Philip's heart seized in his chest.
He scrambled desperately for an excuse, words tumbling out in a frantic rush: "Forgive me! I misspoke entirely. It was only out of love for my daughter—I worry about her so terribly. Please! I beg you not to trouble His Highness with such unnecessary misunderstandings."
"Love for one's daughter is most commendable."
Raizen's eyes opened slightly wider, his eyebrows rising in an expression that those familiar with the Count would have recognized instantly: pure, undisguised contempt. However, to someone who didn't know him well, it might easily have been mistaken for an amiable smile.
Philip made exactly this error. Watching Lord Cardon's face with desperate attention, he convinced himself the man's mood had improved. His confidence returned like water filling a cracked vessel.
Sweet lies flowed from his tongue like honey: "Lord Cardon may not understand, having not yet been blessed with children of his own. But when you become a father yourself, you'll comprehend completely. Please forgive my thoughtless oversight."
His performance was so convincing that no stranger would have thought to doubt his sincerity.
Raizen's expression remained unchanged, but inwardly he seethed at such breathtaking shamelessness.
"Very well. Let us consider the matter forgotten."
Philip's face brightened with relief. *Excellent—everything resolved without consequence.* His mind was already racing ahead. *The moment Raizen departs, I must hurry to the Imperial Palace and secure His Majesty's formal permission for the wedding.*
Buoyed by these calculations, Philip arranged his features into an ingratiating smile.
"I'm certain you and I will become great friends, Lord Cardon. After the wedding, I do hope you'll look after us. We're most eager to make a favorable impression on His Highness, and your guidance would be invaluable."
"I still need to speak with this lady." Raizen's reply was ice, utterly ignoring Philip's condescending familiarity. "Please leave us."
Philip stared at the Count in bewilderment. "Ah... the conversation... But didn't you just agree to forget about this?"
"I meant that I accept your apology for the insult." Raizen's gray eyes were flat, unreadable. "I never said I would leave without speaking to Lady Charts in private."
"Ah, but this is—"
"*Or is my meaning unclear to you?*"
Philip stood frozen, his mouth working soundlessly. If he refused, it would certainly be interpreted as an insult to the Grand Duke himself. But if he agreed...
His gaze darted to Asella.
*That wretched creature. What if she says too much?*
Look how silent she had become—sitting there like a porcelain doll, giving nothing away. Philip knew his stepdaughter far too well to trust such stillness. You never knew when she might raise her head. He had spent seven years systematically breaking her body and spirit, yet it never seemed sufficient. Some stubborn core remained intact, hidden behind those empty blue eyes.
The man remained rooted in place, paralyzed by indecision.
Until Lord Cardon spoke again: "I believe now would be the most opportune time for the Acting Marquis to visit the palace and obtain His Majesty's formal permission for the marriage. Meanwhile, I shall have my conversation with the lady."
Finally, Philip surrendered. He turned toward the door, his movements stiff with barely suppressed rage.
"And please have tea sent up," Raizen added.
Philip's fists clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked. Fury at his own helplessness boiled in his chest as he stamped toward the exit, his heavy footsteps echoing through the room.
Asella watched him go, allowing herself a small breath of relief.
But at the threshold, Philip stopped.
He glanced back over his shoulder. Raizen's back was turned—the Count couldn't see him silently mouth a single word:
*Mariel.*
Asella's body went rigid. The blood drained from her face until she was white as parchment.
Philip's mouth twisted into a poisonous smile. His voice, when he spoke aloud, was sugar-sweet: "Asella, my dear daughter. I trust you will be most courteous to our honored guest."
---
The maid entered with a silver tray, placing two porcelain cups and plates of delicate pastries on the table between them. She bowed with practiced grace and withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.
Only the two of them remained.
The fragrant steam rising from the tea did little to dispel the oppressive atmosphere that had saturated the room. Asella studied the man before her carefully, though she was mindful not to stare in a manner that might seem rude.
*Lord Cardon.* A member of a family that had served House Benvito for centuries, renowned throughout the Empire for producing exceptional knights.
Her assessment deepened as she observed his behavior. The Count hadn't so much as glanced at his tea, showed no interest whatsoever in the pastries arranged enticingly before him. It was clearly an ingrained habit—the caution of someone who had survived in dangerous places. And not without reason. There would always be those willing to slip poison or sleeping powder into an unguarded cup.
*If this man is so thoroughly trained in vigilance,* Asella thought, *then what manner of person must my future husband be?*
She exhaled quietly and was the first to break the silence.
"What did you wish to speak with me about?"
"Nothing," the man replied.
The answer was so unexpected that Asella blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"His Highness instructed me simply to have tea with you."
"Just... tea?" Asella tilted her head slightly to the side. "May I ask why?"
"I do not know. I merely follow orders." Raizen's tone remained flat, unreadable. "Does this make you uncomfortable?"
"No."
Asella lowered her gaze. The tiara still lay in her lap, its magnificence so overwhelming that it seemed to eclipse everything else in the room by its mere presence.
*He ordered me to wear it at the wedding.*
To an outsider, it might have appeared a gift from a devoted man who treasured his future bride. But Asella understood the truth. There was no romance here. No affection. Simply a very expensive tag, marking her as property.
There was no cause for joy.
Philip had instructed her to express gratitude—but the man who had sent the gift was conspicuously absent. And Asella knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he cared nothing for her reaction.
---
Meanwhile, Raizen watched the girl with careful attention.
He was following his master's orders, yes. But his own curiosity had been aroused as well. Asella Charts was proving startlingly different from his initial expectations.
Whether she intended it or not, rumors about her had spread throughout the Empire. The unfortunate daughter of a marchioness who had lost her mother under tragic and mysterious circumstances. A mediocrity who had never awakened the magical abilities characteristic of her bloodline. A failure who had forfeited her position as heir.
Following the Grand Duke's orders, Raizen had compiled extensive intelligence on her. Yet the Asella he observed in person bore little resemblance to the woman those rumors described.
No secondhand account could have conveyed the full horror of her situation.
Her body was stiff—the rigidity of someone accustomed to constant abuse, braced perpetually for the next blow. Yet it retained an innate aristocratic dignity that no amount of mistreatment had managed to extinguish. She appeared obedient, as though the very concept of resistance had been trained out of her. Yet behind those still blue eyes, intelligence flickered—sharp, self-possessed, watchful.
She spoke little. But it was obvious her mind worked ceaselessly, processing everything around her.
Though her movements were constrained, her manners remained both refined and natural—the ingrained grace of someone raised from birth for a position she had never been permitted to occupy.
Raizen's keen gaze noted immediately that she was wearing borrowed clothes. The dress was new and obviously expensive, but strange wrinkles marred the fabric, and the stitching was visibly crude in places—rushed work, meant to create an illusion rather than a proper fit. The reason she sat so unnaturally still was likely because she feared the hasty seams might tear apart.
Under different circumstances, such a poorly assembled costume might have been laughable. But on Asella Charts, draped over her wounded dignity like a mockery of finery, it inspired no amusement at all.
Raizen's gaze traveled slowly to her face.
"Are you injured?"
Her lips parted slightly, but no answer came. She continued staring at the tiara in her lap, her expression carefully blank.
Someone had attempted to conceal the marks of a recent beating beneath excessive makeup. The cosmetics couldn't quite hide the swelling, the discoloration that spoke of blows delivered within the past few hours. Her eyes held the haunted look of a creature cornered at the edge of an abyss—yet her posture remained perfectly upright. Not wavering. Not even slightly.
Raizen noted this and turned away, affecting not to have noticed.
But then, surprising himself, he spoke: "You don't have to endure this."
*What am I saying?* The thought flashed through his mind. *This is entirely unlike me.*
Asella raised her head at his unexpected words.
"Moreover," he continued, uncertain why he felt compelled to finish the thought, "you will soon become the Grand Duchess."
Asella said nothing.
They sat in silence as the tea in their cups grew cold. The minutes stretched on, marked only by the distant sounds of the household and the occasional creak of settling wood.
Only when it came time for the Count to take his leave did she finally part her swollen lips.
"Thank you for your words."
She said very little. But the meaning in her voice was unmistakable.
---
## — The Imperial Palace —
At that same hour, in the Emperor's private study, a very different conversation was taking place.
"It's been quite some time since Calix did anything *amusing*."
Fernando, supreme ruler of the Garmanian Empire, reclined in his gilded chair with a sardonic grin, examining a document spread across his desk. The paper bore the formal request for marriage approval—House Benvito to House Charts.
He turned to the man standing at rigid attention beside him.
"What do you make of this, Duncan?"
Duncan Lysak. Born the illegitimate son of a minor viscount, he had risen to become the Emperor's most trusted confidant through nothing but his extraordinary talent with a blade and his absolute, unquestioning loyalty.
Duncan inclined his head in a respectful bow. "His Highness is simply following Your Majesty's directive."
"But why such an *absurd* choice?" Fernando's tone carried amusement rather than genuine curiosity. "Of all the families in the Empire... of all the incredible number of women throwing themselves at his feet..."
In truth, the Emperor cared little for his subjects' opinions on any matter. He despised anyone who dared disagree with him—despised them with a cold, patient hatred that invariably found expression. There had been a time when he memorized the names of every noble who voiced contrary views in council meetings, then systematically destroyed them under accusations of treason.
The practice had proved most effective in ensuring unanimity.
"*Charts.*" Fernando touched his chin thoughtfully with one long finger, rolling the name across his tongue like something distasteful. "I never expected to hear that name again."
His gray eyes grew distant, calculating.
"Should we release the dogs?"
The Imperial Dogs—a secret division that answered to no one but the Emperor himself. Their existence was never acknowledged publicly, but every noble family in the Empire knew what they were capable of. Murder. Kidnapping. Torture of the most exquisite variety. The operatives were selected young and subjected to years of meticulous conditioning until their original personalities had been scoured away, replaced with perfect, fanatical obedience. They would carry out any order without hesitation—killing enemies, killing themselves, killing children in their cradles. Anything. One needed only to command it.
Duncan remained silent, awaiting instruction.
"No." Fernando shook his head slowly. "No, it isn't necessary. The eldest daughter of the Marchioness Charts possesses no power whatsoever. She's utterly harmless."
He drummed his fingers against the armrest, considering.
"This Philip fellow is rather patient, isn't he? If I were in his position, I would have disposed of such useless baggage long ago." The Emperor's lip curled with disdain. "Although perhaps he's shrewder than he appears—to have managed to sell her at such an impressive profit. Precious mines in exchange for such meager merchandise." His laughter was cold, appreciative of the transaction's mercenary efficiency.
Then his expression shifted, as though something had just occurred to him.
"There is a second child in that family, isn't there? Mariel Charts, I believe." His tone remained casual, almost idle. "How old is she now?"
"She will celebrate her tenth birthday this year, Your Majesty."
Fernando's gray eyes flashed—cold and sharp as winter steel.
"Arrange surveillance." The words fell like stones into still water. "If you observe any indication that she possesses abilities..."
A cruel smile spread across the Emperor's face.
"**_Kill her._**"
---