Stanford's breathing grew ragged. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mingling with the blood splattered across the floor. He had launched strike after strike, desperate and wild, but the man in front of him hadn't even shifted his footing.
Reinhardt's sword moved like a predator's tail—calm, deliberate, precise. He deflected each blow effortlessly, his eyes flat and unreadable.
"Are you tired already?" Reinhardt asked softly, raising his blade. The words cut deeper than any wound.
"You… you fool!" Stanford spat, his face flushed with rage and humiliation. He knew now—he could not defeat Reinhardt. Not here. Not anywhere.
He screamed and launched himself forward one last time, swinging with all his strength.
Reinhardt sighed. "This is boring."
He stepped aside and parried with a flick of his wrist. The impact sent Stanford stumbling, his sword flying from his hands and clattering across the marble. Stanford dropped to his knees, his palms scraping the blood-slick tiles. He was trembling, defeated, staring up at Reinhardt with a mixture of terror and disbelief.
Reinhardt walked toward him slowly, each step echoing in the silent court hall. His sword tilted up beneath Stanford's chin, forcing him to look up.
"I wonder," Reinhardt said quietly, "why they ever chose you as Crown Prince." His tone was calm, almost curious, but his eyes were as cold as winter steel.
Then Reinhardt shifted his gaze to his father. "Was it because his mother held such great influence in this palace?"
King Stephen flinched.
Reinhardt turned back to Stanford. "Or… was it because you killed all the previous crown princes to take their title?"
Stanford's mouth opened but no sound came out. His tongue felt like stone, his throat locked with fear.
Reinhardt released the sword from under his chin and knelt down in front of him, his voice dropping to a deadly murmur. "Why is a pathetic thing like you still alive when all you've ever done is step on other people's lives?"
Stanford recoiled, but before he could speak Reinhardt's hand shot forward, fisting a handful of his hair and yanking his head back. Stanford screamed in pain, clawing at Reinhardt's wrist as he was dragged across the hall like a broken animal.
"What are you doing?!" King Stephen shouted, his voice trembling for the first time.
Reinhardt didn't even look at him. His grip on Stanford tightened as he dragged him to the center of the courtroom. "Do you want to know something?" he said, his voice still calm. "When I marched into the Demon Kingdom, I saw how they treated their human prisoners."
He stopped in the center of the blood-streaked floor, forcing Stanford to his knees. "They would drag them to the center of a hall… just like this."
Stanford gasped, his eyes wide.
"They would cut the prisoners apart, limb by limb, while their captors watched and ate their flesh," Reinhardt continued, his tone like cold steel. "They let them scream until their voices broke, let them suffer until death finally took them."
Reinhardt released Stanford, letting him crumple to the ground. Then, with a flick of his fingers, his spear shimmered into existence once again.
"But I," Reinhardt said, his face unreadable, "am human. I do not eat humans."
In one swift, precise motion, he drove the spear through Stanford's right hand, pinning it to the marble.
Stanford screamed, the sound echoing through the hall like an animal's death cry. He writhed, but the spearhead held him in place, blood gushing from the wound.
King Stephen staggered forward, his face pale. "Stop this madness!" he shouted.
Reinhardt looked at his father for the first time. His eyes were empty. "Madness?" he repeated. "No, Father. This is mercy."
Stanford panted, tears of pain streaking his face. Reinhardt leaned down, his voice low enough for only Stanford to hear. "This is what you deserve."
The court room fell silent except for Stanford's ragged cries and the slow drip of blood onto the marble.
Reinhardt wrenched his spear free from the marble, ripping it out of Stanford's hand. The prince's blood spattered across the tiles as he clutched the mangled remains of his palm, howling like a wounded beast.
Reinhardt tilted his head, plugging one finger into his ear. "You're so loud," he muttered, his voice flat, almost irritated. "It's not like anyone is coming to save you." His expression flickered with something like annoyance at the prince's screaming—no pity, no anger, just tired contempt.
With a single movement, Reinhardt swung the butt of his spear and cracked it across Stanford's skull. The sound was sickening. Stanford's head snapped sideways as he collapsed to the floor, blood dripping down his temple.
"S-stop, Reinhardt… please… I'm sorry… I'm sorry!" Stanford whimpered, curling in on himself.
Reinhardt's eyes did not soften. They were colder than steel. He raised his spear again and, without hesitation, slashed downwards. The blade caught Stanford's fingers—one, two, three—shearing them off. The digits scattered across the blood-slick tiles like pale worms.
Stanford shrieked. The sound tore through the hall and echoed off the stone walls. He clutched his mutilated hand, eyes wide with terror and disbelief.
King Stephen's body trembled violently. "Monster," he hissed under his breath. He turned and bolted for the door, panic clawing at his chest.
He made it only three steps before a spear whistled past and buried itself in his thigh. The king screamed, collapsing to the ground. Blood spread quickly across his robes as he writhed, clutching his leg.
"Don't run, Father." Reinhardt's voice was calm, a blade under velvet. "At least have the decency to witness your heir's death before I send you to hell."
He extended his hand and the spear tore itself free from Stephen's leg, flying back across the hall and into Reinhardt's grip like a loyal hawk. The king gasped in pain, dragging himself backwards, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Reinhardt turned back to Stanford without another glance. The prince's breath was ragged, his face pale and slick with sweat. He was shaking uncontrollably, his eyes darting between his father and the man looming over him.
"No… no more… please," Stanford rasped, tears spilling down his cheeks.
Reinhardt's face was unreadable. He swung his spear again. The blade hissed as it cut through the air and then through flesh. Stanford's foot separated cleanly from his leg. Blood spurted across the marble, splashing the throne dais.
Stanford screamed, his voice breaking. He collapsed, writhing in his own blood, reaching weakly toward his father.
"F-father… help me…" His voice was high and broken, the voice of a child rather than a prince.
King Stephen's eyes were wide, his hands frozen on the floor. He could do nothing but watch as his son bled out in front of him.
Reinhardt stood over Stanford like a shadow, his spear dripping crimson. His expression was still the same calm mask, but his voice dropped lower, colder, as he spoke:
"You begged for mercy when you showed none to others. You wanted a crown built on the bodies of your brothers. Now you know what their pain felt like."
Stanford's lips trembled but no sound came out.
The hall was thick with the smell of blood and iron, the only sounds were the prince's ragged sobs and the slow drip of crimson onto the marble floor.
Reinhardt looked at his father. "Don't look away," he said. "This is the price of your sins."
He turned his gaze back to Stanford, tightening his grip on the spear.
-----------------------------------------
The Vaelthorn estate lay quiet under the silver wash of moonlight. From the gardens to the outer halls, every corner seemed to hold its breath—except for the room where Kael lay.
Inside, the air was thick with the bitter scent of herbs and blood. Kael coughed again, his pale lips staining crimson as the ritual flared brighter. Jaesper's hands trembled slightly as he tightened the flow of his magic, his brow slick with sweat.
Robert, now standing where Iris usually assisted, leaned forward quickly with a cloth to catch the blood before it reached Kael's pillow. His fingers brushed Kael's fever-hot cheek, wiping away the crimson streaks.
"Can't you slow it down?" Robert's voice cracked with worry as Kael's skin turned an even fainter shade of white.
"I can't." Jaesper's sigh was heavy, his face darkening. "The shatter in his core is spreading faster than I thought. If I don't accelerate the repair, it may start fading completely. If that happens…" His jaw tightened. "He won't just fail to wake up. He will die."
Robert's throat went dry. He said nothing more, but his grip on the cloth tightened as he looked down at Kael. Deep inside, unease gnawed at him. Reinhardt's words about storming the palace echoed in his head.
Please… be safe, Reinhardt. Please let Kael wake up when you return.
Robert's fingers brushed away another bead of sweat from Kael's temple. Kael's breathing was shallow, his eyelashes fluttering faintly but never opening. Robert bent his head slightly, his lips moving in a silent prayer.
Jaesper drew a sharper circle in the air with his hands, muttering an older alchemic incantation. Sparks flickered over Kael's chest and the boy's coughing finally stilled. His lips, though still pale, no longer trembled with each breath.
Jaesper exhaled heavily. "I've stabilized it—for now." His eyes flicked toward Robert. "You've been feeding me mana this entire time. Take a short break before you collapse. I need you steady if I'm going to finish this."
Robert hesitated, eyes flicking between Kael's face and Jaesper's weary one. But his own body ached from strain, and his focus was beginning to slip. Slowly, he nodded. "Alright… but call me if anything changes."
He stood, casting one last look at Kael before slipping out into the corridor to draw a breath of cold night air. The quiet of the hallway hit him like a wave.
As Robert walked down the dim passage, a blur of movement caught his eye. A young maid—the palace maid who had come with Reinhardt, Lucy—hurried past, clutching her stomach and mouth. Her face was pale, almost green, as she darted toward the nearest washroom. Moments later, the sound of retching echoed softly.
Robert frowned and stepped closer. "Are you alright?" His voice startled her; she jumped and spun around, eyes wide.
She had never seen him up close before. But the golden hair, the emerald eyes—she immediately knew he was a royal. She dropped into a quick, awkward bow. "I—I'm sorry, Your Highness. I just felt nauseous suddenly…"
Robert's brow furrowed. Without a word, he gently guided her toward the nearest chair, his hand steady but firm on her arm. "Sit. You're pale as snow."
"I'm fine," Lucy whispered weakly, trying to rise. "I don't want to trouble you—"
But Robert was already raising his hand. Soft green light pooled in his palm as he murmured a healing incantation. Magic brushed over her like a warm breeze.
Lucy froze, stunned. No royal had ever cast a spell for her before. Slowly, the nausea ebbed away, leaving her blinking up at him. "Thank you, Your Highness—"
But Robert didn't release her hand. His thumb pressed lightly against her wrist, sensing the faint, irregular pulse of her mana. Something about her aura felt off, almost doubled.
He lifted his eyes to hers, voice low and steady. "Tell me truthfully… are you, perhaps… pregnant?"
Lucy's breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.