The soft scratch of a quill filled the dimly lit room.
Behind the desk, a middle-aged man in a white robe wrote tirelessly, surrounded by cluttered stacks of documents. Warm torchlight cast a pale sheen over his porcelain skin as his long, pastel-blue hair slipped over his shoulders.
A knock broke the quiet, followed by a woman's voice.
"Your Holiness, Priestess Rhys would like to see you."
"Let her in," he replied without looking up.
The door opened, revealing a woman with fiery hair. Only then did he lift his gaze, his cyan eyes meeting hers.
"I've done as you asked," she said as she crossed the room.
"Thank you." Caelum offered a faint, serene smile and gestured toward the couch. "Please, have a seat."
As she sank into the cushions, Caelum set his quill aside and intertwined his fingers. "So, what are your thoughts on him?"
Rhys drew a weary breath. "The Prince is exceedingly clever. He adapts quickly, bending circumstances to his favor. His wit nearly wiped out our elite squad. He…"
She let the word linger, her eyes flicking over the man's composed figure. "Reminds me of someone."
Caelum chuckled softly. "Is that so?"
"Yes," she admitted. "But it seems the Prince is not broken enough. I doubt he would ever join us."
The man hummed. "Then it cannot be helped."
Silence stretched, save for the crackle of torches. Rhys leaned back and folded her arms, her expression hardening.
"But I don't understand," she began. "Why send a letter to the Empress about the Prince's kidnapping? Wouldn't that risk exposing us to the Vazquez family?"
"Oh, it's quite all right." A small, knowing smile played on his lips. "I intend to sever ties with them anyway." He let out a long, weary sigh. "Their whining grows insufferable—it's hardly our fault that Prince Lucien refuses to die."
Rhys clicked her tongue, a sour look on her face. "I can imagine."
Clapping his hands once, Caelum's mood brightened. "Besides, we've achieved our goal. We owe this to Duke Vazquez; our men are firmly settled in the Sol Palace."
Rhys's golden eyes narrowed. "What if they report us? The Liberation mercenaries will be banned across the continent."
"They wouldn't dare." Caelum leaned back in his chair. "For every card they held over us, we held ten over them."
A wry smile tugged at Rhys's lips. "So, farewell to our precious sponsor, then?"
Caelum inclined his head with mock regret. "Unfortunately, yes."
A knock echoed, followed by a woman's voice. "Your Holiness, a report has arrived."
"Enter."
The door creaked open, and a white-robed attendant stepped inside, clutching a sealed parchment. She placed it neatly on the desk, bowed, and withdrew in silence.
Caelum broke the seal and unfolded the paper. His cyan eyes scanned the lines; the faint flicker of amusement crossed his face before he set it down.
"The Zerounix heirloom has been located."
Rhys straightened at once. "Have you decided who will retrieve it?"
Caelum tapped his fingers against the table, his expression thoughtful. "I'm considering Zieg."
Rhys rose to her feet and approached him. "I'll take it."
He studied her for a moment. "Are you certain? You only just finished dealing with the Prince."
"The sooner, the better. We've been searching for it for years."
Caelum exhaled, the corners of his mouth softening with reluctant approval. "Very well." He passed her the letter. "I'll handle the arrangements and keep Zerounix distracted for as long as I can."
She accepted it with a curt nod. "Appreciated."
Turning on her heel, Rhys strode toward the door and pulled it open, only to nearly collide with a werewolf, his face twisted with panic.
"Prince Lucien has been taken to the infirmary!"
Rhys froze mid-step, staring at the beast in disbelief. Her hand flew to the bridge of her nose as she groaned. "…It hasn't even been thirty minutes since I left him. What was he even doing?!"
***
The thick scent of herbs mingled with the musty dampness clinging to the air. Lucien lay on a cot, his eyes darting about the warmly lit room as the werewolf physician examined him.
Mortars, pestles, bundles of dried herbs, and objects he couldn't even name crowded the shelves and tables, their shadows swaying in the torchlight—until his gaze snagged on a block of dull yellow stone.
Sulfur.
Found it.
The door swung open, and a red-haired woman strode into the infirmary, a hulking werewolf trailing close behind.
Her cold gaze landed on him, then flicked to the physician. "Report."
The beast straightened to face her. "The Prince appears to have developed a stomachache—likely unaccustomed to commoner fare."
Lucien groaned theatrically from the bed. "Are you sure it wasn't poison?"
The woman rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Your Highness, if we wanted you dead, I assure you it wouldn't be the food doing the job."
The corner of Lucien's lips quirked. "How considerate. I'll be sure to thank the chef for exercising such… restraint."
She exhaled through her nose and turned to the guard. "Tell the chef to prepare something worthy of his IMPERIALstomach."
The guard bowed. "Understood."
She turned to leave, but Lucien called out.
"Wait!" He grunted as he pushed himself upright on the cot. "Will I be locked in my room until I agree to join?"
She halted, studying him in silence. After a beat, she replied evenly, "If you attend the sermon, you may go wherever you like—so long as a guard accompanies you. Anything else?" she added impatiently.
Lucien pointed toward the block of sulfur on the shelf. "I'll need all of that. And a grinder."
Her brow arched. "And why, exactly, would you need that?"
"Well," he drawled, smirking, "I wouldn't want to develop a rash from sleeping in such a… stimulating environment."
"Uh, I have ointment for that," the quack interjected.
Lucien shot him a sharp glare. "No. I don't trust you."
"But you can't take our supply!" The doctor turned pleadingly to the woman, but she waved a dismissive hand.
"Give him what he wants. Just make sure he doesn't cause any more problems. I'm busy."
With that, she swept out of the room.
Returning to his chamber, Lucien removed the smoldering embers from the brazier and set them on the floor. He ground the sulfur into a fine powder, the scrape of the pestle against the stone mingling with the crackle of fire. Slowly, the chamber reeked of smoke and rotten eggs—a welcome cover for mixing the gunpowder later.
Once finished, he poured the yellow dust into a jar and left the coals to cool for tomorrow. Fortunately, gunpowder hadn't been invented in this world; otherwise, his chances of escape would be nonexistent. Though he had no desire to bring modern knowledge to this realm, it was now his only ticket to freedom.
By morning, the aroma of food stirred him awake. A tray sat by the table—bisque crowned with seared cherry tomatoes and two slices of garlic bread. Hardly gourmet, but far better than yesterday's ordeal.
After changing into the provided black robes, he was escorted out. As footsteps echoed down the dim corridor, his cerulean eyes darted about, memorizing each turn in search of an escape route.
Then, a faint breeze brushed his cheek as they passed a stretch of wall.
Lucien frowned. A hidden passage?
Before he could look closer, the werewolf behind him gave a rough shove. "Keep moving."
Stepping into a vast hall, Lucien found himself facing figures shrouded in black. A massive chandelier loomed overhead, casting long, jagged shadows across the stone floor. Amid the faceless crowd, a slender figure caught his attention.
Roschella.
He moved closer—only to collide with her.
She flinched, jerking sideways, but he quickly caught her wrist.
"It's me," he murmured.
Their eyes met. Her horrified expression softened into relief. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her shoulders shook, her trembling fingers clutching the edge of his sleeve.