"Your Grace," Elara chimed in, her voice pitched to a breathy, practised sweetness. She leaned forward, ensuring the candlelight caught the emeralds at her throat. "I heard the winters in the Northern Bastion are dreadfully harsh. It must be so lonely in that massive fortress. Perhaps... a touch of southern warmth could make the stone halls feel more like a home?"
She batted her eyelashes, a clear, unmistakable invitation.
Kaelus slowly shifted his violet gaze from his bleeding steak to the Count's daughter.
He looked at her not as a woman, not as a political asset, but as an irritant, a gnat buzzing around a corpse.
"The cold is efficient," Kaelus said, his tone devoid of even a sliver of polite charm. "It kills the weak before they can multiply. I find it vastly preferable to the 'southern warmth' that only breeds rot and parasites."
Elara's face fell. The heavy rouge on her cheeks suddenly stood out starkly against her paling skin.
She snapped her mouth shut and shrank back into her velvet chair, thoroughly dismissed.
Count Rodhe swallowed his saliva audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing over his tight silk collar. "Hahaha... quite right, Your Grace. The North breeds strong men. They are surely an unbreakable power house! Now, regarding the grain tariffs from the last quarter—"
Clack.
Kaelus dropped his silver fork onto the porcelain plate. The sound was not loud, but in the tense silence of the dining hall, it rang out like a judge's gavel.
He stood up.
He didn't push his chair back; he simply rose, a towering monolith of midnight blue and silver, instantly dwarfing everyone in the room.
"I am fatigued from the road," Kaelus announced to the room.
"Of course! Of course!" Count Rodhe scrambled to his feet, knocking his knee painfully against the heavy mahogany table. "We shall prepare your bath at once! And if you require any... company to ease your tension—" He shot a desperate glance at his daughter, willing her to stand up again.
"I require only one thing tonight, Count Rodhe," Kaelus interrupted, his eyes narrowing into twin slits of amethyst ice. He leaned slightly forward, resting his gloved hands on the edge of the table. "The ledgers. All of them. From the past five years."
The colour completely drained from Rodhe's face. He looked like a man who had just been diagnosed with a terminal illness.
"The... the ledgers, Your Grace? B-but it is so late. Surely the audit can wait until the morning? My clerks have locked the archives..."
"Have them unlocked," Kaelus commanded. "Have the books delivered to the East Wing by midnight. If a single page is missing, or if a single inkblot obscures a number... I will not ask your clerks for clarification. I will simply remove your hands."
He didn't wait for the Count's terrified stammer of agreement.
Kaelus turned on his heel, his heavy boots echoing off the marble floor as he strode out of the dining hall, leaving behind a feast of gluttony and a man who was rapidly realising his own impending execution.
.
.
.
The corridors of the East Wing were blessedly quiet, a stark contrast to the clinking glasses and nervous sweat of the main house.
Kaelus walked with a measured, silent tread, his mind already shifting from the political execution of Count Rodhe to the tactical deployment of his knights for the journey ahead.
But as he rounded the corner toward the guest suite where he had left the child, his heightened senses picked up a disturbance.
He paused, resting his hand instinctively on the hilt of Requiem.
There were voices. Hushed, angry, and undeniably intense.
"Give me the tray, Lucas. I am the designated escort. I know her preferences."
"You are a junior knight, Gallahan. This is the Archduke's heir. Security protocols dictate that the highest-ranking officer on duty manages her intake. Now, unhand the porcelain."
Kaelus stepped silently into the hallway.
Standing a few feet away from the heavy oak door of Seraphina's room were his two most lethal commanders.
Sir Lucas, a veteran of a hundred bloody sieges, and Sir Gallahan, a prodigy of the sword who had single-handedly held a bridge against a demonic horde for three days.
Currently, these two apex predators were engaged in a desperate, white-knuckled tug-of-war over a silver serving tray.
On the tray sat a bowl of creamy potato soup, a small plate of warm, sliced bread, a cup of steamed milk heavily laced with honey, and a crystal bowl filled with freshly washed strawberries.
"Security protocols?" Gallahan hissed, leaning back and pulling the tray toward his chest. The milk wobbled precariously. "She's a six-year-old girl, not a prisoner of war! Besides, she likes me. I gave her candy in the carriage. If she sees your ugly, scarred face, she'll start crying again!"
"My face is a testament to my loyalty to the Empire!" Lucas snarled softly, his massive, heavily muscled hands gripping the other side of the tray. "And I am perfectly capable of gentleness. I have nephews. Now let go before you spill the soup, you insubordinate pup!"
"You let go! If you hand her that milk, you'll probably try to salute and drop it on her head!"
"I will court-martial you, Gallahan—"
"Ahem."
The sound of Kaelus clearing his throat was softer than a whisper, but it hit the two knights like a physical blow.
Both men froze. They snapped their heads toward the Archduke, their eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated panic.
They immediately tried to salute, but since both refused to let go of the tray, the result was a clumsy, synchronised jerk that sloshed the warm milk over the edge of the cup.
"Your Grace!" they whispered in unison.
Kaelus walked slowly toward them. His face was a mask of cold disbelief.
He looked at Lucas, a man who had once pulled an arrow out of his own shoulder to stab an enemy with it, then he looked at Gallahan, a knight who bathed in the blood of monsters without blinking.