The heart of the Imperial Palace—the Grand Court—was alive with candlelight and murmuring voices when the doors blasted open with a thunderous crack. Ministers and royal councilors turned their heads at once, their conversations dying mid-sentence.
Through the archway strode Reinhardt, the man they had branded a traitor, flanked by Iris, the silent mage, and dragging behind him the bound and gagged Crown Prince Stanford. The polished marble floor echoed under his boots. The entire court froze.
"It's the traitor!" one of the ministers shrieked. Chairs clattered, guards drew steel, and the heavy sound of armored boots filled the hall.
Reinhardt's expression never shifted. His crimson eyes glowed under the high windows.
"Iris," his voice was as cold as winter steel, "block the front gates. Don't let even an ant leave this place."
"Yes, Your Highness," Iris answered quietly. She lifted her wand. Arcane light spilled from the tip, crawling like spiderwebs across the pillars. A shimmering barrier rose around the entire palace, sealing doors, windows, even hidden escape tunnels. Nobles gasped in horror as they felt the magic close like a vise.
Stanford tried to regain his arrogance even as Reinhardt dragged him forward. "Now you're done!" he hissed, his voice cracking. "You've walked into your own grave, stupid brother!"
Reinhardt didn't react. Instead, he opened his palm and summoned his weapon—the black-hafted spear that had slain demons in Umbraxis. The air shuddered around its blade. Guards faltered for just a moment… then charged.
Reinhardt moved first.
The spear swept through the first rank of soldiers like a scythe through wheat. Armor split, shields snapped, screams rose and were cut off. In a heartbeat, the polished marble was splashed red. Iris stood behind him, hands raised, weaving barriers to keep arrows and spells from touching him.
The Grand Court dissolved into chaos. Some guards fled despite their orders. Ministers and nobles scrambled toward locked doors only to bounce off Iris's magic. The cries of the trapped echoed under the vaulted ceiling.
Stanford trembled now, his eyes wide as he watched corpses fall one by one. He had seen his brother fight before, but never like this—no hesitation, no mercy, each stroke of the spear a death sentence.
Reinhardt stepped over a fallen minister, grabbed another by the collar, and with one savage motion tore his head free. Blood sprayed across the golden carpet. Turning, Reinhardt raised the severed head in front of Stanford.
"Look, Stanford," his voice was low and iron-hard, "this is one of the mouths that whispered lies about the Hero Campaign—about how we 'never did enough.' Remember this face."
He dropped the head at Stanford's knees. The Crown Prince flinched and shrank back, trembling.
Reinhardt straightened, his gaze cutting across the throne dais. King Stephen and a cluster of ministers were gone—the back corridors of the palace had swallowed them. He wasn't surprised.
Even so, his lip curled faintly as he looked back at the prince. "Even that so-called father of yours didn't try to save you. You're not even worth the risk."
With a sharp movement he dragged Stanford across the blood-slicked floor and threw him beside the throne. The prince landed hard, gasping.
"Iris," Reinhardt ordered, "bind him. Make sure he can't move."
The mage raised her wand again. Chains of pure light erupted from the floor and walls, snapping around Stanford's wrists and ankles. A translucent prison formed, locking him in place like an insect in amber.
"Let me go!" Stanford howled, struggling against the bindings. "Do you know what you're doing? What are you going to do?!"
Reinhardt knelt in front of him, expression unreadable. His face was pale from exertion but his eyes burned with a cold fire. "This," he said softly, "is only the beginning. Stay here, little prince. You're my dessert."
He rose, turning his back without another glance. The hem of his cloak dragged through the spreading blood as he walked toward the tall doors at the far end of the hall. Iris followed silently.
Behind them the Grand Court was a charnel house: bodies sprawled across shattered benches, weapons scattered, nobles whimpering in corners. Stanford knelt inside his glowing cage, trembling, his proud words gone. The stench of blood and magic clung to the air like smoke.
Reinhardt paused at the threshold and glanced over his shoulder once. "Don't worry," he said to no one in particular. "This is far from over."
Then he left the hall, the doors slamming shut behind him, leaving the Crown Prince surrounded by corpses and a silence thick as grave soil.
The corridors of the palace were eerily quiet after the slaughter in the Grand Court, but the silence carried a heavy tension, as though the walls themselves held their breath. Reinhardt stopped in the center of the marble hall. Without a word, he drew his spear across his wrist.
Blood poured freely, dripping to the polished floor in thick crimson rivulets.
Iris gasped. "Reinhardt—!"
His tone was calm, unwavering. "Take my blood, Iris. Use it. Show me where they are… every one of them who carries the same cursed blood as me."
For a heartbeat she hesitated. His blood was no ordinary blood—it belonged to the royal line itself, the key to binding spells and curses alike. Yet when she looked into Reinhardt's eyes, there was no doubt.
"…Alright. I understand."
She knelt beside the spreading pool of blood and pressed her palm to it. Arcane symbols bloomed on the floor like glowing vines, pulsing with unnatural light. Iris's lips moved quickly, chanting words from the forgotten tongue. The magic surged upward, enveloping them both.
Reinhardt closed his eyes. His mind opened to visions—threads of red, pulsing with the rhythm of life itself. Each thread pointed to a soul connected to him by blood: brothers, sisters, distant cousins, aunts, uncles… even Robert. Their locations seared themselves into his thoughts as if carved by fire.
Iris's voice broke through the hum of magic. "You should be able to see it now. I've sent their exact locations directly into your mind. Every royal bloodline in the palace, and even those who fled the capital."
Reinhardt opened his eyes slowly. A cold gleam flashed in them. "Good."
With a flick of her wand, Iris closed the wound on his wrist. The bleeding stopped, leaving only a faint scar. "The spell will last five days," she said quietly. "Take your time. None of them will escape you."
Reinhardt gave no reply. His silence was heavier than words.
Suddenly, the pounding of armored boots echoed down the hall. Dozens of guards surged forward, weapons raised, their voices trembling with desperation. "Kill the traitor! Protect the royal blood!"
Reinhardt turned his head slightly toward Iris. "Let me handle the blood hunt. Keep them out of my way."
Her lips curved into a grim smile. "Gladly."
Raising her wand, Iris unleashed a storm of magic. A wall of fire erupted in front of the guards, followed by spears of lightning that tore through armor and flesh alike. Screams filled the air as soldiers crumpled. Outside the palace gates, more troops swarmed in, but Iris ascended into the air, hovering like a vengeful spirit, and unleashed her fury. Fireballs rained down, exploding into pillars of flame that carved open a path through the swarming ranks.
"Go!" she shouted. "The path is yours!"
Reinhardt did not waste time. He strode into the first royal chamber.
Inside, one of his half-brothers sat frozen in terror, his young wife clutching their two small children behind him. The brother raised his trembling hands. "Reinhardt… please, we had nothing to do with this! Spare us, I beg you!"
The children wailed, clinging to their mother's skirts.
Reinhardt's face was devoid of emotion. His spear lifted, gleaming with blood from the earlier slaughter. "You share the same blood. That is enough."
"No! Please, they are just children!" the woman screamed, throwing herself in front of them.
The spear moved.
Steel split flesh. The cries ended in choking silence. Blood sprayed across the velvet drapes, the white marble floor painted red. Reinhardt did not stop to look at the corpses. He turned and left the room as if he had merely closed a door behind him.
Screams rose throughout the palace as he went room by room. Every chamber that held royal kin was bathed in death. Aunts, uncles, cousins—none were spared. Reinhardt's spear cut them down without hesitation. Begging voices echoed, pleading for mercy, but were silenced one by one.
The corridors filled with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
The palace itself seemed to groan under the weight of the massacre. Servants huddled in corners, shaking but untouched, for Reinhardt had no quarrel with them. Soldiers who threw down their arms were spared, but those who dared to raise steel against him were annihilated. Ministers were dragged from hiding places, their throats opened on the stone.
Through it all, Iris watched. Floating above the chaos, her eyes followed Reinhardt as he slaughtered his kin without pause. Her hands tightened on her wand, but she said nothing. She understood—this was vengeance, and vengeance was the only shield that could ever protect Kael from this bloodline.
At last, Reinhardt stepped into another chamber, his armor soaked with red, his face streaked with splatter. His spear dripped as it scraped across the marble floor. He stood still for a moment, listening to the fading screams echo through the halls.
The palace had become a graveyard.
And Reinhardt was its gravedigger.