Blood
"Burn the leash, and no one remembers who held it."
Count Etienne’s mansion, with its cheap ostentation, was so gaudy it almost hurt to look at.
Gold-lacquered walls, gilded candlesticks, gaudy frames holding paintings that could hardly be called art—there was something vulgar every ten steps.
Hearing servants approach, Medea pressed herself behind a protruding column. The shadows swallowed her slender form.
"You still haven't heard from the master?"
"No. They say the butler was thrown out of the palace on the spot. Her Ladyship told him to bring every deed—and even the titles to the lands—so she could ‘prepare for the worst.’ Even the little bribes he took."
"So instead of worrying about her son's life, she's busy saving her own skin. And *she’s* supposed to be his mother? We should be looking for work elsewhere before the roof caves in."
The voices faded down the hall. Medea waited until the sound of footsteps vanished, then slipped forward again, heartbeat steady.
At the very back of the rear garden, a hedge maze connected discreetly to the mansion’s inner wing.
The garden lamps did not reach that far. The world there was mostly shadow.
Medea moved through the deserted corridor like a smudge of darkness.
The Minister’s office was on the third floor. Getting there without a sound was harder than it looked—yet she managed it.
The office was empty. Past midnight, most of the household lay in heavy, ignorant sleep.
The magic circle is in front of the third bookshelf, he said.
Beyond the grotesquely shaped couch—a hideous testament to Etienne’s taste—stood a marble desk, and behind it, a tall third bookshelf.
Medea stepped closer, ready to enter the circle.
Moonlight slid through the window at that moment, spilling across the floor in a pale rectangle.
A long shadow stretched beneath the curtain.
Medea went still.
Someone else is here.
The realization came and her body reacted in the same breath. She shifted her weight, one hand already sliding toward the weapon hidden beneath her sleeve.
Silence pressed in. One second. Two.
Then the figure behind the curtain moved.
He lunged from concealment just as Medea stepped onto the couch, using its back as a springboard to launch herself toward the window.
She meant to use the height to drive her thin dagger down into the attacker’s throat.
But the opponent was faster.
A sharp kick slammed into her waist. Medea crashed into the wall with a dull, sickening thud.
Her right shoulder and back went numb, a slow-burning shock radiating down her arm.
A black-gloved hand clamped around her neck.
She reacted on instinct, driving her heel hard into the attacker’s leg. As his balance shifted, she shoved off his shoulder and twisted, slipping free from his grip.
Or she tried to.
Her thin dagger had sunk so deeply into his shoulder that only the hilt remained visible.
He did not flinch.
The masked man reached out and seized her throat again, as if nothing had happened.
His build was overwhelming, his strength undeniable. By any rational measure, the outcome should have been obvious.
But Medea, who had faced down opponents bigger and stronger than this in her previous life, raised her eyes instead of surrendering to fear.
Third bookshelf.
Green eyes narrowed, gauging the distance.
She lashed out with a kick at the same injured shoulder. As he faltered for a fraction of a second, she hurled herself sideways, toward the magic circle etched into the floor.
Even if I only reach the circle—
I can escape from this place.
But it was as though he had read her mind.
He moved to cut her off, blocking her path with ruthless precision, refusing to allow even that much distance.
Fugitive and hunter collided, bodies tangling as they rolled across the floor.
And in that moment, the magic circle flared to life.
Lines of blue light burst outward like arcs of lightning, wrapping around both of them in a shimmering lattice.
The air cracked.
And they vanished.
Duke Claudio’s Estate
"What do you mean, he’s been *moved*?!"
Duke Claudio’s fist crashed down on the table, sending inkpots rattling and one toppling to stain the rug.
The news that Etienne had been placed in strict quarantine had reached the ducal estate only after the fact.
"Yes, Your Excellency. It appears he was sent to a special prison reserved for first-class offenders."
"Anyone approaching the Minister’s cell—even to the outer corridor—is to be searched, regardless of rank. We can’t even slip a spy inside anymore."
"Damn it. That man is fighting tooth and nail to get out, and—"
His subordinate hesitated.
"Your Excellency... the order did not come from the Prime Minister."
"It came from the Queen Mother."
The Duke’s neck stiffened.
So insulting me in front of the palace gates—where everyone can see—wasn’t enough for her?
"My own mother! As if Claudio weren’t even her blood! How can she treat me like this?"
He was furious—not only because his most formidable ally was about to be executed, but because his mother, instead of helping him, was binding his hands tighter.
"As of yesterday, the Minister has also been officially dismissed from office. They say the execution will proceed immediately, without trial."
A set execution date meant the shape of the case that toppled Etienne had already solidified.
Why? What exactly did Cesare uncover?
Samon, who had been silent until now, finally voiced the suspicion gnawing at him.
"Father. Etienne may have betrayed you."
The Duke’s expression twisted.
"Rubbish. You don’t know Lark Etienne at all. Do you think that greedy old viper would just collapse quietly?"
"You’re right—I don’t know him as well as you do. But he *is* in prison now."
"We have no idea who he has met or what he has said since then."
"Father, you haven’t forgotten there’s a signed acceptance in his hands, have you?"
Samon’s eyes were cold.
"If that document sees the light, we’re finished. If he dies without speaking... that’s one thing. If he talks *first*..."
The Duke fell silent.
"So we must act before he does."
"Are you saying we should kill him?"
The Duke hesitated, then shook his head.
"We don’t know the full situation yet. Things might shift in our favor. Killing him now is premature."
"Do you think it’s easy to find a man with both brains and greed in proper measure? And what of the power he commands?"
His stance was stubborn. Samon adjusted his approach.
"If that’s your decision, then at the very least, we must secure the acceptance letter."
The Duke grudgingly agreed—but another problem immediately presented itself.
"...Even if we want to secure it, how do we enter that space and retrieve the document while Etienne is gone?"
The acceptance had been hidden *too* well. They had intentionally chosen a location that would be nearly impossible to reach under normal circumstances.
"If it can’t be recovered... then it must be destroyed."
"If the Count’s mansion burns," Samon said coolly,"the magic circle connected to the acceptance will be destroyed with it."
"Burn it? That mansion?"
The Duke stared at his son.
"It’s an empty house now, Father. A husk. No heir. No master."
"If we don’t burn it, someone else will eventually break in. Better to erase the root of the fire ourselves."
"Will the Minister agree to this, when he learns of it later?"
"He’ll understand," Samon said flatly."We can’t leave a trail."
"We can’t throw away our only leash just to keep the Minister appeased. If the prosecution ever gets hold of that letter, we all die."
The Duke could not argue with that.
He rubbed his temples, frowning deeply.
"...Fine. Do it."
When Samon returned to his office, a figure cloaked in shadow was already waiting.
"His Excellency has granted permission."
The man in the shadows exhaled softly.
"Good. Then may I begin?"
"Not just yet. We have to remove all embers inside the house first."
"Kill everyone. Leave no survivors."
The subordinate hesitated.
"Everyone, sir? Even the household knights?"
"Yes. Burn everything. The fire will take care of the rest."
Samon was not the sort to dwell on gratitude, but he never forgot a slight.
"I intend to make that filthy old man pay for the mess he splattered on me."
His teeth clenched at the memory of the Minister’s obscene jibes at the last banquet.
Back then, he’d had to bury his resentment—Etienne's tantrum over Birna had demanded his focus.
Now that the Minister had fallen from grace, Samon had no intention of wasting this chance to vent years of pent-up fury.
The Circle Traps Two · The Mansion Awaits the Flame ## The Shadows Converge
Two paths cross in the dark. One seeks destruction. The other—salvation.
But only one can claim the prize.
[ To Be Continued ]
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