Bastian stood in a place that felt warm and silent, as if the world around him were wrapped in a thin veil of mist. A red-haired woman stood before him.
Her face was blurred, like something seen through water or fogged glass. Yet somehow, Bastian knew she was beautiful. Not just beautiful, but breathtaking in a way words could not capture. The kind of beauty that made his chest tighten just thinking about it, too vivid to belong to a simple dream.
She stepped closer.
Before Bastian could react, her warm fingers closed around his hand. With a single, decisive motion, she pulled it forward and pressed it against her full chest, right over her heart.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Bastian froze. Heat rushed to his face in an instant. His first instinct was to pull his hand away, shock colliding with embarrassment and a flicker of panic. But the woman was far stronger than she looked. Her grip did not hurt, yet it left no room for refusal.
The warmth seeped into his palm. Soft and alive.
Her voice, usually deep, dominant, and commanding, trembled now. It softened, colored by something that sounded almost like confusion, or insistence.
"Can you feel my heartbeat?" she asked.
Bastian swallowed, unable to form a reply.
She leaned in closer, so close that he could feel her breath on his skin, even though her eyes remained indistinct.
"What did you actually do to me?" she continued, her tone urgent. "Why can't you get out of my head?"
Her grip tightened slightly.
"Answer me," she pressed. "What did you really do?"
The pressure increased, making Bastian painfully aware of the warmth and softness beneath his hand.
"You have to take responsibility."
The words echoed.
A moment later—
Bastian jolted awake.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his hand thrust out as if reaching for something that was already gone. The dark room around him snapped back into focus. No mist. No red-haired woman.
Yet the heat lingered.
He exhaled slowly, then scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to shake off the remnants of a dream that felt far too real to dismiss as idle fantasy.
"What the hell was that…" he muttered.
He paused, becoming aware of his own body's response, then clicked his tongue in irritation. Annoyance mixed with a sharp trace of embarrassment.
"This is pathetic," he murmured. "Dreaming about something like that."
Was it stress? Exhaustion? Or was his mind simply overloaded with death, blood, and faces he could never forget?
Bastian swung his legs off the bed and stood. Without thinking much, he headed for the washbasin, intent on cleaning himself. He needed to clear his head, cool the heat still clinging to his skin.
'Cold water,' he thought, 'might help.'
At least for a while.
.
.
.
Bastian walked through the corridors of the city hall at an even pace, following a mid-ranking officer who stayed half a step ahead of him.
Neither of them spoke.
Inside Bastian's mind, everything was already moving.
He counted the guards, judged distances, angles, possible escape routes. His eyes remained sharp, taking in everyone they passed. Guards at corners. Clerks carrying documents. Officers moving with hurried steps. He noted their numbers, their positions, and most importantly, their level of cultivation.
His sword hung at his waist, sheathed and ready.
His thoughts drifted to the man he was about to meet: Edgar Valobry. The Supreme Commander. Bastian had never spoken to him face to face. Their previous encounters had only been from afar, a silhouette atop a warhorse, commanding thousands of soldiers.
What Bastian knew was this: Edgar was one of the Queen's most trusted men. Her other right hand was Hanna Artwell, but Edgar was the one who held control over the military. His reputation sounded like a perfect knight's tale: cold-blooded yet fair, ruthless yet unconditionally loyal, an unshakable symbol of honor.
'If that was true, then he shouldn't punish me. I exposed a traitor, even if I did it brutally.'
He cut the thought short.
Don't think like that. Never trust reputations. People were complex and full of pretense, especially high nobles playing power games. Edgar could have been involved in his brother's betrayal. Or more likely, this was about blood and vengeance.
Bastian had not merely killed Kaelen. He had butchered him, humiliated him, and left his corpse as a grotesque warning in his own office. It was a direct insult to the Valobry name. No matter how noble Edgar might be, blood was still thicker than water.
If Edgar was an ordinary man, vengeance would be natural.
If Edgar was a true noble, then pride and reputation would matter more than family.
And that was the opening.
Bastian had long understood one thing about nobles: most of them were creatures obsessed with pride and reputation. If the investigation into Kaelen's betrayal proceeded officially and cleanly, Edgar would not be able to touch him. Not publicly, not without destroying his own image as a model general.
But if Edgar turned out to be something else…
Bastian narrowed his focus.
If Edgar was a traitor. Or if he intended to harm him. Then there was no other option.
He would kill Edgar Valobry.
No matter the cost.
He would not allow someone like that to stand too close to his queen.
The officer stopped before a massive black wooden door reinforced with iron. Faint carvings of a stag were still visible on its surface.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Your Grace," the officer said formally. "Sir Bastian has arrived."
A voice answered from within, cold, clear, and effortlessly authoritative. "Come in."
The door opened.
Bastian stepped inside.
The room was painfully familiar.
This was where Kaelen Valobry had died.
The large wooden desk at the center had been thoroughly cleaned, yet Bastian could still remember exactly where the blood had pooled, where severed pieces had fallen, and the thick metallic stench that had once clung to his throat.
And in Kaelen's chair—
Now sat Edgar Valobry.
The resemblance was undeniable. The same facial structure. The same firm jaw. Dark hair combed neatly back. Even their height was nearly identical.
But that was where it ended.
Where Kaelen had looked sly and smooth, Edgar was carved from something rougher and colder. His face was harsher, marked by age and war. And his eyes, pitch-black and sharp, burned like cold embers as they fixed on Bastian with an intensity that felt almost physical.
Bastian took a few steps forward and stopped at a distance that was respectful, yet still within striking range.
"Your Grace," he said evenly, formal but controlled. "You sent for me?"
Edgar Valobry did not answer right away. He studied Bastian in silence, as if measuring every inch of him, from his boots and uniform to the horrific scars carved into his face.
"Sit," Edgar said at last.
Bastian nodded and took the simple wooden chair across the desk. He sat straight, hands resting on his thighs. His eyes never left Edgar, watching every subtle movement.
"I've heard a great deal about you, Sir Bastian," Edgar said, breaking the silence. "Your achievements on the battlefield. Your courage. Even your… well-known lack of obedience. A hero rising from common birth. That's rare."
Bastian said nothing.
"This is our first time speaking face to face," Edgar continued. "Yet I can't shake the feeling that you're familiar. As if we've met before. Do you feel it too?"
Bastian answered honestly. "I've seen you from afar, back when I was still a cadet. That's probably it."
Edgar nodded slightly. It was a reasonable answer. Still, his gaze never wavered.
Then his tone shifted. Calm, but carrying weight.
"About my brother," Edgar said, each word deliberate. "Was there really no better way to judge him? A way that wouldn't endanger your position, or create this kind of chaos?"
The question went straight to the core.
The tension in the room tightened.
Bastian met Edgar's gaze, searching the darkness in those eyes. Was it restrained anger? Pain? Or simple curiosity?
"You really want to know, Your Grace," he said.
Edgar did not look away.
Bastian continued, his voice low and unguarded.
"Because I wanted to kill him with my own hands."
The answer hung between them.