Steel
"Every blade tells a story— and this one speaks of secrets guarded in shadow."
"Return to the palace."
Peleus had been overseeing the restoration of order within the chaotic castle grounds when he turned to leave the battlements.
"Your Majesty?"
Peleus stopped mid-stride, his blue eyes suddenly sharp as winter frost.
D'Angel quickly retrieved the object that had caught the King's attention—an intricately crafted dagger.
"This is..."
It was the blade that had flown through the air just a heartbeat before Peleus's own strike, deflecting the Regent's sword away from Medea.
The sword had shattered into fragments so fine they'd embedded themselves in the Regent's eye—the result of tremendous impact from both weapons colliding simultaneously.
Peleus raised his head, tracing the trajectory back to its origin. In the distance stood a tower, facing directly toward where they stood.
"Search it."
"Yes, Your Majesty. But this... it's *Mithril*."
D'Angel, examining the dagger more closely, narrowed his eyes.
"Someone discarded a weapon forged from such precious natural material—and didn't even attempt to retrieve it?"
Moreover, whoever wielded it possessed the skill to strike true from such an impossible distance. No matter how one looked at it, this was no ordinary adversary.
Peleus's gaze traced the sharp edge of the blade.
*Pfft!*
With a flick of his fingers, the dagger shot through the air and embedded itself between the bricks of the castle wall.
'What kind of person is getting close to Dea?'
His aristocratic brow furrowed in displeasure.
The Queen Mother's chambers in Valdina's royal palace were saturated with the acrid smell of medicine.
The Queen Mother, who had driven a dagger into her own chest to stop her son, had mercifully avoided a mortal wound.
However, the psychological trauma—witnessing her child target his own niece—had been so severe that she struggled to regain consciousness.
"If this remedy fails to take effect, Her Majesty the Queen Mother's recovery will... be prolonged at best."
Despite the overwhelming stench, the attending physician, Sir Hertos, carefully administered medicine past the Queen Mother's lips, his expression professionally blank.
After a time, the Queen Mother's eyes fluttered open.
"Your Majesty, are you lucid?"
At Sir Hertos's voice, she blinked slowly—then her eyes flew wide open.
"Medea!"
She tried to sit upright, immediately overcome by dizziness.
If Sir Hertos hadn't caught her arm, she would have tumbled from the bed entirely.
"You mustn't strain yourself. The wound could reopen."
The Queen Mother paid no heed to the bandages wrapped around her torso.
"What happened? Medea—is she alive?!"
"Please, Your Majesty, remain calm. The Princess is safe."
"Tell me what happened!"
When Madame Pinatelli hesitated, the Queen Mother's heart plummeted.
'Joaquin... did you truly harm your own niece?!'
Before she could faint from the wave of anguish and rage, Medea appeared behind Sir Hertos.
"Be still, Grandmother. You cannot move so recklessly with such a wound."
"Medea!"
"I am unharmed. My uncle's rebellion has been quelled. The palace is secure."
Medea delivered the day's results with measured calm.
"Oh, Goddess, I thank you..."
The moment she saw her granddaughter's unmarred face, the Queen Mother crumbled as though in prayer.
She fumbled for Medea's hand, pressed it against her forehead, and recited tearful gratitude to the divine.
"I thought I'd lost you. I thought I would bury you as I did John."
"..."
"I'm sorry, Medea. This is all my fault—this old woman's failure. Your suffering, Joaquin's ambitions... all of it stems from my inadequacy."
Words she had never been able to speak. Truths sealed within her heart like a tomb.
The Queen Mother offered her granddaughter a confession from the depths of her soul.
"..."
Medea gazed down at her bowed grandmother.
An indefinable ambivalence stirred within her.
'Not everything can be laid at Grandmother's feet.'
Medea herself bore the weight of countless mistakes from her past life—she had no grounds to condemn her grandmother.
Yet too much time had passed. Too much pain had accumulated.
The gentle understanding and generous forgiveness that might once have flourished had long since withered within Medea's heart.
The tears streaming down those wrinkled cheeks did not reach her.
The distance between their hearts had grown too vast.
"At that time, Grandmother did what she could."
It was true—the Queen Mother had risked her own life to stop the Regent.
She had not been swayed by family loyalty, nor had she shirked her responsibility. That alone was reason enough for Medea to protect her.
'So, Grandmother, this distance is appropriate for us. Just enough space for us to coexist as royalty—as the pillars supporting Peleus.'
Medea had no intention of cultivating warmth with the Queen Mother, nor of unleashing long-buried resentment.
She would simply remain—like an ancient tree that stands unmoved as the wind passes through.
"Peleus."
To protect the true rulers of this kingdom.
At Medea's call, a striking young man approached the Queen Mother's bedside.
"Medea, what did you just—"
The Queen Mother's question died on her lips as her eyes widened in shock.
She rubbed her eyes with trembling, aged hands, as though witnessing an apparition.
Gleaming silver hair. Clear blue eyes. Though broader and more muscular now, he was unmistakably the eldest grandson she remembered.
"Peleus... am I truly seeing you?"
Peleus knelt beside her bed and leaned close so she could see him clearly.
"Yes, Grandmother. Your grandson has returned."
"The plains campaign...?"
As she stroked his face with trembling fingers, the question suddenly occurred to her. At Peleus's nod, D'Angel stepped forward bearing a scroll.
It was a surrender document, signed by the defeated chieftains.
"The tribes of the plains have been subdued. Valdina has triumphed, Grandmother. Father's legacy has been honored."
The Queen Mother's lips quivered. Fresh tears carved paths down her weathered cheeks.
"Magnificent... truly magnificent..."
Medea stood back, observing the reunion between King and Queen Mother.
One step. Two steps.
She slipped from the room without a sound.
'The pungent smell of medicine is almost welcome.'
That acrid scent would fill the space she left behind, erasing any trace of her presence.
Medea departed the Queen Mother's chambers, unaware that her brother Peleus's gaze followed her retreating figure.
"Your Highness, Kensington is waiting. Shall I escort you?"
Neril stood waiting outside the Queen Mother's chambers.
Medea nodded.
This time, Kensington had arrived first at the place where they'd once met by chance.
"Sir, you're looking well."
When Medea greeted him, Kensington returned the courtesy.
"Your Highness. Everything unfolded precisely according to your design. It's truly... extraordinary."
The rebellion had been an elaborate trap—engineered by the Princess herself to bring down Regent Claudio.
When Kensington first realized this, he'd been horrified. Yet he'd also wondered, privately, how she intended to defeat such a formidable opponent.
But the return of Valdina's King had been a complete shock.
The image of the Regent's private forces falling like autumn leaves before the overwhelming might of the Agemas still sent chills down his spine.
"Isn't that precisely why you remained here? To verify whether my plan was sound—and whether I would succeed?"
Medea's shoulders lifted in an indifferent shrug.
There was an air of quiet arrogance about her, as though Kensington's astonishment was the most natural reaction in the world.
"The young maid Your Highness brought into service not long ago... she was the sister of the rebel youth who slew the insurgent leader. Had you been planning this since then?"
"You know that's not the only thing I wished to demonstrate. You also witnessed me *'saving'* Theo."
Medea's voice remained calm, almost detached.
"I spared the life of a rebel who despised me—solely because he cooperated with me, even if that cooperation was... coerced."
Kensington nearly laughed as he grasped what the Princess was truly conveying.
"Your Highness—"
"Enough speculation, Sir. What is your answer to my proposal?"
Medea's emerald eyes held his—unflinching, expectant.
The weight of her unspoken offer hung in the air between them like a blade suspended by a single thread.
She had demonstrated her ruthlessness, her cunning, her capacity for mercy when it served her purpose.
Now she waited.
---