The man sat at his desk, sorting through reports.
Afternoon light poured through the tall windows behind him, casting his shadow long across the polished floor. From the doorway, his silhouette—bathed in amber and gold—seemed less like a man and more like a god of war descended from some ancient mural. Broad shoulders. A powerful frame that even his immaculately tailored military uniform couldn't disguise. The massive mahogany desk before him might have dominated any other room, but here it seemed merely adequate.
"That concludes my report, Your Highness."
Raizen took a measured step back and stood at attention, waiting.
Silence settled over the office like a held breath. Then a voice emerged—low, cold, unhurried.
"Raizen."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The man at the desk raised his head.
His face was almost unbearably handsome—the kind of beauty that belonged in paintings, not in flesh. Black hair curled in unruly waves, framing a perfect brow. But his eyes... his eyes glimmered with an unsettling crimson light, dangerous and piercing, as though they could see through skin and bone to the trembling heart beneath.
When that gaze fixed upon him, Raizen swallowed involuntarily.
Several years had passed since he'd entered Calix Benvito's service. Yet even now, he felt an instinctive chill whenever those eyes found him. He was not alone in this. Members of the royal family themselves struggled to meet that stare, let alone converse freely with its owner. A man who had spent years on battlefields accumulated a certain aura—something primal, almost predatory. Some people felt animal terror in his presence. Others experienced a kind of reverent awe.
Raizen counted himself among the latter.
"This wedding must be known throughout the Empire." Calix's voice carried no particular inflection, yet the command was absolute. "From the residents of the capital to the last peasant in the most remote village."
"It will be done."
The declaration wasn't born of romantic sentiment. Calix Benvito was a man who moved through the world on the rails of careful calculation. He maximized what was profitable. He discarded what had ceased to be useful. And so this marriage to Asella Charts was nothing more—nothing less—than a precisely calibrated move on a board only he could fully see.
Despite himself, Raizen felt a flicker of pity for the future Grand Duchess—the silent woman with whom he had exchanged only a few words.
"How did you find her?"
"I detailed everything in my written report, Your Highness."
Raizen had decided it would be unwise to volunteer personal opinions in such a delicate matter. This woman would soon be his master's wife. A standard answer seemed the safest course.
"You're certain she possesses no abilities?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And the possibility of future awakening?"
"Most likely none."
"Interesting."
For the first time, something shifted in Calix's expression—curiosity flickering across features usually as readable as carved stone. His lips pressed together, then stretched into a thin, contemplative line.
"That is merely my assessment," Raizen added carefully. "Only time will provide certainty."
*Either this woman truly lacks talent... or she is a remarkably skilled actress.* Raizen couldn't be entirely sure which. The thought had nagged at him since their meeting.
"It's possible she conceals her abilities."
Calix's eyebrow rose fractionally. "You believe she has reason to?"
"We shall see."
"Hasn't she already been driven into a corner? What would be the purpose?"
"Perhaps... for Mariel's sake."
"Perhaps."
---
The Charts family had been renowned for their abilities for centuries.
Their bloodline followed a peculiar pattern: typically, only one daughter was born to each generation. The remaining children—if any—were sons. And no matter how talented those sons proved in other respects, the family's special abilities passed exclusively through the female line.
Once, approximately three hundred years ago, two daughters had been born to the same generation. But the elder sister died young, and for hundreds of years afterward, the pattern held firm. One daughter per generation. She would inherit the family's power, assume leadership, and carry the bloodline forward.
It was a precarious arrangement—a single child represented tremendous risk of extinction. Yet against all odds, the Charts family had maintained its prominent position for centuries.
Until Adele's death.
"The second daughter of Charts..."
Raizen nodded, understanding the direction of his master's thoughts.
Mariel's birth had caused tremendous upheaval in aristocratic circles. Such an occurrence was extraordinarily rare—the subject of wild rumors and speculation bordering on the absurd. Some whispered that the younger daughter must be illegitimate. Others suggested darker explanations entirely.
Adele had silenced them swiftly. She swore upon her name and her sacred calling that both girls were her biological daughters. Thus Mariel Charts became the official second heir to the Marquise title.
Three years later, Adele was murdered by an unknown assassin.
Both daughters fell into Philip's hands.
"The younger sister turns ten this year, I believe." Calix's tone remained conversational, almost idle. "Find out her exact birthday."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"If she manifests any ability, she becomes the rightful head of the family."
A sardonic smile crossed Calix's face as he spoke—the expression of a man who found the situation privately amusing.
For him, the matter was perfectly straightforward. His promise to recognize Anthony's succession rights in exchange for this marriage? He had never considered it anything serious.
"Philip remains convinced that Anthony will receive the title," Raizen observed.
"He doesn't even understand what he's asking for."
Calix's voice held no particular heat—merely the flat indifference of a man discussing insects. "A fool so blinded by power and gold that he cannot see the abyss yawning beneath his feet."
To Calix, Philip was worthless—not even worth the time required to properly despise him. The notion of handing the reins of an ancient house to such an idiot, when a talented and legitimate heir existed? Absurd.
He ran long fingers through his unruly hair and rose from his chair, moving toward the window.
"You know, Raizen... I count myself incredibly fortunate." He gazed out at the dying light. "I was born at precisely the right time."
Raizen's expression grew cautious. "That information should be handled with extreme care, Your Highness. Does the Emperor suspect anything? What is your assessment?"
"I think not."
"Nothing at all?"
"His Majesty appears to believe this marriage serves *his* interests." A bitter smile twisted Calix's lips. "He suspects nothing of the truth."
He turned back to his desk, where a document lay waiting—the marriage contract, bearing the Emperor's unmistakable seal. Beside it, in neat and elegant script, was Asella Charts's signature.
Calix's long fingers pressed gently against the woman's name, tracing the curves of the letters.
"Did you notice anything else?"
Raizen hesitated.
His master rarely asked twice about anything. Yet here he was, asking again—about *this* woman. Asella Charts. The wise course would be to offer another measured, noncommittal response. To avoid potential complications.
But remembering the girl who had sat across from him—spine straight despite obvious pain, eyes watchful despite obvious exhaustion—Raizen found different words leaving his mouth.
"She is far better than the rumors suggest."
Genuine surprise flickered across Calix's impassive features. Raizen rarely spoke positively of anyone.
"You spoke with her privately?"
The question hung in the air. Raizen found himself uncertain how to respond. *What does he want from me?* His orders had been simple: deliver a gift on his master's behalf, observe whether the lady displayed any abilities.
Their meeting had been brief. The only words she'd truly spoken to him were thanks—quiet, sincere, offered as he prepared to leave. Such a small thing.
Yet somehow, it had been enough.
"Aren't you judging rather superficially?"
"I apologize, Your Highness." Raizen inclined his head, recognizing his misstep. "Perhaps it was indeed a rash assessment."
Calix studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. He had known this man for years—had never seen him speak this way about anyone. It was... curious.
But not curious enough to pursue further. He allowed the matter to drop.
"What of the wedding preparations?"
"Proceeding smoothly, Your Highness."
"Has Charts made any demands?"
"Several requests were submitted. All remain within budget. There have been no complications."
"Give him everything he wants."
The Benvito family's income had long since eclipsed the Emperor's own treasury. Any demand Philip Charts might conceive was nothing more than a handful of sand cast upon an endless beach.
"Yes, Your Highness." Raizen paused, then added: "Perhaps... you might wish to meet Lady Charts before the ceremony?"
Arranged marriages were common throughout the Empire. Their primary purpose was invariably the same: enhancing the prestige and wealth of noble houses. However, tradition held that the interests of the couple themselves should receive *some* consideration. Betrothal periods were typically lengthy—a year at minimum, rarely less than six months—allowing time for acquaintance.
Yet only one month remained before the wedding Calix had scheduled.
"Should I arrange a personal meeting, Your Highness?"
"No need."
Calix's attention had already returned to the documents before him. He was mildly intrigued by Raizen's unusual reaction to the woman—but not intrigued enough to waste time investigating.
After all, she was simply a woman who would prove useful. That was sufficient.
If she developed abilities, he would employ them. If not, she would serve adequately as a wife.
Either outcome suited his purposes.
---