Nicklaus was a cold man—far colder than she imagined. His silence alone was terrifying, and the way he had stared at her back in the court made her feel like she was being dissected under a blade of ice. And yet, here she was… tailing him like a fool through the silent stone corridors of the palace.
He hadn't noticed her yet—or maybe he had and just didn't care.
The heels of his black boots echoed lightly against the marble floor as he walked with unshakable calm, each step deliberate, precise, powerful. He was moving like someone who owned everything around him, like someone who feared nothing—not even death.
Historia's feet slowed as she reached a corner, peeking slightly before stepping into the next corridor. But suddenly—
He vanished.
Her heart skipped. Her steps halted. Then she felt it.
His presence.
Behind her.
Her breath caught in her throat, her spine stiffening as she felt the weight of his aura wrap around her like a vice. She didn't need to turn to know who it was. Still, slowly… very slowly… she turned to face him.
He was close. Closer than she expected. And standing directly in front of him like this, she could finally see him clearly.
Nicklaus Drayven was twice her size in build—broad-shouldered, tall, with an imposing posture carved from discipline and war. His black shirt fit tightly across his chest, tucked neatly into matching trousers tucked into boots polished to an obsidian shine. His long coat draped past his calves, the silver embroidery of a crowned fang glinting faintly in the dim light.
His right eye was open and alive with cold, dangerous blue. A scar ran from his brow, slicing through the lid and just barely skimming the corner of that eye. It didn't weaken his beauty—it only made him look crueler.
His other eye remained closed.
Still and unreadable.
"Good morning," he said, his voice breaking the silence and snapping her out of her daze.
"G-Good morning, Your Highness," Historia replied quickly, then inwardly scolded herself for stammering like a child. Get a grip.
Nicklaus tilted his head slightly, his cold gaze sweeping down the length of her body without expression. "Why are you following me?" he asked, his tone as sharp as his stare.
Historia's breath caught again. The way he spoke, like he already knew the answer and didn't care for excuses, rattled her more than she expected.
"I was… uhm… following you," she confessed. There was no point lying—not when he'd already caught her red-handed.
"Why?"
Before she could answer—
"Your majesty!"
A child's voice rang out.
Historia turned her head toward the interruption, blinking in surprise.
A small girl, no older than four or five, dashed toward them with a huge smile. She was dressed in a combat-styled black outfit that somehow made her look even tinier and cute. Her high blonde bun was neatly styled like a donut, and her large blue eyes sparkled like the sky at dawn.
Historia instinctively stepped aside, but Nicklaus had already shifted, creating space.
The little girl ran straight into him, hugging him tightly—though her tiny arms barely made it past his knee.
"Good morning, Your majesty!" she greeted again, still clinging to him, smiling up with crooked teeth and no front pair.
Nicklaus didn't say anything. He didn't smile. He didn't return the hug. But he didn't push her away either.
And that said everything.
Historia watched them, stunned.
Who was she?
Her small hands clung tightly around Nicklaus leg her cheeks pressed against his coat, her small voice soft as silk.
"Uncle Nick, I missed you," she said, her blue eyes shining up at him with innocent warmth.
The girl then turned her head fully toward Historia without letting go of Nicklaus and blinked at her with those same bright blue eyes. "You're so pretty," she said aloud, completely unfiltered.
Historia blinked in surprise, but a smile tugged at her lips. "Thank you," she replied gently. "I'm Historia. What's your name?"
"Nice to meet you! I'm Sophia," the girl beamed.
Before another word could be said, sharp heels clicked against the marble floor, breaking the peaceful exchange.
"There you are, Sophia," a voice sang—sweet and honeyed, yet tainted with something bitter beneath. "Honestly, how many times must I remind you not to run off on your own?"
Two women approached with poised arrogance in every step. The first, clearly Sophia's mother, was an embodiment of high-class vanity. Lady Helena wore a sleek burgundy gown that clung to her every curve and left very little to the imagination. Her neckline plunged daringly, diamonds glittering along her collarbone as if she were stepping onto a ballroom stage, not a royal corridor. Her long, flawless blonde hair bounced with each step, and her blue eyes swept over Historia with cool condescension barely hidden behind her painted red lips.
Beside her walked a young woman—perhaps eighteen or nineteen—dressed in all black. Her outfit was tailored tight to her frame, giving off an aura of practiced elegance and lethal precision. Her raven-black hair was pulled into a low, intentionally messy bun, and her cold blue eyes bore into Historia with obvious disdain. This was Morgana, Helena's niece—and she wore her pride like a weapon.
They stopped just a few feet away, their presence sucking the warmth out of the hall like a passing storm.
"Well, well," Helena purred, her gaze flicking from Nicklaus to Historia. "I wasn't aware our dear King was entertaining... guests."
Morgana tilted her head slightly, a smirk dancing on her lips. "I suppose it's a good thing we didn't come empty-handed, then," she added, voice laced with sarcasm.
Nicklaus didn't respond immediately. He kept his hand on Sophia's head, as if shielding her from the tension, and when he did speak, it was as cold and dismissive as ever.
"Lady Helena. Morgana."
He didn't bow. He didn't smile. He merely nodded—curt, impersonal, final.
Helena's smile faltered for a moment, the lack of warmth clearly not what she expected, but she recovered quickly. "You're looking well, Your majesty," she said, voice dipped in sugary venom.
"And your pet wolf seems lively," Morgana added, flicking her eyes back to Historia. "I thought werewolves knew how to bow before royalty."
Historia's jaw tensed slightly, but she didn't take the bait. She smiled instead—sharp, sweet, and defiant. "I only bow to those worthy of it," she replied smoothly, folding her arms.
Morgana's eyes narrowed.
Sophia, sensing the growing tension. "Aunt,don't be rude to lady Historia. She's really nice."
Helena gave her daughter a forced smile, crouching slightly to brush her golden curls behind her ear. "Darling, sometimes being 'nice' isn't enough to fit in certain places."
Nicklaus's voice came again, cutting through the air like ice. "Sophia."
She looked up.
"Go with them," he said. "We'll talk later."
Sophia's shoulders sagged, clearly disappointed, but she obeyed. "Okay... bye, Historia!" she waved brightly. "I hope you stay here forever!"
"Bye, sweetheart," Historia replied, her voice softening.
As the girl walked back to her mother, Helena straightened with a calculated air of triumph.
"Try not to get too comfortable," she said to Historia with a brittle smile. "Royal walls have a way of remembering who belongs... and who doesn't."
Historia raised an eyebrow. "Don't worry. I leave impressions wherever I go."
Morgana clicked her tongue in mock amusement before turning away with her aunt. "We'll be seeing you," she said over her shoulder.
Nicklaus had already begun walking again.
Historia followed, her pace quiet but firm.
When they were a safe distance away from prying ears, she muttered, "Is your whole palace full of people like them?"
"No," Nicklaus replied flatly. "Most are worse."
Historia purposely locked her hand with his.
Nicklaus froze.
No one had ever done that. No one had ever dared. His entire life was built around fear and distance—his presence was enough to silence a room, his gaze sharp enough to make men kneel. But now, this woman… this naive, silver-haired werewolf had just reached out and touched him like he was human. Like he could be held.
His cold blue eye slid sideways to look at her, expression unreadable.
Helena's lips twitched in anticipation. Surely, now, he'd shake her off. He'd show her exactly where she stood.
Morgana's posture stiffened, her gaze narrowing in satisfaction, waiting for the rejection that would surely come.
But it didn't.
Nicklaus said nothing.
He didn't slap her hand away.
He didn't scowl.
He didn't move.
Instead, without a single word or even a glance at the others, he took a step forward—hand still in hers.
Helena's eyes widened slightly.
Morgana's jaw clenched.
Historia nearly forgot to breathe. Her heart thundered in her chest as she followed his lead, matching his pace, hand still nestled in his. It was a small victory, but it was hers.
Nicklaus walked a few more steps, his expression calm and unreadable as ever. Then, just before they turned the corner, he paused.
Still not sparing Helena or Morgana another glance, Nicklaus turned his head slightly to Historia. His voice, smooth and low, came out in a near-whisper.
"Let go."
Historia blinked, caught off guard. But she obeyed, slipping her fingers free from his.
Without saying another word, he turned around and walked away, his black coat swaying behind him, every step echoing in the hall with the weight of authority.
Helena watched him go, lips pursed in disbelief. Morgana said nothing, but her blue eyes flicked to Historia, filled with unspoken venom.
Historia stood still, resisting the urge to look shaken, even though inside she was trembling. Her palm still tingled from the warmth of his hand.