In the Grand Duke's tent, Raizen was brewing tea.
As always.
The liquid in the cup was so thick, so viscously dark, that merely looking at it would have made an ordinary person's stomach turn. It resembled tar more than any beverage fit for human consumption.
Calix, as always, dispatched it in a single gulp.
"This is highly unusual," Raizen said, setting the empty cup aside. "So many demonic beasts gathered in one place. It suggests someone orchestrated the entire attack."
"I would assume so."
"But who could possibly manage such a thing?"
"There's only one person capable of it." Calix leaned back in his chair, his posture deceptively relaxed. A cynical expression flickered across his normally impassive face—there and gone in an instant, vanishing into the slight curve at the corners of his lips.
"But why would the Emperor need this?" Raizen shook his head, genuinely perplexed. "I cannot understand his reasoning."
The relationship between his master and the Emperor was extraordinarily complex—a delicate web of mutual dependence and barely concealed hostility. Both men needed each other. Neither could afford to upset the balance.
*And yet someone had tried.*
"He's growing impatient," Calix said, a theatrical sigh escaping his lips. "But he doesn't know where to strike. Poor fellow."
His expression, however, was anything but sympathetic.
"What do you intend to do next?" Raizen studied his master's face intently, searching for some indication of his plans.
Before Calix could answer, a voice erupted from beyond the heavy canvas of the tent—loud, enthusiastic, and utterly lacking in decorum.
"Your Highness! It's Zeke!"
Raizen winced.
He couldn't stand this man. Or rather, *this particular bastard* irritated Raizen beyond all reasonable measure.
The voice continued without pause, apparently unaware that silence was an option:
"Your Highness! Lord Archduke! May I enter?"
Raizen's eye twitched.
"Why is he here?" He turned to Calix with barely concealed exasperation. "Shouldn't he be stationed in the capital?"
"Come in," Raizen called wearily, pressing his palm against his forehead. There was no getting rid of the man now—better to simply endure.
The tent flap burst open, and a young man exploded through the entrance like a flame given human form. His hair was a shocking shade of red—so vibrant, so intensely *crimson*, that his head appeared to be genuinely on fire. He looked to be around twenty years old, dressed in rough traveling clothes that made it impossible to determine his social standing.
"It's been too long, Your Highness!" Zeke announced, practically vibrating with energy. "The moment I learned you'd been attacked by demons, I dropped everything and came at once. I do hope you're uninjured?"
"As you can see."
"Who would have doubted it!" Zeke beamed with unshakeable confidence. "What's a whole pack of demonic puppies against my master's sword? Mere nuisances!"
Raizen jabbed an elbow mercilessly into the young man's ribs—a pointed reminder to *know his place*.
Zeke caught the hint, winked conspiratorially, and pivoted to a new subject with the grace of a stumbling colt.
"And what of the Grand Duchess? I heard the carriage was completely destroyed." His tone shifted to something approaching genuine curiosity. "What could the Emperor possibly have against her? So much so that he'd unleash an entire horde of monsters?"
Raizen's irritation spiked dangerously. He rolled his eyes toward the tent's ceiling, silently fantasizing about tying the red-haired menace to the nearest tree and leaving him there.
He could *feel* his master's mood plummeting. Despite the warm afternoon sun beating down on the canvas, the temperature inside the tent was dropping steadily—an almost physical manifestation of Calix's darkening disposition.
But Zeke, apparently, possessed the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.
"What did I tell you?" he continued blithely. "It's high time someone ripped that bastard Emperor's head clean off his shoulders!"
"*Zeke!*" Raizen's voice cracked like a whip.
But the damage was done. The words had already spilled into the air, impossible to retrieve.
The corners of His Highness's lips curled into something cruel—the expression of a predator that had just scented blood. His cold crimson eyes flashed with a dangerous, predatory light.
Raizen sighed internally and braced himself.
*Here we go again.*
He was about to witness yet another dizzying career implosion—a rapid series of demotions that would strip Zeke of every shred of rank and authority, followed immediately by an equally dizzying reinstatement. All within the span of approximately one minute.
"It's about time," Calix said quietly.
"*What?*" Raizen breathed.
The words were so unexpected that Lord Cardon genuinely thought he had misheard. But his hearing had never failed him before.
"It's only natural," Calix continued, his voice silken and cold, "to properly *thank* someone who prepared such a surprise for you."
A grim smile spread across the Archduke's perfect features—beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
Zeke's face, by contrast, lit up like the sun breaking through storm clouds.
"It will be done, Your Highness!" He snapped to attention without waiting for specific instructions, practically trembling with eagerness.
In that moment, he resembled nothing so much as a puppy wagging its tail in desperate adoration of its master. However, the *work* he was so enthusiastically volunteering for was truly horrifying.
"Have no doubt, Your Highness—I'm the absolute *best* at such things!" Zeke's grin widened. "I can separate a head from a body so cleanly, so precisely, that even the victim won't notice until they try to turn around."
Raizen snorted quietly.
*This man.* Zeke had been placed in charge of Karma—the Grand Duke's elite intelligence network—and yet he conducted himself with all the subtlety of a brass band marching through a funeral.
"And how exactly do you propose to accomplish this?" Calix inquired, his tone deceptively mild.
Zeke's mouth opened. Then closed. His brow furrowed with the effort of thought.
Unfortunately, his brain was not particularly well-suited to formulating plans and strategies. It excelled at other things—violence, primarily—but *thinking* had never been its strong suit.
"The Emperor is no ordinary man," Calix continued, watching his subordinate struggle. "Surely you know how he inherited the throne?"
"Well..." Zeke rallied with admirable speed. "No matter how talented a man might be, he'll still die if you cut off his head."
Raizen sighed. Rolled his eyes. Sighed again for good measure.
*This young man.* He couldn't be left unattended for a single moment. He was forever charging headlong into situations like a newborn foal—all enthusiasm, no direction whatsoever. If not for his exceptional swordsmanship, his reckless courage, and his genuinely remarkable reflexes, he would never have risen to command Karma in the first place.
"The simplest approach," Zeke continued, apparently mistaking silence for encouragement, "would be to break into the imperial palace and finish him off on the spot."
He raised his hand and drew an invisible blade across his own throat with theatrical relish.
"And then what?" Raizen couldn't contain himself any longer. The absurdity was too much. A laugh escaped him—quickly suppressed, but not quickly enough.
"The gods gave this one *everything*," he muttered, shaking his head. "Except a functioning brain."
Fortunately—or perhaps inevitably—His Highness had reached the same conclusion.
"Do you think I'm wrong?" Zeke asked, genuine confusion flickering across his features.
"I think," Calix said slowly, "that I was reckless in entrusting you with command."
He turned his crimson gaze toward Raizen.
"Lord Cardon. You will assume full command of Karma, as you did before."
"Yes, Your Highness." Raizen bowed, even as his heart sank at the additional workload. He was already drowning in responsibilities, and managing the intelligence network required enormous effort.
Zeke's head drooped in obvious displeasure. But he wasn't so obsessed with power that the loss particularly devastated him—which, perversely, made it *worse*. At least if Zeke had been ambitious, his removal would have served as proper punishment.
"What about me, Your Highness?" The red-haired young man raised his head, awaiting orders with something approaching hope.
"You will return to your previous assignment." Calix's voice was utterly flat, utterly cold.
Zeke's mouth fell open in undisguised horror, as though he had just received news of his own execution.
*Here we go,* Raizen thought with grim amusement. Zeke had never been known for keeping his mouth shut when discretion was advisable.
"You asked for this," Raizen said, his tone hovering somewhere between genuine sympathy and barely concealed satisfaction. The young man irritated him beyond reason—and yet, despite everything, Raizen couldn't help feeling a strange, protective warmth toward the fool.
Meanwhile, Zeke recovered from his shock and—exactly as Raizen had predicted—immediately opened his mouth to protest.
"Where do you want me to go?"
"Where you were before." Calix leaned his body diagonally, resting his weight lazily against the armrest of his chair. "Where else would I send you, if not the capital?"
"*Impossible!*"
Zeke dropped to his knees before the prince with theatrical desperation. He clasped his palms together in a gesture of supplication, as though begging for his very life.
"I'll do *anything*, Your Highness—*anything*—just please don't send me back to the capital!"
The blood drained from his face at the mere *memory* of his time there. Goosebumps erupted across his skin as he recalled the endless, suffocating months he'd spent trapped in the Emperor's dreadful residence.
"I beg you, Your Highness," Zeke whined, his eyes wide and pleading. "Have mercy."
"Why?" Calix smiled—a thin, sardonic expression that held no warmth whatsoever. "Is court life uncomfortable? *Unpleasant*?"
At the sight of that smile, Zeke's mind went blank with terror.
Many men longed for the quiet, measured existence of the imperial court—the comfort, the security, the proximity to power. But not Zeke. His nature required constant movement, constant challenge, constant *action*. Being trapped in a place where nothing ever happened was, to him, a fate worse than death.
"Your Highness, *please*." His voice had risen to a genuine wail. "I'll die of boredom there. I'll wither away. I'll—"
"You won't die."
"But Your Highness—!"
Calix remained utterly unmoved by the young man's increasingly theatrical protestations.
"Then throw me off a cliff!" Zeke's desperation had reached fever pitch. "Send me to clean the latrines in the barracks! Feed me to the remaining demonic beasts! *Just kill me outright!* Anything would be preferable!"
"Raizen."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Remove him."
"At once." Raizen bowed politely, then strode over to where Zeke knelt and seized the young man by the collar, hauling him upright like a misbehaving puppy.
"Wait—*wait!*" Zeke, completely cornered, began spewing words with frantic speed—anything that might delay his sentence. "I encountered the Emperor's dogs on the road!"
"And?"
"And we destroyed them! Every last one!" His voice was climbing toward hysteria. "So there's nothing to worry about on that front!"
Calix made an impatient gesture with his hand, his expression souring further. *Get him out. Quickly.*
"But *wait!*" Zeke braced himself against Raizen's grip with his entire body, muscles straining. "I captured their leader! He's tied up nearby—I thought he might be useful!"
Calix's hand stilled.
For the first time since Zeke had burst into the tent, genuine interest flickered across the Grand Duke's features.
"Explain that in more detail."
---
## — The Imperial Palace —
The Emperor's terrible wrath had frozen the air in his private study to absolute stillness.
So complete was the cold that the flames dancing in the great fireplace flickered once, twice—then turned an eerie shade of blue and guttered out entirely, leaving only smoking embers behind.
A man knelt on the marble floor before his master's desk. He had displeased the Emperor, and now he waited, head bowed, for judgment.
"*Duncan Lisak!*" Fernando spat the name like a curse.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Duncan struggled to move his jaw, to force words past the crushing pressure of his sovereign's rage. The magical weight pressing down upon him made even breathing an act of supreme effort.
"Report. Again."
Duncan closed his eyes. But there was no escape, no alternative. He had no choice but to recite the disastrous intelligence once more.
"The demonic beasts were positioned in the gorge as planned. They attacked the target on schedule." Each word felt like dragging a stone up a mountain. "However, they failed to eliminate her. The imperial operatives embedded with the caravan likewise failed in their mission. Every... single... agent... perished."
"*Is that so?*"
The words were quiet. Almost gentle. They were the most terrifying sounds Duncan had ever heard.
"*DAMN IT!*"
Fernando's palm slammed against his desk with explosive force. Documents erupted into the air, scattering across the marble floor like frightened birds. An inkwell shattered, spreading black liquid across priceless wood.
"*Explain.*" The Emperor's voice had dropped to a whisper—controlled, precise, infinitely more dangerous than his shouting. "Explain to me how this happened."
Duncan lowered his head until his forehead pressed against the cold marble. He knew exactly how much effort his master was expending to restrain himself. One wrong word, one insufficient answer, and that restraint would shatter.
"I have nothing to say, Your Majesty." The words tasted like ash. "No excuse. No explanation."
The truth was simple and catastrophic.
All the demonic beasts had been destroyed—an entire pack of carefully cultivated horrors, wiped out in a single night. The target had survived and now rested safely in the hands of that insufferable bastard Calix. And the imperial operatives—the Emperor's precious, painstakingly trained intelligence network—had been exterminated to the last man.
*Although,* Duncan thought grimly, *perhaps some survived.*
But that possibility was somehow *worse*. If any of the dogs had been captured alive, there was every chance that Benvito now possessed detailed knowledge of every weakness, every secret, every vulnerability the Emperor had spent years concealing.
In a single night, Fernando had lost his most powerful secret weapon.
And the creature that posed the gravest threat to his reign—the girl with the silver hair and the dormant power sleeping in her blood—had slipped through his fingers entirely.
The worst imaginable outcome had come to pass.