The steam from the almond tea curled into the cool night air, mirroring the slow, rhythmic thoughts of the man holding the porcelain cup. Leornars stood on the balcony, his silhouette framed against a sprawling horizon. His long white hair was swept back, held in place by a sharp golden hairpin that caught the stray glints of starlight.
Despite the tactical weight of the previous days, he looked deceptively relaxed. He wore a simple white shirt tucked into loose blue caravan pants, finished with blue slippers that made his footsteps silent. On his wrist, a black bracelet sat stark against his pale skin, and a single red moon earring swayed slightly as he tilted his head, his crimson eyes reflecting a sky that promised a storm.
The soft, mechanical hum of footsteps announced his visitor. Julah, a homunculus girl with eyes that held a manufactured clarity, stepped onto the balcony.
"The foundations for the first dam are set, My Lord," she reported, her voice steady. "And the trade route with the Elarian nation is secured. The Elves have agreed to the timber-for-mana-crystal exchange, provided the borders remain neutralized."
Leornars didn't turn, sipping his tea. Julah hesitated, her gaze lingering on the cold, sharp profile of her creator. "Lord Leornars... the ministers, the populace... they whisper. If you continue to act with such calculated coldness, they will see you only as a threat. Fear is a brittle foundation for a kingdom."
Leornars lowered his cup, a gentle, almost melancholic smile touching his lips. He turned and reached out, patting her head with a warmth that contrasted his terrifying reputation.
"Long ago, Julah, our forefathers made nations from mountains and carved dynasties from mountains of corpses," he said softly. "We made wars before we made relationships; we crafted legacies through fear because we knew no other language. But I believe in a different logic. A true governor is not someone you fear or someone you blindly look up to. They are someone you understand. When they understand the 'why' behind the 'coldness,' they no longer fear the blade—they respect the hand that holds it."
Miles away, the atmosphere was stripped of such philosophy.
The Blackiron Pit was a vertical tomb of damp stone and despair. Stacian moved through the shadows of the entrance, her presence a flickering ghost. She didn't need to sneak; she moved directly toward a guard stationed at the primary bulkhead.
The guard stood rigid, his eyes glazed and vacant. He bore Leornars's aesthetic—a subtle, unnatural grace that didn't belong to a common jailer. This was no man, but one of Leornars's undead, a silent infiltrator who had long ago silenced the original guard and donned his uniform like a second skin.
Stacian handed over the heavy sack of letters without a word. The undead guard took them, his movements jerky yet precise, and descended into the lightless depths of the "Butcher's" cell.
Inside the damp, cramped hole, Custazo sat in the dark. The only sound was his ragged breathing until the mail slot groaned open. The undead guard began dropping the envelopes one by one onto the filthy floor.
"Special delivery," the guard rasped, the voice sounding like grinding stones. "From the Von Grantz family. They wanted to make sure you didn't forget your place before the execution."
Custazo reached out, his fingers scarred and thick. He tore open the first letter. Then the second. As he read the mocks, the threats, and the detailed descriptions of the Von Grantz's supposed "boredom" with his existence, the air in the cell began to vibrate.
His rage didn't manifest as a scream. It was a physical pressure. Underneath his cot, his hand tightened around a solid steel support bar. With a sickening screeech of protesting metal, the steel snapped like a dry twig in his grip.
He looked at the final letter, his eyes bloodshot and wide, fixed on the Von Grantz seal. He leaned toward the bars, his voice a sandpaper growl that felt like a promise from the grave.
"Tell them... I've spent years counting my teeth in the dark," Custazo whispered, a jagged, broken grin spreading across his face. "I was worried I'd run out of things to hate. But a family that wants to be a legend... deserves to be turned into a meal. I won't just kill them. I'm going to unmake them until their God forgets they ever existed."