The silence stretches, heavy as an anvil. The Lord is barely breathing, his son still staring at me as if he were dismantling a riddle piece by piece. And the Baron… he remains still, patient, confident.
I wipe my mouth, my hands still sore from the explosion of my weapon. Then I chuckle—a dry sound, almost too loud in the muffled hall.
"Very well. You want me to play by your rules? Fine. But I play for myself. Not for you."
The Baron tilts his head slightly, his smile returning, sharp as a polished blade.
"Perfect. That's all I ask."
He raises his cup, red wine swirling lazily inside.
"You'll be under my wing. Officially. I'll grant you protection, weapons, a roof. In exchange… you will fight under my name."
I cross my arms, Linir still clinging to me, and let out in a hard voice:
"A wing, huh? Fine. But remember… a wolf never stays long in a cage."
A glint passes in his eyes. He laughs, low and satisfied.
"Hahaha… then let's make that wager, Wolf of Azoth."
The son keeps his enigmatic smile, but I can feel him still watching me, as if waiting for the first crack. The Lord, meanwhile, remains mute, trembling like a carcass already hanging.
I grit my teeth, but keep my feral smile. Because deep down, I know: it wasn't me who lost tonight. It's them, who just opened their door to a monster they don't yet understand.
Linie clings to me like a shadow, her small body trembling under her cape. I pat her head, more to calm myself than to reassure her.
I push the door, and the fresh night air rushes into my lungs like deliverance. No more smell of polished carpets, overpriced wines, and vulture stares.
[ Congratulations. You've just signed a pact with a serpent. And you did it smiling. ]
"Yeah… but sometimes, you have to dance with monsters just so you can bite them later."
Linie lifts her head, her eyes still red. I force a small smile for her.
"Come on. Let's go home. Tomorrow will be even worse."
We descend the steps. The guards step aside at once, stiff as statues, unable to decide whether to fear me or respect me. Doesn't matter. Tonight, I still have a roof. And an invisible leash around my neck.
I don't care. Leashes… can be broken.
The door closes behind her.
Silence falls again, heavy as a shroud of lead.
The Lord finally explodes, his trembling hands slamming the table.
"Why?! Why such an arrangement with… with her? A stranger, a savage, perhaps an abomination! After that blood, after that… display! We should have had her executed on the spot!"
His voice breaks, pathetic. His eyes dart between the Baron and his son, desperate for support.
The son remains silent. Frozen. But his gaze… his gaze is sharper than ever, fixed on the Baron.
The Baron does not move. His cup still in hand, his smile still polite. As if nothing had happened.
At last, the Baron sets down his cup, his eyes still fixed on the scarlet liquid swirling within. Then he smiles—thin, cutting.
"You are blind, Lord."
The fat man startles, his jowls trembling.
"B-blind?! After what she just did, after all that blood—"
"Exactly." The Baron cuts him off, his voice clean as a blade. "She spoke of the Gallant Knight. In the Labyrinth."
Silence crashes down.
The son narrows his eyes, attentive.
"Understand what that means, Lord. If her words are true—and I have no reason to doubt them—this girl survived where even the best-trained groups get lost and die."
He leans forward slightly, his smile widening.
"That means she knows its paths. Its dangers. Perhaps even its secrets."
The Lord swallows hard, unable to respond.
The Baron continues, relentless:
"So why throw her to the dogs? Why waste a rare tool?"
He pauses, his tone turning almost amused.
"When instead, I can send her to harvest. Precious materials. Artifacts. Or even… what the less fortunate left behind on their corpses."
A short, dry laugh.
"That is why I spared her. That is why she'll be under my wing."
The Baron straightens, his gaze gleaming with a cold light.
"Not because she is strong. But because she is useful."
The Baron sets down his cup, his gaze slowly sliding toward the Lord. His smile fades.
"And since we're speaking of blindness…" His voice turns icy.
"You have shown disrespect toward my tool."
The Lord's eyes widen; he stammers:
"M-my… tool? I… I only wanted to—"
"No."
The word cracks like a whip.
"You dared to belittle the child who follows her. That 'fragile little thing,' as you called her."
The Baron leans forward slightly, his gaze piercing the trembling fat man.
"Know this, Lord: if you scorn the shadow, you shatter the blade it shields."
The son gives a thin, ironic smile, saying nothing.
The Baron continues, sharper still:
"You nearly destroyed the trust of a weapon I intend to wield. That is a mistake. And I care nothing for your clumsy words when my interests are at stake."
The Lord chokes, his jowls trembling.
"I… I didn't… I meant only…"
"You meant nothing. You spoke. And that was already too much."
A frozen silence falls. The Lord shrinks into his chair, suddenly small.
The Baron, meanwhile, calmly takes up his cup again, his smile returned.
"See that it does not happen again."
The silence hangs, heavy as a rope ready to snap. The Lord dares not move, sweat streaming down his brow.
Then it is the son who breaks the air. His voice is clear, poised, without a tremor:
"Two problems."
His eyes settle on the Baron, not on his father.
"First, the child. She is a weight. Not only an emotional distraction… but an exploitable weakness. As long as the Wolf drags her along, she will remain vulnerable."
The Lord parts his lips, but the Baron raises a finger, and silence falls once more.
The son presses on, relentless:
"Second… the language. She does not speak ours. She does not understand your orders, our laws, the rumors of the street. A weapon that cannot hear the blacksmith will one day turn against him."
His icy eyes lock onto the Baron's, glinting with something almost provocative.
"You chose to keep her. Very well. But then these two flaws must be addressed. Otherwise, the tool will shatter before it strikes."
The Baron stays silent a moment, his fingers brushing the rim of his cup. Then a carnivorous smile returns.
The Baron sets down his cup, his eyes still fixed on his son.
"You are right."
A simple admission, without ornament.
The Lord lifts his head, startled, as if it were the first time he had ever heard the Baron yield a point to anyone.
"The child is a flaw. But…"
His smile spreads, razor-sharp.
"Any flaw can become a lever. Nothing prevents a weakness from becoming a chain."
The Lord grows paler, but does not dare to interrupt.
The Baron presses on, merciless:
"As for the language, it is a detail. I already intend to send a tutor. She will have lessons. And in the meantime…"
He slowly withdraws a small pouch from his sleeve, setting it on the table. A crystal clinks inside.
"…a temporary artifact. Enough to accustom her to the sounds and words."
He leans back slightly, sipping his wine as if all were settled in advance.
"It is no problem."
Silence follows. The Lord does not dare breathe. The son inclines his head ever so slightly, satisfied with the answer, though his eyes still gleam sharply—analyzing, calculating, recording everything.
A frozen hush lingers, broken only by the faint clink of crystal in the pouch.
Then, against all odds, it is the Lord who speaks. His voice quavers, pushed by awkward audacity.
"But… at least say it plainly."
He swallows, his double chin trembling.
"What… what species is this Wolf?"
The son stiffens, his gaze sliding slowly toward him. Not anger. Just that cold disdain that says: you have crossed a line.
The Baron, meanwhile, remains immobile. His cup suspended in the air, his polite smile frozen, sharper than ever.
A thick silence falls, heavy, suffocating.
The Lord realizes too late he may have asked the one question that should never be spoken.
The Baron sets his cup down with deliberate slowness, crystal tapping against wood. His smile returns—thin, cruel, but perfectly measured.
"You want to know?"
He lets the silence stretch, his gaze shifting from the trembling Lord to his son, who does not flinch.
Then he answers, sharp, as if dictating an obvious truth:
"She is an Oni."
The word cracks through the chamber like a whip.
The Lord recoils in horror, pale, his lips stammering mute prayers.
"A-a… an Oni… here… in my city…"
The son says nothing. But his eyes glimmer with satisfaction: confirmation of what he had already suspected.
The Baron leans back, sipping his wine as though nothing were grave.
"Yes. An Oni. And yet… she walks our streets. She fights in our arenas. And now… she will fight under my name."
His smile spreads, inexorable.
"So remember this, Lord: it is not what she is that should be feared. It is what she will do… for me."
A heavy silence crushes the chamber, broken only by the Lord's trembling breath.
The frozen hush lingers even after the Baron's words. The Lord, shaking, still murmurs:
"An Oni… in my city…"
Then the son speaks. His voice is calm, poised, but every word falls like a blade.
"That is why she asked her questions about Ohts."
The other two turn toward him. His gray eyes gleam with a razor edge.
"The Taratect Queen ravaged that kingdom… and there are whispers that the Oni species may have some connection to the incident. She was not seeking a tale… she was seeking confirmation."
The Lord opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
The Baron, meanwhile, smiles again, pleased with his heir's analysis.
"Hahaha… very true. She is not only a useful tool… she is also a dangerous mystery. And that is precisely why she interests me."
The cup lands back on the table with a sharp clink.
And once again, silence closes over them like a tomb.