& Daggers
"The royal coffers are empty, yet the Regent scatters gold like sand."
Fasade Headquarters
"Boss. Take a look at this."
Gallo flicked a stiff card across the table.
It slid to a stop beneath the lamplight, gold dust glittering across thick ivory paper—gaudy and wasteful in equal measure.
He plucked it from the top of a small mountain of similar invitations.
The White Rose Mansion
District Two
A Royal Banquet Celebrating the Recovery of Her Highness, Princess Medea
By Order of the Prince Regent
Cesare didn't look up. He continued sharpening his dagger, the whetstone singing a soft, rhythmic song.
"Look at this thing. It's paper dusted with actual ground gold. The royal family claims the treasury is bleeding dry, yet the Regent scatters wealth like sand."
Gallo held the card up to the light, studying it with exaggerated interest.
"He's invited you, too. So clear your schedule. You're coming with me that day."
"Pass."
The rejection was flat, dismissive—as though the matter barely warranted consideration.
But Gallo, long accustomed to being ignored by Cesare, pressed on without flinching.
"If we intend to keep operating in Valdina, we can't afford to snub the Prince Regent outright. You promised you'd make a public appearance eventually."
"Then go without me."
"Look here—it's addressed to 'Mercenary Acares.' That's you, boss."
Gallo rolled a handful of dice across the table with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Each die was engraved with a letter on every face. They tumbled and clattered, rearranging themselves mid-roll as if choreographed.
A C A R E S
Then, with another subtle gesture, the letters shifted.
C E S A R E
"He probably doesn't know the boss's real notoriety, but here he is, bold as brass, summoning you to his little party."
Cesare's lips twitched.
"Giving a fool an unearned title doesn't make him king."
"Boss, come with me. If nothing else, I want to see the Princess's face in person."
Mischief danced in Gallo's eyes.
"I mean, really—a banquet celebrating her recovery? Doesn't that title alone reek of ulterior motives?"
Gallo found the whole situation deliciously absurd.
The Princess had severed the Regent's maid, cut off his right hand, and strangled his money supply.
And the Regent still hadn't realized his own niece was behind it all.
"How does someone that stupid manage to keep breathing?"
"That's what makes it so entertaining."
Finally, a response.
Ah. So Cesare had been listening the whole time, just pretending otherwise.
Gallo smirked.
"Oh, and I don't think the Princess is going to sit quietly this time either. Just recently, she sent someone out of the palace on an errand. I had them followed—discreetly, of course."
"And? She was probably ordering ingredients for some potion."
Cesare's tone suggested the matter was too trivial to warrant this much attention.
Gallo's grin widened.
"Several rare medicinal plants, yes. But here's the interesting part—"
He leaned forward conspiratorially.
"One of those herbs, when combined with the others, induces permanent impotence."
The hand holding the glass froze mid-air.
Gallo looked ready to burst from curiosity.
"So who in the world do you think the Princess is planning to use that on?"
"You have far too much imagination for someone who claims to be busy."
Cesare's fingers twirled the dagger absently.
"No! I took a break! Look, I'm going back to work right now!"
The dagger left Cesare's hand in a silver flash.
It buried itself in the wall with a sharp thunk, quivering a hair's breadth from Gallo's ear.
He yelped and scrambled for the door.
"Message received! Working now!"
The door slammed shut.
Silence settled over the room like dust.
"You can come out now, Terence."
A concealed panel slid aside with a muted scrape.
A tall, lean man stepped into the lamplight, holding a glass filled with steaming green liquid. His features were sharp, his frame slightly too thin, and his eyes bloodshot from chronic fatigue.
Long light-brown hair framed a calm, scholarly face, and thin-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose.
"Gallo is exhausting."
Terence muttered, adjusting his glasses.
Cesare took the glass and drained it in one swallow. The brew was bitter, ashen, nearly unbearable.
He didn't so much as blink.
"The tremors?"
"Gone."
Terence checked his pulse anyway, frown deepening with each passing second.
"You had another seizure."
It wasn't a question.
Cesare said nothing.
Three years had passed since Cesare had been cursed with a life sentence.
He had long outlived the military doctor's initial prognosis.
But the seizures—violent, unpredictable—came more frequently now.
The only reason he could still move, still function, was Terence.
A scholar versed in both magic and medicine, Terence had dedicated every waking hour to artificially delaying the curse's progression—researching, experimenting, pushing the boundaries of his knowledge to buy Cesare more time.
Now, examining the bulging blue veins snaking up Cesare's forearm, his expression turned grim.
"Why didn't you tell me you'd had another episode?"
Instead of answering, Cesare idly spun his dagger between his fingers.
"Cesare, we're running out of time. The cycle is accelerating."
More frequent seizures. No way of knowing if he'd wake from the next one.
"I know."
"Even if we find the shaman who cursed you, can you guarantee they'll lift it? What if they don't know how? What then?"
"That's why you're here."
"Was that... a joke? Now?"
Terence stared at him, caught between disbelief and something closer to despair.
"Cesare."
The lightness drained from Terence's voice, replaced by something heavy and raw.
"It's been three years already. Death is closer to you now than removing the curse ever will be."
Terence followed Cesare not as a retainer, but as a friend.
First Prince of Kazen. Youngest Commander-in-Chief. Duke of Romagna. Lord of Venafro. Ruler of Alphanon. Leader of the mercenary company Fasade.
Too many titles for one man to bear.
But if you knew Cesare, none of them seemed excessive. He had claimed every one with his own hands.
Terence remembered what his old master had said once, watching Cesare from afar:
"People like him don't know how to surrender. Achievement comes faster than acceptance. They won't stop until they have what they want."
The old mage had paused, then added quietly:
"So be careful. When they encounter an insurmountable obstacle, they don't go around it. They destroy it."
At the time, Terence had thought he understood.
But he hadn't realized Cesare wouldn't yield even to death itself.
Is it bravery or recklessness to stand against the inevitable?
"Let's go to the Magic Tower. If it's my master, he can delay the curse's onset significantly. Even if we can't eliminate the darkness at its root, we can slow its progression—"
"So all I have to do is wait quietly while death creeps closer?"
The question was ice-cold.
Terence fell silent.
"You know that's not who I am."
Terence had treated many patients over the years.
He had seen fear and despair shatter even the strongest among them. Nobles. Warriors. Scholars. In the face of death, there were no exceptions.
"Aren't you afraid? You never know when the curse might consume you entirely. How can you be so calm?"
"Terence, can't you already hear the uproar that will follow the day I break this curse?"
Cesare's voice was low, almost amused.
The one who pushed back the Darkness of the Beginning.
The conqueror who swallowed death whole.
His name would be engraved across the entire continent, far beyond Kazen's borders.
"You still have hope? Even now?"
"There has never been anything in my life that wasn't a gamble."
Cesare placed a hand over his chest.
The heartbeat beneath was dull, heavy—hardening with each passing day.
He could feel death drawing nearer.
But he had no intention of sitting idle, waiting for the curse to overtake him.
> " I decide the beginning.
> I decide the end.
> Even if only a handful of possibilities remain—
> I will fight. "
"You really are..."
Terence trailed off, words failing him.
A flame kindled in Cesare's golden eyes—dangerous, wild, ready to consume everything in its path.
"There's no need for a comfortable death."
The Princess's Palace — Late Afternoon
Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, painting the chamber in honey and amber.
"Your Highness, Marquis Gylipos has sent word."
Neril said, entering with a sealed letter.
Medea broke the wax and unfolded the parchment.
The military encampment Your Highness commissioned has been completed successfully.
A small village has been established for retired soldiers to reside in. We have named it the Casey Aid Center, after Your Highness's middle name.
More than half of the retired soldiers living outside the castle walls have already relocated. We expect the number of residents to continue growing.
Good.
With that, the rebellion had lost its spine.
Her eyes moved down the page.
Regarding the individual named 'Theo' whom Your Highness specifically inquired about—
I regret to inform you that no soldier by that name currently exists in our records.
However, upon further investigation both within and beyond the castle, I discovered that a retired soldier who passed away some years ago had a twin brother named Theo.
Medea's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.
Found you.
"Neril, have the Marquis locate this Theo. Offer him an administrative position at the Casey Aid Center."
"At once, Your Highness."
As Neril withdrew, Medea's gaze drifted to the gold-dusted card resting on her desk.
A Royal Banquet Celebrating the Recovery of Her Highness, Princess Medea
By Order of the Prince Regent
A stage.
A gilded trap.
A public execution dressed up as celebration.
"Neril, prepare my gown for the banquet."
Her voice was calm, almost pleasant.
Neril hesitated at the doorway.
"Your Highness... the Regent's invitation—are you certain it's wise to attend?"
Medea's eyes gleamed with something sharp and predatory.
"I know exactly what this is, Neril."
She rose from her seat, silhouetted against the golden light.
"And I know exactly how to ruin it."
A pause.
Then, almost as an afterthought:
"After all—we're going to a party."
Converging Paths A cursed prince gambling with death.
A vengeful princess brewing poison.
A desperate regent spinning gold from air.
Three Schemes
[ The White Rose Mansion Awaits ]
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