Edric let out a soft chuckle, throwing his head back as he clutched the left side of his chest.
"Wow, Archduchess Kayona! You really remind me so much of your late mother. She always knew how to handle herself unlike some other woman sitting at this table."
His chill gaze slid toward his wife.
Isolde's eyes widened, her lips tightening as her grip fastened round her fork. A vein pulsed against her neck, threatening to burst.
Their marriage can't be this fragile. A man doesn't praise a dead woman just to wound his wife—unless there's more beneath the surface, Kayona mulled.
She glanced toward Sylrick, expecting at least a flicker of reaction.
But he only lifted his glass, unbothered.
He took a slow sip of wine.
Since you left me in that hallway, I've been thirsting for this side of you, Kayona. Yet you keep torturing me by unleashing it on my parents… instead of me.
The tension in the room thickened, heavy enough to choke the servants who stood frozen in place.
Kayona noticed one maid's hands trembling as she tried to steady the wine jug. Edric hadn't just reopened an old wound—he had done it publicly, at his own table, with the casual cruelty of a man far too comfortable cutting his wife where it hurt most.
And Kayona couldn't help but wonder:
If this is how they act in front of me, what horrors unfold when no one is watching?
Sylrick's gaze lowered to the glass, his face unreadable to everyone else at the table.
Isolde slammed her fork onto the plate, the sound sharp enough to rattle the cutlery.
"So that's it, Edric? You humiliate me at my own table just to praise her? A dead woman you still can't—"
She bit her tongue, cutting herself short, and snatched her wine glass. A bitter swallow to mask the slip.
She set it down hard.
"And you—" her eyes slashed toward Sylrick, burning with betrayal. "You sit there like some obedient soldier, drinking your wine, as if your mother isn't being dragged through the dirt!"
Her gaze turned on Kayona, sharp and seething.
"And you—Archduchess—"
"You better watch your mouth, Mother!" Sylrick's voice broke through, low and furious. The suddenness made her flinch. "Stop acting like this is the first time Father's treated you this way. Both of you—do you even realize how pathetic you look?"
Edric smiled as a servant stepped forward. He plucked the cigarette with ease, lit it, and exhaled a slow trail of smoke.
"Now, Sylrick," he drawled, smoke curling between his words, "is that how a son ought to speak to his parents? Such a temper—tsk." He shook his head in mock pity. "And all this—for your fiancée? A woman you don't even harbour feelings for?"
The incident pushed Kayona to ponder:
To think I was worried about appearing suspicious when all I wanted was information. Now look at how things are playing out.
"Beyond irony, coming from you." Sylrick exhaled. "We've overstayed our welcome. My fiancée needs her rest—besides, I have a wedding to plan."
"Wait… now?" Kayona asked, startled by his sudden conclusion.
"Yes." He lifted her hand and pressed a swift kiss to her palm. "Let's go, darling."
As much as I want to prolong this visit for more clues, I won't be able to hold myself back if the topic of my dead mother escalates.
Kayona turned to him with a bright smile.
"Very well, let's go."
Isolde's sharp eyes tracked them as they rose gracefully from their seats.
Celebrate now, Kayona. But the gods know you won't be lucky next time.
With Maxwell and the guards falling into step behind, they reached the doors. Just as they were about to step out, Edric's voice rang.
"I'll be looking forward to seeing more of you, Archduchess." His smirk lingered like a shadow.
Sylrick's jaw tightened.
Kayona merely turned back with a light, lilting giggle.
"Of course, Archduke."
The door shut behind them.
***
The convoy wound through the late-afternoon streets, engines humming in steady rhythm. From the tinted window, the walls of the Obregón estate were already visible in the orange spill of sunset.
The ride had been quiet. Unbearably so. Neither had spoken, not even when the car jolted over uneven cobblestones. The silence sat between them like a third passenger—unwelcome, but impossible to ignore.
At last, Sylrick shifted in his seat, his voice breaking through with more hesitation than he intended.
"Tell me, Kai… are you angry with me?"
Kayona didn't turn. Her gaze stayed fixed on the growing outline of her estate gates.
He waited. Nothing—no glance, no word. Just silence.
Sylrick blew out a sharp breath, leaning his head back against the seat.
Why hasn't she said anything since we left?
He leaned forward again, studying her profile. But her face was carved in calm indifference—the kind that clawed at him worse than any shouted words could.
"Kai, please… scream at me, hit me, anything—just take it out on me," he pleaded.
But her stillness, her unbothered distance, felt like rejection dressed in courtesy.
A storm churned inside him as he collapsed back into his seat, a memory dragging him under.
This distance again, Kayona. Just like then, at the Maelithor Academy—you never spared me a glance. And the few times you did, it was only with hate and disgust.
Am I still not good enough to stand close to you?
Her voice from five years ago sliced through him, as sharp now as it had been then.
'It's all your fault! It's all your family's fault!'
His jaw locked tight.
Did something really happen between our parents? And worse—why is the mystery of their deaths still unsolved?
The car slowed as the iron gates of the Obregón estate swung open, guards saluting as the convoy rolled inside. The unanswered question still hung between them like smoke.
When the cars finally parked at the motor court, Maxwell was already stepping down to open Kayona's door.
"Thank you, Max," she said with a graceful smile.
He froze.
"Max?" The name tasted sour on his tongue, bitter in ways he couldn't explain.
He climbed out just as the car door closed behind her. Reaching out, he called, "Kayona—"
"No." She spun on her heel, forcing a pleasant smile. "Till next time, Lord— I mean, Sylrick."
His hand dropped uselessly to his side, his expression dimming with defeat.
He watched her walk away, her figure caught in the last sweep of sunlight, Maxwell's shadow close at her shoulder like a silent warning.
It felt like watching a door close in his face, one he had no key to open.
"As you wish, Kayona."
"Please drive safely," she said, not looking back as she stepped toward the mansion.
Sylrick stood rooted in place, gloom written across his face.
"Your Grace," one of the Obregón guards called respectfully with a bow. "We will gladly escort your convoy back out."
"There's no need," Sylrick answered without looking at him.
A man from his own convoy approached and bowed low.
"Are we ready to depart, Your Grace?"
"Yes. Let's go."
***
Inside her mansion, Kayona's smile fell away like a mask unhooked. The gracious archduchess was gone.
In her place stood the cold precision of a wolf, ready for the hunt.