polus's body rose slowly into the air. His hands flew to his throat as though an invisible fist were crushing his windpipe. He writhed, legs kicking uselessly, fingernails tearing at his own neck in desperate attempts to free himself from something that wasn't there.
Evangeline watched his suffering with her head tilted slightly to one side, her dark hair sliding softly across her shoulder.
"Don't you think," she said quietly, "that you should learn good manners yourself first?"
She echoed the very words Polus had used while grinding Antenor's face into the floor. Or perhaps she was simply punishing insolence.
Polus was crying now. Tears streamed down his reddening face. His neck looked ready to snap. Each breath came out as a wet, choking wheeze. Antenor did not look away. He did not miss a single moment of the man's agony.
Then came a **crunch**.
The body went limp. It collapsed to the floor in a graceless heap. The ragged breathing stopped. The dungeon fell utterly silent.
"Did he... die?"
_He's dead._
A fleeting spark of joy ignited in Antenor's chest—then immediately gave way to cold dread. Would the blame for Polus's murder fall on him now? After all, the other knights didn't consider Evangeline a threat. She was behind bars. She was harmless.
But Evangeline Rohanson only smiled.
"He'll get up now."
_How could a dead man rise?_
And yet—just as she said—Polus rose.
His cervical vertebrae were shattered. He couldn't hold his head upright; it lolled forward at a grotesque angle, chin nearly touching his chest. But despite this, he stood. He moved. He was... _alive_.
No. Not alive.
What stood before Antenor was no longer the same Polus. It was no longer a living person at all—merely a puppet, moving at Evangeline Rohanson's command.
"He won't dare hit you again."
Undoubtedly true. When Evangeline ordered him to leave, Polus obeyed. He lifted his hands to support his broken head, straightened it with visible effort, and walked stiffly out of the dungeon. The moment he released his grip, his head began to bob and shake with each step, swaying like a lantern in the wind.
"Help?"
Evangeline's voice was soft. Inviting. Her scarlet eyes glinted in the candlelight.
A pale hand reached slowly through the bars. The beautiful, slender palm seemed to beckon him forward—a gesture so natural, so welcoming, that Antenor felt his body lean toward it before his mind could protest.
The same hand that had just crushed Polus's throat now appeared to him as salvation.
"I'll make sure they don't bother you anymore."
_Now_ Antenor understood how the witch had seduced Captain Gabriel.
The monster was dazzlingly beautiful. And she spoke only the most desirable words.
Could she really spare him from the violence of the other knights? Even as a suspect in the Crown Prince's murder—even imprisoned—Evangeline Rohanson spoke as if she could do anything.
"Are you... are you really going to make sure the others don't bother me?"
Antenor no longer dreamed of honor and glory, as he had when he'd first donned his knightly uniform. But wasn't what Evangeline had just demonstrated exactly that—overwhelming an enemy with absolute force and seizing superiority?
His hand trembled as he grasped hers.
Her fingers were cool. Smooth. Impossibly soft.
"And... what should I do?"
Evangeline's expression remained serene as she explained.
"I'm worried that I can't contact Captain Gabriel. If you could carry messages for me..."
_If she wished it, he would become her carrier pigeon._
"I also want to know what's happening outside these walls."
"Yes." Antenor's voice came out hoarse. "I'll tell you everything I know."
Pleased with his answer, Evangeline smiled—a broad, radiant smile that transformed her entire face. It was so beautiful that, recognizing its hidden power to break men with a single glance, Antenor felt his dismay deepen rather than ease.
"What is your name?"
"Antenor. Antenor Nine."
"Very well, Sir Ante." She released his hand gently. "It's shift change time, isn't it? I'll see you next time."