The vaulted corridor stretched long and hollow, the dim glow of widely spaced mana lamps barely keeping the darkness at bay.
An elderly court official strode forward, his heavy boots echoing against the cold stone floor. Two armed escorts flanked him, their armor clanking softly with each step.
The council meeting had been exhausting—filled with bickering nobles and veiled threats—but at last, it was over. Now, all that awaited him was the solace of his chambers, a stiff drink, and the welcome embrace of silence.
Then, without warning, the silence came first.
A sharp clink rang out—a body hitting the ground. Then another.
The man froze. His blood ran cold as he turned his head. His men—both seasoned warriors—lay sprawled on the floor, their swords unsheathed but unused, as if they hadn’t even had the chance to fight back. The blue light cast eerie shadows over their lifeless forms, their bodies unnaturally still.
Then, from the darkness, something moved.
A hooded figure emerged like a specter from the gloom, his form melting out of the shadows as if he had been born from them. The air thickened, a sinister pressure settling over the corridor, crawling against the elder’s skin. A malicious aura radiated from the figure—cold, calculated, and undeniably lethal.
“High Justiciar Hadrian Vexford.”
The voice was smooth, yet carried an edge of amusement, a threat wrapped in velvet.
Hadrian squared his shoulders, his thick beard barely concealing the grim set of his jaw. He had faced kings and criminals alike—he would not cower before a nameless shade in a corridor.
“Who are you?” he barked, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “I warn you, skulking in the dark does not exempt you from the laws of this realm. Answer me, or suffer the consequences.”
The hooded man tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk visible beneath the mask’s lower edge. His voice turned condescending, laced with enjoyment.
“It seems you’ve worn the Justiciar’s mantle for far too long, old man. It has made you delusional.” He stepped closer, his movements impossibly fluid, like a phantom. “Do you truly believe your word is law, even in this moment?”
Hadrian stiffened, a flare of anger in his gaze. “I asked you a question—who are you?”
The smirk deepened. The hooded figure leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet it carried through the corridor like a dirge.
“I’m sure you already know who I am afflicted with.”
The cold finality in those words sent a chill down Hadrian’s spine. His breath hitched, his throat tightening involuntarily. He knew. By the gods, he knew.
A single word escaped his lips, barely above a whisper. “Mhaledictus...”
The name felt cursed, as if saying it aloud might summon death itself. His heartbeat thundered in his chest. His eyes darted left and right, searching for an escape, for anything—anyone—that could break the moment.
The hooded figure chuckled darkly. “Don’t bother.”
As if on cue, more figures slithered forth from the shadows, silent as wraiths, encircling him in a noose of darkness. Hooded, faceless, watching. Trapping.
Hadrian swallowed, the iron-clad confidence he had wielded mere moments ago crumbling beneath the weight of inevitability.
The first figure took another step forward, his presence suffocating. “Most of the others have already conformed. It’s time you did the same.”
Hadrian’s fists clenched at his sides, his mind racing. “Conformed?”
“Yes,” the hooded man drawled, “our superiors aren’t pleased with the legal webs you’ve spun—sticky, suffocating things that have made life rather... inconvenient for us and our associates.” He sighed, almost bored. “You’ve spent so much time preaching justice, Justiciar, that you forgot something very important.”
Hadrian’s mouth was dry, but he forced out the words. “And what is that?”
The man leaned in, his voice a whisper against his ear.
“Justice only exists as long as we allow it to.”
Hadrian’s breath stilled.
“You have two choices,” the hooded figure continued, straightening. “Fall in line… or suffer an unfortunate fate.”
The words lingered in the air like a funeral toll.
Hadrian’s mind reeled. There was no escape. No guards. No law that would protect him here, only a fate similar to what befell Lord Alaric and his family.
The shadows waited.
And so did the Mhaledictus.
***
Stynx strode into a familiar chamber, his usual cold demeanor replaced with an energy that was rather uncharacteristic for him. His rusty orange eyes gleamed with an unfamiliar excitement as he approached the slouched figure by the window.
“Mother,” he called, his voice lighter than usual. “Lord Vaerythos said I may have a chance at ascending to power—at becoming the crowned prince.” His lips curled into a smirk, his usual composure cracking under the weight of his own anticipation. “All I have to do is prove myself. And when I succeed, you’ll finally have what you deserve. You’ll be queen, just as you were meant to be.” His eyes searched her face, hungry for a reaction—for approval, for praise, for anything.
But there was only silence.
His smirk faltered. Slowly, he stepped closer. She was smiling. At first, relief flickered through him. But then he looked into her eyes—glazed, unfocused, staring through the window as if caught in a dream. She hadn’t even noticed he was there.
The excitement drained from his face.
For a moment, he simply stood there, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the slight twitch of her fingers, the empty smile she wore as she drifted somewhere beyond his reach.
The vials on the table, the bitter scent clinging to the air—it was obvious where she had gone. A realm where he couldn’t hope to follow.
Stynx’s hands clenched at his sides. He had come here with something to give her, something grand, something that should have meant everything. But she wasn’t even present enough to hear it.
His throat tightened at the thought, but he said nothing. Just turned on his heel and walked out, the excitement he had carried in now nothing more than a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
***
Lumielle paced within the confines of her bedchambers, fingers clasped tightly before her. Her mind raced, desperate for a reliable way to gather the court officials without causing further unrest. Yet, no solution seemed reassuring. While she was the princess of the realm, her voice carried only so much weight, particularly because she was a woman, and also because her father’s will had grown distant.
Time was slipping through her grasp.
Corruption festered within the court like a slow-acting poison, and every bit of favor she had cultivated with the ministers was bound to expire sooner or later.
Today, she knew they were convening. Yet, even if she forced her way in, they would scoff at her presence, rebuke her, and shut her out.
With Haxks absent, the risks of acting alone were even greater. And with war looming on the horizon, the last thing she needed was to paint herself as an easy target.
“…Haxks,” she murmured worrisomely, her delicate eyebrows crinkling. He said we would investigate the brothels today, but it’s already so late in the afternoon.
Suddenly, her breath hitched, a sharp jolt shooting through her chest as an unwelcome thought took hold. H-He’s not doing anything inappropriate with that elf girl, is he?
In all honesty, it shouldn’t have mattered what Haxks Starfrost did with his private life. He was merely a chess piece in the grand scheme of her plans for peace.
And yet—
Her fingers twitched at her sides, betraying the tightness creeping into her chest. Unbidden, images from the Twinkle Orphanage surfaced—Tiphanna, laughing, casually punching Haxks’s arm. The two of them standing close, sharing a moment that felt… suspiciously special. And then, her imagination took off at a terrifying speed.
The scene unfolded with unnecessary, cinematic grandeur: Haxks—no, a prince plucked straight from a fairytale—bathed in a luminous glow, his features ludicrously exaggerated. His lashes impossibly thick, eyes deep pools of molten gold. His hair, somehow both permed and perfectly tousled, gleamed like the mane of a celestial lion. His jawline was sculpted by the gods themselves, and when he smiled, a dazzling sparkle flashed from his teeth.
“Tiphanna,” he murmured, his voice dripping with unbearable seduction.
“Daisuke,” the elf breathed, reaching for him.
Their hands met—tenderly, intimately. They leaned in, lips mere inches apart, the tension electrifying—
“NO!”
With a furious snarl, Lumielle physically reached out and ripped the thought bubble apart, her fingers shredding the imaginary vision as if it were parchment. Her face burned red, steam practically billowing from her ears.
She huffed. Then puffed. Then huffed again, her cheeks puffed like an enraged Bullgator about to charge.
The room fell silent.
Then she blinked, staring at her own hands as realization dawned.
“…What am I doing?” she whispered, horror-struck at her own theatrics. Why is my heart beating so fast? Why do I feel this way?
With a dignified sniff, she straightened her posture, smoothed out her dress, and attempted to regain her composure.
“…This is fine. Everything is fine.”
She nodded once, as if that would make it true.
And yet, in the back of her mind, the image of Sparkling-Haxks-Starfrost lingered, taunting her.