The atmosphere inside Marquis Kallistar Donovan's office was suffocating. The once-pristine room was now a disaster of shattered glass, overturned furniture, and torn documents. The remnants of his rage littered the floor, a stark reflection of the chaos he felt within.
The servants in the room remained deathly silent, their heads bowed, not daring to breathe too loudly.
At the center of it all, the Marquis stood trembling with fury, his face twisted in sheer rage. His knuckles were white, gripping the hilt of his sword—a blade still tainted with the fresh blood of Cahir's men. The faint glow of blue fire flickered around his hands, an unmistakable sign of his mana surging from his barely contained wrath.
His trusted butler and personal commander, Sir Lewin, stood stiffly nearby, his arm still wrapped in thick bandages. Despite his injuries, he stood at attention, though the weight of the Marquis's anger bore down on him like an executioner's axe.
"That damn Cahir," Donovan spat, slamming his fist onto his desk, causing another crack to form on its polished surface. "After all I did for him, after all the privileges I granted him, this is how he repays me?!"
The mere thought made his mana flare, and the surrounding servants flinched. A cold chill swept through the room, not from fear alone, but from the sheer killing intent radiating from their master.
Lewin, ever loyal despite his failure, stepped forward cautiously. "Sir, this was my failure," he admitted. "I should have stopped Cahir before he reached the manor. I take full responsibility—"
"Of course, it's your fault, you imbecile!" Donovan snapped, his eyes burning with fury. "How many men did we lose?"
Lewin hesitated before answering, "Twenty, my lord."
"Twenty?" Donovan's voice turned dangerously low, his grip on his sword tightening. "You call that a small number?! Do you have any idea how much I spent on training those men?"
Lewin lowered his gaze, his jaw clenched in guilt.
The butler, hoping to diffuse the situation, stepped in. "My lord, please, you must calm yourself—"
"You shut up!" The Marquis whirled around, snarling. His temper had reached its peak—he needed something, someone, to direct his wrath at.
As if on cue—
Knock. Knock.
The room froze.
Everyone stiffened as the sound of gentle knocking echoed through the thick tension.
The Marquis let out a slow, mocking laugh. "And here comes the cause of this entire mess," he sneered. "My dear, foolish daughter, the one I thought had a shred of intelligence… but she's just as useless as her mother."
With venom lacing his voice, he barked, "Enter."
The door creaked open, and a maid stepped in, bowing deeply. "My lord, as per your instructions, I have brought Lady Bianca."
Donovan's jaw tensed as his daughter walked in.
Bianca, Queen of Rhonwen.
She moved carefully, her demeanor composed, yet there was a flicker of hesitation in her steps. She could feel her father's fury before she even entered the room, and her shadow puppet instincts urged her to play her part well.
From the moment she stepped through the door, she was Bianca, the terrified daughter.
She kept her gaze lowered, her hands slightly trembling, and her expression was one of guilt and remorse.
But in reality, beneath that mask—her mind was perfectly calm.
She did not fear her father.
She did not fear anything.
But Bianca's role was to pretend. And so, she lowered her head further as her father's glare burned into her.
Donovan's patience snapped.
With a swift motion, he unsheathed his sword, pointing it directly at Bianca's throat. The sharp steel gleamed in the candlelight, still fresh with the blood of mercenaries.
The maids gasped in terror, immediately dropping to their knees.
"My lord, please spare her!"
"Have mercy, my lord!"
Their pleas went ignored.
"Bianca, you fool!" he thundered, his voice shaking the room. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
His mana surged, pressing down on everyone in the room, making them feel as though they were suffocating under his rage.
Bianca let out a fake, shaky breath, her lips trembling as she stepped back.
"Father, I… I didn't mean for it to happen," she whispered, her voice cracking. "It was… a mistake!"
"A mistake?!" Donovan spat, stepping forward. "You killed Cahir's daughter—the child of the King of Mercenaries! Do you realize what you've started?!"
Bianca kept her face in a perfect expression of horror and guilt. "Father, please, you have to understand! I acted out of anger! The maid—the worthless wretch—failed her mission to kill Theodore! She botched it, and I—"
"You acted out of anger?" Donovan's fury intensified.
His blade inched closer to her throat.
Though it did not touch her, the weight of the threat was clear.
Bianca's fake tears began to spill, her voice trembling just enough to sound sincere. "I didn't mean for things to spiral like this! I swear, Father—"
"Silence!"
Donovan's voice cracked through the room like a whip.
He lowered his sword slightly, but his face was still a mask of rage. His breath was heavy, his entire body shaking from frustration.
Then, he stilled.
His voice dropped, dangerously calm.
"Listen to me, Bianca," he said, his tone as cold as steel. "If you ever bring shame or trouble to this family again, I won't stop at words."
Bianca forced herself to flinch, pretending to recoil at his words.
He took a step closer.
"And as for that cursed child you're so obsessed with killing…" His voice dripped with disdain. "I've told you countless times—he is nothing. An insect. A disgrace. I will handle him when the time is right. You will not act unless I command it. Do I make myself clear?"
Bianca's hands clenched into fists, but she lowered her head. "Yes, Father," she murmured.
Donovan exhaled sharply, then turned away from her.
"And another thing," he added. "You will return to Rhonwen immediately. You've already spent too much time here. You are a queen now. Act like one."
Bianca bowed deeply. "Yes, Father. I understand."
She turned, walking toward the door, her movements graceful and submissive.
The moment she stepped into the hall and the door closed behind her…
Her expression shifted.
Her face no longer trembled.
Her lips no longer wavered.
Instead, she smirked, her eyes gleaming with eerie satisfaction.
"I hope my lord will praise me for this," she murmured, her voice low and venomous as she disappeared down the hall.
The shattered remains of glass and parchment still littered the floor of Marquis Kallistar Donovan's office, but his rage had cooled into something far more dangerous—calculated thought.
As the last of his servants shuffled out of the room, only Sir Lewin remained, his posture stiff with lingering tension.
The silence between them was heavy. The mercenary attack, the betrayal of Cahir, the queen's foolishness—everything was crumbling far too quickly.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
A slow, infuriated exhale left Donovan's lips.
"Damn it! Who the hell is it now?!" he growled, rubbing his temple.
One of the castle guards stepped inside, bowing quickly. His face was strained, as if hesitant to deliver the message.
"Sir, my apologies for disturbing you, but… there is a man requesting an audience with you."
"A man?" Lewin frowned.
The guard hesitated before answering. "He claims to be a mercenary from the Steel Vanguard."
Silence.
Lewin's fingers tensed around his sword. "What?"
The Marquis's expression remained unreadable, but his mind was already working. A mercenary? From Steel Vanguard? Coming here alone?
There were only two possibilities—
Either the man was a fool who didn't understand the weight of his actions…
Or he was an opportunity.
Donovan slowly exhaled and gave a single nod.
"Let him in."
The soldier left and, moments later, a young man entered the office.
He was scrawny—almost sickly looking—with curly brown hair and a faint cross-shaped scar on his left cheek. He looked barely twenty, dressed in ill-fitted armor, a dull dagger strapped to his hip.
A weakling.
But Donovan knew better than to judge a book by its cover.
The boy immediately knelt, pressing his forehead to the floor.
"Greetings, my lord. My name is Bronn. I have no family name, and I am merely a soldier of the Steel Vanguard."
Donovan leaned back, his fingers tapping against his desk. His piercing blue eyes studied the boy like a dissected animal.
Lewin, however, wasn't nearly as patient. His killing intent flared, crashing down on the young man like a crushing wave.
"Do you have any idea where you are?" Lewin asked coldly. "You've entered enemy territory. A single word from the Marquis, and I'll have your corpse hanging from the gates by dawn."
Bronn's trembling was instant.
His hands shook, his knees buckled—but he didn't run.
Donovan lifted a single hand, signaling Lewin to ease up.
"Let him speak," Donovan said smoothly. "What brings you here?"
Bronn gulped down his fear before speaking.
"Marquis, please! Let me work as a spy for you!"
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
Lewin's hand twitched near his blade. "What?"
Even Donovan's brows lifted slightly. "A spy?"
Bronn bowed deeper, pressing his head harder against the floor.
"Yes! I am a mercenary, but I was born and raised in Donovan Territory. I have no loyalty to Cahir. I joined the Steel Vanguard hoping to become a great warrior, but they've taught me nothing! I have no future there. I want to serve you instead! Please, use me!"
Silence.
Donovan didn't answer immediately. He simply studied the boy.
Everything Bronn said made sense.
A man born in Donovan's land, abandoned by his own faction, looking for power.
But something was off.
And the Marquis didn't trust things that were too convenient.
Slowly, he leaned forward. "You come to me, claiming to be a traitor to your own guild. Do you think I'm stupid enough to trust you just like that?"
Bronn visibly panicked. "Please, Marquis! I swear my loyalty! If you don't believe me, let me prove myself—I know things! I know about the prince."
Donovan's eyes darkened.
"…Go on."
Bronn took a deep breath.
"The prince—Theodore—came to Cahir! He swore to go against you! He stood in front of everyone and challenged your authority!"
A chilling stillness overtook the room.
Donovan's fingers curled into his desk.
That boy.
That damn child.
Theodore had always been weak. A timid little insect, crawling in the shadows of others. He wasn't even worth killing.
But this?
This was different.
Donovan narrowed his eyes, his mind already calculating.
"That brat was at the academy. How did he get out?"
Bronn swallowed. "I don't know, my lord, but that's not all. He used his butler to resurrect Amara."
Donovan stilled.
A faint crack echoed through the office.
He looked down.
His fingers had dug into the wooden surface of his desk, cracking it.
"What did you just say?"
Bronn flinched. "I-It's true, my lord! The prince's butler used magic to heal her and bring her back from the dead!"
Lewin took a step forward, his expression one of doubt. "Sir, it's impossible. Resurrecting the dead—"
"Shut up, Lewin."
Lewin fell silent immediately.
Donovan exhaled slowly, his fury simmering into something far more sinister.
He turned back to Bronn.
"From this day forward, you will report every move the prince and Cahir make," he ordered. "Every meeting. Every conversation. I want to know everything."
Bronn nodded rapidly. "Yes, my lord! Thank you, my lord!"
Lewin, however, was not convinced.
"My lord," Lewin said carefully. "What if he's lying? What if he's simply using us?"
Donovan let out a low chuckle.
"Then I'll simply kill him before he ever gets the chance."
Bronn's face paled.
Donovan's smile was sharp. "This is a game of chess, Lewin. I am the king. The pieces will move as I command them. And if a pawn becomes useless—"
His hand crushed the broken fragment of wood on his desk.
"—Then I will dispose of it."
Lewin nodded slowly. "Understood, my lord."
Donovan stood, his gaze flickering toward the moon outside the window.
"Theodore… I underestimated you," he murmured. "But no matter. You may be clever, but you are not invincible."
His lips curled into a cruel smile.
"Before you ever get the chance to bloom… I'll cut you down myself."