Rhaegal on the other hand was getting dressed to honor the invitation he received from the king to attend his daughter's birthday party. He stood in front of the mirror as Alfred held out a coat, and Rhaegal slid his arms through it. The handmade coat was crafted from the finest materials, the golden embroidery mirroring the hue of his eyes. The long sleeves draped elegantly, and his neatly combed black hair accentuated the sharpness of his jawline. But his face remained cold, carved from stone, devoid of feeling.
"You look dashing… as usual, my lord," Alfred complimented with a slight smile.
Rhaegal let out a dry breath of amusement. "Wonderful. Now I just need to sharpen my conversational skills in flattery, and I'll fit right in. Maybe I'll even survive the evening without killing anyone—though I make no promises."
Alfred smiled. "I'm afraid you and flattering don't belong in the same sentence, my lord."
Rhaegal adjusted his cuffs with a smirk. "Exactly. Which is why I'll stick to glaring and vague threats—they tend to be more effective."
"As you wish, my lord," Alfred said with a slight bow.
Rhaegal turned from the mirror, his expression hardening once more into the mask of calm authority.
"What gifts shall I prepare for Her Highness?" Alfred asked, hands folded behind his back.
"Choose whatever pleases the eye," Rhaegal replied, indifferent. Without another word, he strode out of the room, his footsteps precise and composed.
Outside, near the mansion's gates, Malin and Philips were tending to the garden, trimming flowers into neat bundles. At the sight of their lord, both men straightened and bowed. Rhaegal acknowledged them with a curt nod. The coachman swung open the carriage door, and Rhaegal stepped in with practiced grace.
Moments later, Alfred emerged, carrying a polished box, and climbed into the carriage beside him. With a brief command to the coachman, they were off.
The journey to the capital was long but smooth, the road cutting through forests and fields until the towering spires of the king's castle rose into view. By the time they arrived, the royal grounds were brimming with gilded carriages belonging to nobles and aristocrats.
Rhaegal's carriage waited its turn in the line. When it finally reached the entrance, he stepped out with Alfred. Eugene veered off to find a proper place to park.
The castle buzzed with life—noble vampires and werewolves adorned in finery mingled under chandeliers, the occasional human servant flitting through the crowd. Music poured out from within, lively and loud.
At the entrance, Alfred handed over the invitation to the guards, who inspected it, then stepped aside.
As Rhaegal crossed the threshold, conversations stilled. Eyes turned. His presence was a cold wind through a summer room—sharp, quiet, undeniable. Whispers rose in his wake, but he didn't flinch. He moved through the ballroom with the unwavering resolve of a man immune to spectacle.
The king stood at the far end, surrounded by guards in polished armor. Rhaegal approached and bowed.
"Your Majesty," he greeted.
"You're here. It's good to see you, Rhaegal," King Aldric Valenhart said, his voice deep, smooth.
"An honor as always, my king."
The king smiled and placed a hand on Rhaegal's back, guiding him aside.
"I must say, I was impressed with your recent investigations," Aldric said. "I sleep better knowing you're handling such matters."
"Thank you, Your Majesty. My duty is to serve." Rhaegal's face remained unreadable.
"Any progress on the remaining cult members?"
"They're skilled at hiding… but they won't be for long."
"Good," the king said with a pleased nod. "That eases my mind."
Their interaction resembled that of a ruler and his most trusted hound—distant but dependable.
Then the music changed.
Heads turned toward the grand staircase. A woman descended, her presence captivating. Dressed in a gown that shimmered with movement, Princess Aveline smiled with practiced warmth. Her golden hair spilled over her shoulders, and her every step commanded attention.
Awe swept the room. Even King Aldric's eyes gleamed with pride.
But Rhaegal… simply observed. Detached. Unimpressed.
"Rhaegal, have you met my daughter, Princess Aveline?" the king asked, puffing his chest slightly.
"Not yet, Your Majesty."
"Then allow me."
As if on cue, Aveline reached them. She dipped in a perfect curtsy.
"Good evening, Your Majesty," she said, her voice both delicate and poised.
"You look radiant, Aveline," the king replied warmly.
"Thank you, Father." Her gaze flicked toward Rhaegal. There was interest there—measured, cautious.
"Aveline, meet Lord Rhaegal Blackthorn," Aldric said. "Deputy of the Bureau of Investigation. I'm sure you've heard of him."
"Of course," she said, turning to Rhaegal with a composed smile. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the man behind so many stories."
"The pleasure is mine, Princess." Rhaegal bowed, voice smooth but distant.
Before another word could pass, a man broke through the crowd. His arrival was a ripple in still water—cloak billowing, steps unhurried.
"Good evening, Your Majesty." His voice curled with charm.
"Duke Cedric," Aldric greeted, his tone measured.
"I trust Your Majesty is well."
"As well as can be, with loyal men like you keeping order," the king replied. His eyes gleamed with the cunning of someone who'd ruled for centuries.
Duke Cedric turned to Aveline, ignoring Rhaegal entirely.
"Your Highness," he said, taking her hand. "You outshine the stars tonight. Even the moon must envy your beauty."
Aveline accepted his hand, her smile gracious but cool.
"You flatter too easily, Duke Cedric."
"Only when the truth demands it," he replied, lifting her hand toward his lips—though he didn't quite kiss it. His smile was sharp, his demeanor polished like a blade. Every gesture spoke of practiced seduction and barely veiled hunger.
Rhaegal stood silent beside them, unbothered, unreadable.
A guard approached the king and whispered in his ear. Aldric gave a nod.
"Gentlemen, enjoy the evening," he said. "If you'll excuse me."
Once the king departed, Cedric turned his attention to Rhaegal with a too-pleasant smile.
"Lord Rhaegal. Rare to see you at events like these. I imagine cold files and corpses must pale in comparison to royal soirées."
"Justice rarely serves wine and music," Rhaegal replied, his tone flat.
"Even justice deserves a holiday, no?"
Aveline's eyes shifted between them, catching the current beneath their words.
Cedric smiled and pivoted back to her.
"May I have this dance, Princess?" He extended his hand smoothly.
But Aveline hesitated. Her gaze drifted—not to Cedric—but to Rhaegal.
Still as a statue, Rhaegal stood with hands clasped behind him. No invitation. No emotion. Yet she looked at him as if gravity itself pulled her that way.
"I'm afraid I'll have to decline, Duke Cedric," she said gently. "Lord Blackthorn has already asked me for this dance."
Cedric's smile twitched.
"Oh?" he said lightly. He knew Rhaegal hadn't asked. But calling the princess a liar would be a mistake.
Aveline turned to Rhaegal.
"Lord Blackthorn," she said softly.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Rhaegal's jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as if he might refuse. He hadn't danced in years. He hated it. But politeness—and politics—won.
He inclined his head. "If it pleases you, Princess."
She extended her hand. He took it, fingers cool and careful.
As they stepped onto the dance floor, the whispers followed like shadows.
And behind them, Duke Cedric watched. Smiling still—but rage simmered behind his eyes.
"Well," said a voice beside him.
Lord Reinhard approached, swirling a glass of blood between his fingers. A smirk played on his lips.
"Who would've thought? Blackthorn can waltz as well as he kills."
Cedric didn't laugh. His eyes remained locked on Rhaegal.
"That cold bastard," he muttered. "He plays the king's hound well, but those eyes? Those are the kind that eventually bite the hand."
Reinhard chuckled. "Displeased?"
"The king trusts him too much. And now… the princess? He's climbing the ladder."
Reinhard lifted his glass. "Maybe. But I assure you, Blackthorn has no appetite for pretty women."