"If you would just give me another chance, Your Majesty—I can make things right. I swear your orders will be carried out."
In an instant, Duncan's body was wrenched into the air.
An invisible force closed around his throat like a vise, crushing inward with impossible pressure. His mind went white with panic.
"Your Majesty! *Ugh*—I can't—I can't *breathe*—"
Duncan clawed at his neck with desperate fingers, his legs kicking uselessly in empty air. The oxygen in his lungs was depleting with terrifying speed. His eyes bulged grotesquely from their sockets, and tears streamed down his purpling cheeks as his body convulsed in airless agony.
*I'm going to die,* he realized, the thought crystallizing with awful clarity. *I'm going to die right here, right now.*
Finally, Fernando spoke.
"Well then." The Emperor's voice was flat, utterly without emotion. "Who else but you could possibly handle this?"
"Ph—*hkk*—plea—"
"So be it."
The crushing force vanished.
Duncan's body dropped to the marble floor like a discarded puppet, his blue-tinged limbs sprawling at unnatural angles. He wheezed violently, his throat spasming as his lungs fought to drag in air—any air at all. His head pounded with each frantic heartbeat, and his chest felt as though it might simply burst from the strain.
Fernando watched from his chair, expression utterly indifferent, as his servant writhed on the floor like a wounded animal.
"I'll give you another chance," the Emperor said at last. "Since that's what you're begging for."
Duncan forced his trembling body upward, struggling onto his knees despite the agony radiating through every muscle. He pressed his forehead to the cold marble in a deep bow, not daring to raise his eyes.
It would have been a *mercy* if his master had simply killed him outright. Far preferable to the alternative—being kept alive while Fernando amused himself by slowly tearing off limbs, one by one, savoring each scream.
"Duncan."
"Yes... Your Majesty..." The words came out as barely more than a rasp.
Duncan was the Emperor's dog. Or rather, the *leader* of his dogs. Today, the tattoo of submission on the inside of his wrist seemed more visible than ever—that permanent mark of despair that denied him freedom and crushed any hope of escape from the eternal shackles of servitude.
"If she survives again," Fernando continued, his voice cold as a winter grave, "not only you, but your *entire family* will die a painful death."
A pause, heavy with unspoken horrors.
"Do you understand me, Duncan Lisak?"
---
## — The Journey —
They had been on the road for five full days.
Since that night—when Calix had saved Asella from the demonic beast and then personally tended to her wounds—they hadn't exchanged a single word.
More accurately, there hadn't been the opportunity.
Her husband was perpetually occupied. During the day, the procession moved without pause, riders and carriage alike pressing forward through mountain passes and forest roads. After sunset, Calix spent every hour conferring with his men in hushed, urgent tones.
Asella didn't understand what was happening, but she sensed that something serious had occurred. The tension among the guards was palpable—a tightness in their movements, a sharpness in their gazes.
Raizen was similarly consumed by duties, yet he still found time to visit the sisters and inquire after their well-being.
"Your Highness, did you enjoy the food?"
"It was very good. Mariel liked it as well." Asella glanced at her younger sister, who was dozing peacefully against the cushions after a satisfying meal.
"Do you have any complaints? Is there anything you require?"
"No. Everything is fine."
Fortunately, Asella's injuries had proven uncomplicated. Her hands were healing—slowly, but steadily. The past several uneventful days had given her a fragile sense of stability, a tentative belief that perhaps the worst was behind them.
However, Raizen's brow furrowed slightly.
"You still treat me with such caution."
"...That's only because I'm not yet accustomed to this." Asella hesitated, uncertain how to explain. "To any of this."
In truth, her status now exceeded Raizen's—she was the Grand Duchess, after all. But that shouldn't have precluded friendly interaction. Lord Raizen Cardon was not merely His Highness's vassal; he was the Archduke's closest ally and most trusted confidant.
Moreover, Raizen held the title of Count, placing him at the very apex of the aristocratic hierarchy. He was not someone who needed to defer to *anyone*—and yet here he was, inquiring after her comfort with genuine concern.
It was... difficult to grow accustomed to.
Raizen studied her carefully sealed expression for a moment, something like hope flickering in his eyes. Then he sighed, a soft sound of resignation.
"If you have no objections, we will continue our journey tonight without stopping."
"You mean we'll travel through the night?"
"Yes. If we maintain our current pace, we should reach the castle by dawn."
Asella considered this. She had spent the entire journey inside the carriage—moving wasn't particularly difficult for her.
"It won't be too much of a burden for me," she said thoughtfully. "But what about the guards? They've been riding almost continuously as it is."
"It's no trouble for them. Their endurance is well-trained." A faint smile touched Raizen's lips. "But I needed to confirm that Her Highness could manage the extended travel."
Asella nodded softly. "Thank you for your consideration."
However, Raizen's inquiry wasn't merely a matter of protocol. Long journeys always produced complications—discomfort, complaints, demands for rest or better accommodations. Yet the new mistress of House Benvito had never uttered a single word of dissatisfaction. She expressed no grievances, made no requests beyond the barest necessities.
She was, in general, a woman of remarkably few words.
But Raizen didn't consider this a flaw.
"I am grateful to you," he said, "for enduring such a difficult journey with such grace."
"I am equally grateful for your attentiveness."
"I'm simply doing what must be done." He reached for the carriage door. "Until tonight, then."
The door closed with a soft click, and the journey continued.
Contrary to Raizen's concerns, Asella had felt no real discomfort during these past days. The replacement carriage—delivered from the Grand Duke's residence in the capital—was every bit as spacious and well-appointed as the one that had been destroyed. The heating enchantments kept the interior pleasantly warm even on the coolest mornings. The sofas were slightly narrower, perhaps, but not uncomfortably so.
Overall, it was a far cry from the rough canvas and hard ground of the temporary barracks.
During the journey, Asella often found herself gazing out the window.
*That man.*
Occasionally, when the road curved sharply, she could glimpse the very front of the procession.
Like now.
He rode at the head of the column, mounted on a horse as black as his own curling hair, never once glancing back.
*Does he ever tire?*
On such a long journey, the prince could easily have used a carriage. The Archduke's personal vehicle was surely even more luxurious than the one she occupied. Yet he chose to ride horseback from dawn to dusk, and during rest stops, he slept in the barracks alongside his men.
His tent was certainly more spacious and comfortable than those of the common soldiers—but it couldn't compare to the carriage.
And yet, during all this time, he had never appeared anywhere near her.
Asella was beginning to suspect that Calix Benvito was deliberately avoiding her.
For her, this should have been an absolute stroke of luck. She wanted nothing more than distance from the man who held her life—and Mariel's—in his hands.
But... oddly enough, there were moments when she found the situation almost *amusing*.
And there was something else. A strange sensation she couldn't quite name.
She felt, somehow, as though he was constantly watching her from afar.
---
## — The Emperor's Chambers —
It was deep in the night when Fernando woke.
A terrible thirst had dragged him from sleep—the kind of thirst that seemed to originate in his very bones, urgent and consuming. He blinked into the darkness, disoriented, and his gaze fell upon a crystal decanter sitting on the bedside table.
Fernando typically tested all beverages for poison using a special rod infused with magical detection properties. It was simple procedure, automatic, drilled into him since childhood.
But now, the thirst was so overwhelming that he forgot.
He didn't even bother with a glass. He simply seized the decanter, tilted it to his lips, and drank greedily, gulping the cool water straight from the bottle. Only after he had consumed half its contents did he feel the desperate urgency finally begin to subside.
*...What was that?*
Fernando rarely dreamed, and when he did, the visions were invariably disturbing—wild, violent images that left him unsettled for hours afterward. *I must have been upset by Duncan's report,* he reasoned. *That's all.*
If any other servant had delivered such catastrophic news, Fernando would have had his tongue ripped out first. Then his limbs, removed one by one. And finally, when there was nothing left to take, death.
But Duncan Lisak had proven his loyalty time and again, across years and countless trials. Fernando had been forced to contain his fury, to swallow his rage like bitter medicine.
Sleep had fled entirely now. Fernando rose from his bed, his bare feet meeting cold marble, and began to pace.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
This was his method—the way he found solutions when problems seemed insurmountable.
*We need to extract that girl somehow.*
Calix Castle was a true fortress. Not one of Fernando's spies had ever managed to get anywhere near its walls, let alone inside. Every assassin dispatched on Fernando's orders had met their end before even glimpsing the Grand Duke's domain. The place was simply impenetrable.
Which meant that Mariel Chartreuse was now completely beyond his reach.
*There must be a way.* Fernando's mind churned through possibilities, discarding each in turn. *But Calix Benvito is extraordinarily vigilant. Everything must be carefully considered. It needs to appear natural—something that won't arouse suspicion—but also enticing enough that the victim swallows the bait willingly.*
His pacing brought him near the bedside table, and something caught his attention.
*Wasn't there something else here?* He frowned, trying to remember. *Or did I dream it? I was so disoriented... I drank the water before I was even fully awake.*
He approached the desk more closely. There, beside the now half-empty decanter, lay a sheet of paper.
Fernando recognized it immediately. It was his personal stationery—paper that only *he* was permitted to use, bearing the subtle magical watermarks that identified its imperial origin.
*How did this get here?* The paper belonged in his study, secured under multiple wards. He couldn't recall bringing any documents to his bedchamber.
He peered at the paper, trying to read what was written there. But the moonlight filtering through the curtains was too dim, the text nothing but shadows.
With an impatient wave of his hand, Fernando conjured a sphere of magical light.
And then—
His stomach heaved.
Something *erupted* from deep within his body, forcing its way up his throat with violent urgency.
"*Gh—!*"
Dark blood splattered across the bedroom floor. Fernando doubled over, coughing violently, clots of black ichor spilling from his lips and spattering the marble. His chest burned. His vision swam.
With tremendous effort, he looked again at the sheet of paper—now stained with droplets of his own corrupted blood—and finally recognized the handwriting.
Elegant. Classical. Impeccable.
*He knew that hand.*
The contents of the note were brief:
> How do you like the water?
---
## — The Secret Illness —
A strange tension had settled over the imperial palace like morning fog that refused to lift.
His Majesty had barely left his chambers for days, citing poor health. Guards stood constant vigil at the door to the imperial bedroom. Access was restricted to *everyone*—including the Emperor's own children, including his wife. Only Duncan and His Majesty's personal chamberlain were permitted entry.
The fact that Fernando had been poisoned remained a closely guarded secret.
"Your Majesty, how are you feeling today?"
"*Terrible.*" The word emerged as more groan than speech. "My magical power is... beyond my control."
The flow of magic had always moved through Fernando's body like blood through veins—constant, natural, unthinking. But for the past several days, it seemed frozen. Motionless. Stuck, somehow, right at his heart.
"Please don't worry excessively," Duncan said carefully. "You will recover soon."
As Fernando's body gradually healed from the poisoning, magic had begun to return—but *slowly*. So slowly that each day felt like an eternity of weakness.
"No." Fernando struggled to form the words properly; it was as though his tongue had forgotten how to shape sounds. "If I understand correctly... it's not coming back."
He swallowed thickly, rage kindling in his eyes like distant fire.
"That *damned* Benvito. He knows how to use poisons."
"But surely, Your Majesty, you cannot be susceptible to poison?" Duncan's brow furrowed with confusion. "Over time, your trained body will overcome this naturally. It always has before."
"I thought so too. At first."
Fernando had been taking poisons in carefully measured doses since childhood. This was standard procedure for those in line for the throne—a systematic immunization that rendered most toxins harmless. Almost no poison affected him anymore.
*Almost.*
"However," Fernando continued, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, "there exists a poison belonging exclusively to the Benvito family. Its precise composition has never been determined. But this much is known: if the antidote is not administered within twenty-four hours of exposure... the victim dies a *horrific* death."
All descendants of the imperial bloodline were exposed to poisons from childhood—it was mandatory training for anyone eligible for succession. However, no one outside House Benvito knew the secret of crafting their legendary toxin. Only the Grand Duke himself possessed that knowledge.
He inherited the secret formula along with his title.
Which meant Fernando had never been able to develop immunity. Should the Grand Duke ever choose to poison him...
"I believe this is that very poison."
Duncan's jaw went slack. This was the first time the faithful servant had heard this story. He stared at his master in undisguised shock, then hastily composed himself.
"But Your Majesty... no one has ever even *heard* of a Benvito poison. Surely such a thing would be documented—"
"That's precisely because the poison is so rare. So carefully guarded." Fernando's eyes grew distant, lost in dark memory. "But I have *seen* it kill. I've watched victims die from it. It is... truly horrific."
He paused, gathering the strength to continue.
"If administered in lethal concentration, the victim dies within twenty-four hours. I don't know what ingredients compose it, but I *do* know this: even a divine blessing cannot purge it from the body. The only salvation is the antidote—and nothing else. Without it, the victim bleeds from every pore. Every opening. Every inch of skin. Until death finally claims them."
Duncan swallowed dryly, his mind conjuring the image against his will—a human body weeping crimson from countless wounds, screaming, *begging*...
Fernando continued in a flat, exhausted voice:
"The man I watched die from this poison writhed in unspeakable agony. He *begged* to be killed. Indeed, many victims take their own lives rather than endure it to the end." A bitter laugh escaped him. "But I survived. So at first, I believed everything would be fine. I thought my training had protected me."
His hand clenched against the silk sheets.
"Apparently not."
*Most likely,* Fernando reasoned silently, *the poison was diluted—designed to harm rather than kill outright. Even so, only my magical power saved me. Without it, my body would have been permanently disfigured. Magic can, in certain circumstances, act independently to protect its host, even without conscious direction. My magic protected me... but suffered greatly in the process.*
The implication hung unspoken in the air.
His power might never fully return.
"But then..." Duncan's voice was hesitant. "What do you intend to do?"
Fernando's eyes, clouded with pain and burning with hatred, fixed upon his servant.
"I need to obtain the antidote."
A pause.
"*At any cost.*"