"Sir, I bring news to report," said the man who had just entered the study.
Three men had been speaking when the door opened.
The room was spacious, warmed by the fire burning in the hearth to the left, its embers crackling softly and sending the occasional spark to snap in the silence between words. The scent of charred wood mingled with the heavier smoke of cigars, filling every corner of the space with a suffocating weight.
Behind the broad desk—burdened with piles of documents, sealed letters, and a pair of crystal goblets—a window admitted the dying gold of sunset. The amber light met the glow of a whisky bottle uncorked upon the table, near the heavy hand of Baron Hoffmann. His glass was still half-filled, the melting ice releasing faint cracks like bones under strain.
Opposite him, the third man—whose identity Lucius had yet to recognize—preferred something stronger. A small glass bottle on the table betrayed the sharp sting of vodka. His breath reeked of it, weaving into the fog of cigar smoke the Baron exhaled.
Bookshelves lined the walls, heavy with leather-bound volumes—treatises on war, collections of poetry—and objects displayed like trophies: a ceremonial dagger mounted in gilt, a polished steel helm, and the family crest of the Hoffmanns, burnished to a gleam. A copper globe rested beside a pile of grimoires, spinning faintly in the draft from the half-open window.
The scene was stitched together by the sound of boots clicking across the wooden floor—Lucius' heavy stride—and the faint rustle of pages as Kreld idly turned through a tome near the fire. He remained standing, never one to relax, his presence like a shadow: cold, disdainful, waiting.
Already present were three figures: Baron Hoffmann, imposing behind his desk, dragging on his cigar with deliberate slowness; Kreld, posture steeped in contempt, his icy eyes fixed on Lucius; and the third man, enigmatic, his authority announced not by words but by the gravity that clung to him like armor.
For yes—the knight who had crossed the threshold was none other than Lucius, one of the Baron's most loyal men.
"Lucius, I did not give you leave to enter," Hoffmann barked, his deep voice sharp with irritation at the sudden interruption.
The Baron, raising his whisky to his lips when the door opened, set it back upon the desk with a firm thud, the crystal striking wood like a gavel. His eyes carried the cold rebuke of one who brooked no insolence under his roof.
Lucius felt the weight of that gaze. Perhaps he should have waited until the meeting ended, but the urgency of his news left no room for hesitation.
"My apologies, sir," he said, bowing low. "But I bring word of the boy… and another matter I believe you will want to hear."
As he spoke, his eyes drifted across the room. Kreld, in the shadow of the fire, would not even meet his gaze—his expression fixed in scorn, as though Lucius were beneath notice. To the mage, he was nothing, a pawn at best.
The third man, however, radiated a more cryptic menace. He wore a mask of blackened metal, inlaid with threads of gold, covering most of his face but leaving his mouth and jaw exposed for drinking and speech. Impossible to identify, yet his attire betrayed rank: a velvet mantle of blood-red trimmed with gold, beneath it a silver-gray tunic of fine cloth, and on his hands heavy rings set with stones. Everything in him proclaimed nobility, perhaps of a title above Hoffmann's own.
Hoffmann, in turn, projected power through presence as much as speech. He wore a long, heavy wool coat, dark gray, its shoulders and cuffs reinforced with black leather. Embroidered upon the chest in silver thread was his family crest: a lion grasping a sword, symbol of martial lineage. The coat hung open to reveal a thick burgundy waistcoat fastened with bronze buttons. Dark trousers, polished leather boots to the knee, and gloves laid aside upon the desk completed the ensemble.
He looked less a provincial baron and more a lord of war, someone who—even amidst smoke and whisky—still carried the weight of battle on his shoulders.
When Lucius straightened from his bow, the contrast between the three struck him sharply:
Hoffmann—unyielding as stone, master of the room.
Kreld—aloof, threatening in his silence.
And the masked man—whose authority eclipsed them all.
★★★
"Since you've cut across my meeting," Hoffmann began, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, "tell me what is so important."
The Baron's words fell like judgment, heavy and impatient.
Lucius drew a steadying breath, feeling the room's pressure. His eyes lingered on each figure, as if silently asking: Do you truly want me to speak this aloud?
Hoffmann caught the hesitation and replied coldly, slicing away excuses:
"You will speak before them, Lucius. Kreld was with you at the attack, and my friend here… is a man of utmost trust."
Lucius inclined his head, exhaling a sigh before beginning.
"Sir, matters unfolded exactly as you foresaw. The boy has indeed joined the Dark Throne."
Hoffmann swirled the whisky, golden liquid catching the light, before lifting it to his lips. He smirked, derisive.
"I know this already. Demétrio Marduk never breaks his word. What of it? You waste my time, Lucius."
"No, sir. It isn't that," Lucius said quickly, stumbling over his words.
Kreld chuckled, low and cynical, leaning against the hearth. His eyes glimmered with amusement at Lucius' discomfort. To him, the knight was nothing but a disposable pawn—whether he lived or died, it made no difference.
"What I mean is… it isn't three mages the elder sent to guard the boy's family." Lucius paused, every gaze now sharpened upon him. "He sent five."
Silence pressed down like a stone. Hoffmann arched a brow. The masked noble let slip a low laugh, muffled by cigar smoke, savoring the revelation.
"Five?" he drawled, his voice laced with irony. "What does that boy mean to Demétrio Marduk?"
"Nothing," Kreld spat, venomous, his lips curling in disdain.
But Hoffmann did not dismiss it so quickly. He blew smoke slowly into the air before speaking.
"It is not so simple, Kreld. The boy may be born a peasant, but he has been taken as a disciple by an elder. That alone strips him of 'nothing.'"
The masked noble leaned forward, the gold of his mask catching firelight.
"Then it is not nothing," he murmured, exhaling smoke thick and curling. "Demétrio does not take peasants without reason."
"The boy claimed to have completed the first tunnel of the Qliphoth," Hoffmann added, setting his glass down with weight.
The air thickened. The masked man tapped a gloved finger against the rim of his vodka glass, as though meditating upon the fact.
"And his age?"
"Five years," Kreld answered with a crooked smile, stepping closer to Lucius as if to crush him with his presence.
Lucius stood his ground, though his blood seethed at the mockery.
The noble leaned back, his rings clinking against the glass.
"That changes everything… Demétrio saw talent in him. Perhaps even reflection."
Hoffmann frowned.
"What do you mean?"
The noble's smile sharpened, cruel and knowing.
"Demétrio conquered his first tunnel at eight years old. Until now, he was the youngest ever. And now comes this boy—who passed it at five. It is only natural Demétrio sees himself in the child."
The silence returned, dense, broken only by the snap of the fire and the faint clink of ice in Hoffmann's glass. Each weighed the revelation in their own mind, calculating what it could mean. The Baron's face remained carved in stone, but inwardly he awaited the second half of Lucius' report.
"Very well, I understand that much," Hoffmann said at last, breaking the stillness. "What is the other news, Lucius?"
Lucius inhaled deeply. What he was about to say carried a weight far heavier, something the Baron had long believed buried.
"Do you remember thirteen years ago, sir?" he asked cautiously.
Hoffmann's gaze narrowed.
"Speak, Lucius. Do not waste my time."
Lucius wetted his lips.
"Do you recall the attack on that family of merchants—the one you ordered, for the sake of a woman you wanted?"
For a moment silence hung. Then a cruel smile twisted Hoffmann's lips, memory rekindled like fresh flame.
"Ah, yes… how could I forget?" he rasped, laughter dry as bone. "But what has that to do with now?"
Lucius hesitated, words dragging heavy as chains.
"How do I put this…"
"Speak!" Hoffmann thundered, slamming his hand upon the walnut desk. The sound cracked through the study.
Lucius straightened and delivered the blade:
"The boy's mother is her, my lord. She survived. She is alive—and living in Brumaria."
Hoffmann's eyes widened. The news cut like a dagger. For a breath, he seemed struck dumb. He had believed that chapter closed. That raid had denied him what he wanted, but he accepted all had perished.
He remembered well. He had asked the mercenaries if all were dead. They had said yes. He had then killed those mercenaries, sealing their silence. To him, no witnesses remained.
Now Lucius' revelation returned as a ghost—unwanted, vengeful.
"She must die!" Hoffmann roared, leaping to his feet. "She knows what was done that night!"
His face twisted in blind fury, nearly giving way to reckless orders.
"Calm yourself, Hoffmann," the masked noble interjected, voice firm as iron. "That was many years ago. It cannot touch you now."
"He is right, sir," Lucius added quickly. "Too many years have passed. If she raised accusation now, it could even be turned against her—dismissed as invention, revenge."
The logic was sound, yet the Baron's rage burned hotter. His fists clenched, breath ragged.
"Even so… I want her dead. And before that—I'll violate her. As I did her sister's corpse… Helena."
The room froze. Even the fire seemed to gutter low.
"Better not," the noble said, his voice a blade drawn clean. "Now that she is under the Dark Throne's protection, any move against her is suicide. If you dare, neither I nor the kingdom could save you."
Kreld crossed his arms, his smirk edged with disdain.
"Precisely. Touch her, and the Dark Throne will fall on you, your house, and your allies like a blade. They will not wait for sanction. They will erase you."
Hoffmann exhaled, his glass trembling faintly in hand. He swallowed the whisky, bitter and hot, and sank back into his chair.
"Very well… I understand. I will restrain myself. I will do nothing for now."
"A wise decision," murmured the noble, drawing on his cigar with deliberate calm.
The Baron leaned back, eyes still aflame with hate, then waved a sharp hand.
"Lucius, you are dismissed. Continue to watch the family from afar."
The knight bowed and departed. The door closed with a dull thud, and the study returned to its haze of smoke, alcohol, and secrets.
The meeting would continue.