> **Warning:** This chapter contains descriptions of violence and cruelty.
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"If someone is accused of treason, they endanger not only themselves but their entire household—family, servants, vassals. Every last soul." Calix's voice cut through the morning air like a blade. "Isn't that so?"
A terrible fear hung over the lawn, thick as smoke.
"Isn't that reason enough to die?"
The moment the words left his lips, the black figures raised their swords in perfect unison.
It was then that Anthony, overcome with horror, said what he should never have said:
"His Highness will **regret** this!"
In an instant, Calix's expression turned to ice. A terrifying wave of energy erupted from him like a cannon blast, completely unchecked by its master. The furious impact sent Anthony's body flying backward, where it struck the ground and twisted grotesquely in the mud.
But that was only the beginning.
The Archduke loomed over the unfortunate man like a vast black shadow, raising his sword high.
**_"AAAAAAAAH!"_**
"No! *Anthony!*" Philip gasped, lurching toward his son—but hands seized him immediately, forcing him down so violently he couldn't move a single muscle.
Blood trickled down the steel blade as it pierced Anthony's shoulder, driven deep by the Archduke's merciless hand. Calix twisted the sword slowly, deliberately, tearing through flesh and sinew. A desperate howl of pure agony shattered the morning stillness. Anthony's body convulsed once, twice—then went limp, collapsing into the churned mud.
"Spare us!" Philip pleaded, his voice cracking. "At least for Asella's sake!"
Calix's heart turned to stone.
"How *dare* you speak my wife's name." His voice dropped to something barely human. "I know exactly how she was treated in this house."
The sharp blade plunged into Philip's thigh as he knelt helplessly before the prince. Philip groaned through clenched teeth, fighting to contain the pain. Every witness who watched the Archduke—his face utterly expressionless—twist that blade, shredding muscle and tendon, felt their own bodies clench in sympathetic horror.
"You pathetic worm. You sold your adopted daughter just to install your bastard son in her place—to make *him* the head of the Charts family."
"P-please... *AAAAAAAGH*—"
"I am simply returning you, carrion, to where you belong."
The Archduke's voice emerged muffled and terrible, stripped of all humanity.
Philip didn't scream at first. Sweat poured down his face as he groaned loudly, desperately, fighting the excruciating agony. But when the sharp blade pierced his *other* thigh, his resistance shattered. His eyes rolled back, and consciousness fled.
"Take this away."
Black figures lifted the limp bodies and vanished soundlessly into the shadows. Calix swung his sword several times in disgust, flicking drops of dark blood from the gleaming steel. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned his gaze upon the people trembling in the mud.
The unfortunate souls realized their turn had come. Fresh screams erupted across the lawn.
"Please—have mercy—"
"*Mercy!*"
In an instant, the entire garden filled with cries and pleas. Yet the Archduke's face showed nothing. He felt no sympathy for these people.
_Asella._
An image surfaced unbidden: his wife, suffering from relentless nightmares, crying out in her sleep. She too had begged for mercy—begged in vain. As he thought of the woman who had spent seven helpless years in this hellish prison, utterly alone, his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. His crimson eyes flashed with cold cruelty.
"**Cut them to pieces.**"
Pure hell descended upon the Charts estate.
Horrific screams pierced the dawn. Pleas for death echoed across the grounds. But the sharpened blades showed no mercy, carving through flesh methodically, refusing to grant swift release.
Each time gleaming steel arced through the air, blood poured onto the earth in crimson streams. Within moments, what had once been human beings were reduced to shapeless masses of shredded flesh.
When silence finally fell and the black figures retreated, not a single soul remained alive. Only human remains—mangled beyond recognition—lay scattered across a vast pool of cooling blood.
"I'm going to the palace." Calix's voice betrayed nothing. "Clean this up."
He glanced once more at the bloody ruin before him, then turned and walked away without looking back.
---
## — Benvito Fortress —
The morning air carried an unusual chill.
Though dawn had barely broken, Asella's eyes opened of their own accord. Heavy curtains blocked the windows; the fire in the hearth had burned down to embers. She lingered beneath her blankets, reluctant to abandon their warmth. Spring had arrived in full bloom, yet the moment the sun dipped below the horizon, the air still turned bitterly cold.
Finally, she rose. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she stepped onto the long, fluffy pelt beside her bed. Her small feet sank into the fur up to her ankles. Shivering slightly, she slipped into warm fur slippers, crossed to her dressing table, and retrieved a locket from the depths of the drawer.
_I hope they received the letter._
For the past ten days, life in the fortress had continued as usual. No news had arrived from the Charts estate. Asella had tried—carefully, casually—to draw information from the maids, but they deflected her questions with practiced skill, behaving even more withdrawn than usual.
Their silence only deepened her anxiety. She suspected they were hiding something. And doing so with particular care.
A soft knock shattered her thoughts.
"My lady, are you awake?"
Asella's heart stuttered. A strange, melancholy premonition settled over her like a shroud.
_Who would come at this hour?_
The only people permitted to enter her chambers freely were Margot and her personal maid. Both should still be asleep.
Perhaps she had imagined it? But the hope died when another knock came, slightly louder.
"Your Highness! May I come in?"
"Lady Roman?"
As Asella puzzled over this unexpected visit, the first golden ray of sunrise crept above the horizon—and for no reason she could name, a violent shudder ran through her entire body.
_What is Margot doing here at such an hour?_
This did not bode well.
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness. We need to talk."
"...Come in."
Asella fought to keep the worry from her face. But when Margot entered and she saw her companion's frozen expression—every trace of warmth carefully smoothed away—her heart plummeted.
"His Highness has announced he will return this morning."
"I see."
But such news could have waited a few hours. Asella studied Margot's face, searching for the true reason behind this dawn visit.
"Is there something else?" She was startled by how hollow her own voice sounded.
"Yes."
The silence stretched unbearably. Asella's fingers found the hem of her nightgown and clutched it tight. A growing sense of dread crept through her limbs like winter frost.
Margot met the princess's gaze with something that might have been sympathy—then finally spoke.
"Your Highness." Her voice was unusually grave.
Asella's heart pounded so violently she could feel it in her throat.
"Mrs. Roman—*what happened?*"
"..."
"Just tell me. *Please.*"
A messenger from the Archduke had arrived in the night. For Margot, this was the most unpleasant duty imaginable. No one wished to be the bearer of devastating news—especially to someone as kind as the Grand Duchess.
But it was an order. And the instructions had been perfectly clear: *Break the news to the Grand Duchess in advance.*
Margot rubbed her brow, steeling herself. For some reason, she remembered the impeccable embroidery with which Her Highness had adorned a silk handkerchief just days ago—the Charts family crest, rendered in perfect stitches.
_Perhaps she won't survive this. I don't understand what the Archduke hopes to achieve._
_But it cannot be helped._
She drew a breath and forced the words out.
"A few days ago, the Charts family ceased to exist. Everyone was exterminated—the family, the servants, every single soul. Not one was spared."
The words emerged cold and colorless, stripped of all emotion.
Asella stared at Lady Roman. Her face had gone completely blank. She tried to comprehend what had been said, but her mind refused to process the information—as though some protective barrier had slammed shut.
"What did you say?" Her voice sounded distant, foreign. "I don't... I don't understand. Say it again."
"They were executed on charges of treason. Everyone in the mansion was killed—on the personal orders of His Majesty. Philip and Anthony Charts were executed on the spot."
Slowly—*so slowly*—the meaning of Margot's words finally pierced through.
Asella's mind went utterly blank.
She felt as though her body had been torn apart, plummeting into a bottomless abyss. She grasped desperately for composure, for something solid to hold onto—
"No." The word escaped as barely a whisper. "How is that possible? This can't be..."
"There is an official decree from the imperial palace."
As Margot finished speaking, Asella's legs gave way beneath her. She began to sink slowly, helplessly, toward the floor.
"Your Highness!"
"No... it's a lie... it can't be..." Asella's lips moved unconsciously, the words spilling out like delirium.
She couldn't breathe. It felt as though invisible hands had closed around her throat, squeezing mercilessly. Her head spun; her heart hammered so violently she thought it might burst through her ribs. She groaned, clutching her chest with trembling fingers.
_How could it end like this?_
_I never imagined... I never thought..._
Her vision began to dim. The fragile sanity she'd fought so hard to maintain finally cracked—shattered by the weight of shock too vast to bear.
And the bottomless darkness swallowed her whole.