"She gave me a bad feeling," Leon muttered, swirling the crimson liquid in his goblet. It moved like trapped blood—slow, heavy, alive in a way wine shouldn't be. "She was unbothered by the carnage. Like it meant nothing. I painted that scene in blood, and she looked at it like a child's messy scribble."
He took a breath, jaw tight. "That chills me."
He lounged in a high-backed velvet chair, wrapped in his customary midnight-blue greatcoat. The deep fabric drank in the candlelight, while his gloves—black, pristine, tailored to conceal calluses and old scars—rested against the mahogany armrest like coiled animals. Opposite him, across a low table dressed with crystal and firelight, sat King George.
The royal study, more sanctum than throne room, hummed with the weight of secrets. Gold-leaf trim on the ceiling gleamed softly in the flickering firelight, reflecting off the polished dark wood of the enormous desk in the corner. Ancient, leather-bound tomes lined towering shelves, their titles whispering of forgotten histories and forbidden knowledge. The air was thick with aged parchment, expensive pipe tobacco, and decisions too dangerous for daylight. A chessboard, half-played, sat on a smaller table beside the fireplace, hinting at the king's strategic mind even in leisure.
King George—his crown exchanged for a mane of immaculate blond hair, his robes for a tailored wine-red tunic that emphasized his broad shoulders—watched Leon with the stillness of a predator that no longer needed to chase its prey. His blue eyes, cold and brilliant, had seen kingdoms rise and fall. He sipped his wine, then spoke with the care of someone used to being obeyed, his voice a low, resonant purr.
"Because if we kill her, Leon," he began, "everyone will know who did it."
He gestured lazily with the goblet, the ruby liquid catching the firelight. "You don't gut the prize pig in front of the butcher and ask who did it. The Duke has his eyes on her. Possessive eyes. Marked her as his claim. If we remove her now, it's a declaration—one dipped in spit and blood. And he can't afford to ignore that." A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on the king's lips.
Leon scoffed, a rough sound that seemed out of place in the opulent room. "So we let a dragon walk free? A child, yes, but a dragon nonetheless. You've seen what they grow into." He leaned forward, his eyes burning with a dangerous conviction. "The kind that scorches empires."
George didn't flinch. "And you've seen what the Church grows into. They're already watching us. Every move, every coin. The wrong step, and suddenly we're the ones on trial for heresy, facing a tribunal that delights in public executions." He gestured towards a heavy tapestry depicting a saint being martyred, as if to emphasize his point.
He leaned forward, voice softening into something more serpentine, each word a carefully placed stone. "This is not about morality. It's about math. Optics. Timing. The subtle art of leverage."
Leon shifted, the velvet chair creaking faintly under his weight. "Then sell her. Off to the Drowned Isles. Or the Eastern Reaches. Let her vanish into chains and fog, a ghost among forgotten souls."
George exhaled slowly, a thin wisp of air. "Gold leaves a trail. And slaves talk—especially the rare ones. Especially the expensive ones, the ones whose absence creates a stir. Eventually someone would trace it back here, and then our hands would be stained. And dead bodies? They scream louder than the living when the story's juicy enough, attracting the kind of attention we can't afford."
He set his goblet down with a soft clink on the polished mahogany. The sound was quiet. Final.
"No, Leon. We let her go. Let the Duke clean his own mess. If she escapes, he looks incompetent, a fool unable to secure his own assets. If he succeeds, he owes us for our 'restraint,' for not interfering with his... ambitions. Either way…"
A smile touched his lips. Thin. Calculated. A predator's satisfaction.
"We win. And our hands remain clean, at least outwardly."
Leon smirked, grabbing a hunk of bread from the ornate silver tray between them and tearing into it like a soldier still at war, each bite a small act of defiance.
"You're too clever for your own crown, Your Majesty."
"And you're too loud for a man in shadows," the king said dryly, raising his brows, a hint of amusement in his cold eyes. "Eat quieter. Even these walls listen, Leon. And they have very long memories."
Meanwhile...
"Lovely," Lux murmured, crouching among the wreckage. Her voice carried no fear, only bitter amusement, a hint of the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.
The ruined caravan was soaked in blood and silence. Shattered crates spilled salted pork and shattered glass, glinting dully in the fading light. The air still carried the faint, metallic scent of iron and the acrid tang of burnt wood, though the fire had long died out, leaving only cold ash. Bodies were nowhere to be found—removed or devoured, a chilling silence answering the unspoken question. Yet what remained was telling. A half-full ration sack. A discarded cloak, still warm to the touch, as if its owner had just shed it. Silver coins hidden beneath a shattered barrel, overlooked in the haste.
Her eyes—twilight red, like the sky before a storm, or the last embers of a dying fire—scanned the scene with methodical precision, missing nothing. She moved with a silent grace, like a shadow detaching itself from the deeper darkness. She moved like a survivor, but thought like a predator, cataloging every detail, every potential advantage.
"They left the good stuff," she whispered to herself, collecting a few useful things into a makeshift pack — a sturdy knife, a flint and steel, a small pouch of dried fruit. "How thoughtful of them… to be so selective, so confident in their sweep." The bitter amusement in her voice sharpened.
The bandit leader hadn't even looked surprised to see her. Just… annoyed. Like she was a wrinkle in a plan long since sealed, a minor inconvenience, not a threat that warranted more than a passing glance. That dismissal, more than the carnage, fueled a slow-burning rage within her.
She secured her thick braid, a rope of dark hair that fell past her waist, wrapped the soldier's cloak around her shoulders, the coarse wool a sudden comfort against her skin, and stepped into the forest's embrace. The wind whispered above her, rustling through the ancient leaves, a mournful song. The forest swallowed her whole—no footsteps, no rustle of leaves, no broken twigs. No farewell.
Just silence.
And the promise of return, a silent vow whispered on the wind.