PART IV: The Trap
The mud beneath Nex's fingers was still damp with morning dew as he carefully erased the final traces of Actaeon and Tazan's message. Each stroke of his palm across the earth was deliberate, methodical—not just erasing words, but obliterating the last evidence of their desperate plan.
Twenty days of servitude had led to this moment. Twenty days of swallowing his pride, of bending his neck, of becoming invisible. Now, finally, it was time to disappear entirely.
Around him, the camp stirred with the lazy rhythm of soldiers grown too comfortable. Guards slumped against posts—some still heavy from the previous night's celebration, others merely going through the motions of vigilance.
The Black Swamp battle had ended four days ago, but its aftermath lingered like smoke—four nights of blood and fire, followed by three uneasy days of silence as they waited for the Dark Knights to arrive.
Nex rose after deleting the texts from the mud, brushing the dirt from his hands. Across the camp, barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom, Tazan caught his eye. The giant nodded faintly before disappearing between tents.
Later that morning, inside Abigail's tent...
Inside her tent, Abigail slept with the peaceful expression of someone convinced she was in control. Her angelic white hair caught the faint light filtering through the canvas, creating a soft halo around her face. She pulled the blanket closer, a small frown creasing her brow—the same troubled look Lucy had when haunted by dreams.
The memory hit him like a physical blow. His godmother. One of the few who'd truly cared for him, who fussed over him when sick, held him when nightmares came. Lucy, now far away in the capital, hopefully safe from the chaos consuming the empire.
For a moment, watching Abigail sleep, he could almost see that same vulnerability, that humanity he had loved in Lucy. But the illusion shattered as quickly as it formed.
This wasn't Lucy. This was the woman who had smiled while drugging his water, who watched him collapse and declared him dead to the world. The woman who reduced a prince to a pet, handing him scraps and patting his head when he obeyed.
His voice was low, cold. "Abigail."
No response. She shifted slightly, breathing deep and even.
"Abigail." Louder now, but still controlled.
Nothing.
"ABBY, WAKE UP!"
She groaned, blinking against the dim light. "I'm up, I'm up—would you stop yelling at me, Brother?"
The words hit him like lightning. She'd called him brother. Not Servus. Not nothing. Not Nex. Brother—for the first time in his life.
His face twisted as emotions long buried surged back. She had stripped him of everything—his identity, dignity, existence. His whole life, she treated him with silence, like he didn't exist, less than human.
And now, in that fragile space between sleep and waking, his name slipped from her lips like a confession.
The weight of hearing it crashed over him like a wave. His chest tightened, then loosened. A breath he didn't realize he'd been holding escaped. For a moment, he was just Nex again—not Servus, not slave—but the boy who once called her Abby and meant it with affection.
Abigail blinked fully awake, and realization hit her like a slap. He was the only one who'd ever called her Abby as a child, and hearing her own words echo between them made her stomach clench with something unnamed.
"Don't tell anyone," she said sharply, panic lacing her voice. "Especially Alexander. If he hears, I swear—I'll do worse things to you than Grandfather did to criminals."
"I wouldn't want anyone to know either... Princess," Nex said quietly, voice low and tight with controlled rage—the roar of a caged lion not yet tamed.
Without another word, he stepped outside into the chill morning air. Above him, barely visible in a tree branch, Actaeon pretended to sleep—one eye cracked open, winked, then shut again.
It was time.
Meanwhile, as the camp began its morning routine...
The camp's morning bustle provided perfect cover as Nex made his way back to the slaves' tent. Fresh clothes awaited him—a necessity for their journey to Lumen, where appearances mattered as much as politics.
As she began preparations, the camp's rhythm grew with the rising sun: guards changed shifts, cook fires crackled, conversations drifted between tents. Everything looked normal—routine—exactly as needed.
She had barely begun to undress when heavy footsteps approached. The sound sliced through the morning air—purposeful and angry. Alexander barged in, the canvas flap snapping behind him like a whip.
Startled, she stepped back toward her cot. The morning chill followed, raising goosebumps on her skin, making her painfully aware of her vulnerability.
"Alexander! What the hell?!"
His face was red as hot iron, jaw clenched tight enough to see the muscles jump. "When were you planning to tell me you were going to Lumen by yourself—with that cursed thing?!"
She stepped into his space, anger flaring to match his. "I'm not going alone. I have two Royal Guards—more than enough protection."
Leaning in, eyes sharp as blades, she growled, "And if you ever enter my tent again unannounced, I swear on my honor as Imperial Princess, I'll shove that two-handed sword of yours so far up your—"
Running footsteps cut through the tension, shouts growing closer. Both siblings froze, tension crackling as urgency neared.
The tent flap burst open. A breathless, wide-eyed guard stumbled in, sweat beading despite the cold.
"Your Majesties! Forgive the interruption, but the Dark Knights—they're about to cut off a guard's hand!"
The words hit like cold water. Whatever their private argument, it was suddenly insignificant.
Abigail blinked, then met Alexander's glare with a shrug. "Go do your job. I'll do mine. I need to be in Lumen today."
She stepped close enough for him to feel her breath, voice dropping to a whisper that could freeze blood. "Yes—with that cursed thing. If you have a problem, escort him yourself... since you're so eager to decide his fate."
Knowing he would never accept, she pushed past him, out of the tent. He stood, fists clenched in impotent rage.
She mounted her horse and waited for Nex, having dispatched an imperial guard to fetch him once he was ready.
As Nex appeared, dressed all in black with gold edges and the crest of House Tara—a minor noble family from the east that had fallen from grace—his golden-brown hair and sea-blue eyes complemented the outfit perfectly. Of course, Abigail had picked it out herself, wanting it to remind him of his miserable childhood while still looking refined enough to impress the Lumen nobles.
But his face told a different story—still streaked with mud, dirt tangled in his hair, and grime beneath his nails from a week spent digging trenches.
"This won't do. You wear the clothes of a noble, but you have the face of a beggar." Abigail's voice was sharp, almost theatrical. "Go to the lake and wash yourself. Take Actaeon with you—he'll lead the way."
She turned to the imperial guards, her tone snapping into command. "You—fetch three more guards to accompany them. Make sure Grunt is one of them. And if they try anything funny…" she smiled coldly, "tell Grunt he can do whatever he wants with them."
"Understood, Princess." Nex bowed, a slight exhale escaping his lungs as the tension in his shoulders eased. Abigail noticed the shift—subtle, but not lost on her. Still, she saw no reason to be alarmed, so she let it go. With a graceful dismount, she stepped down from her horse and moved to wait for him to return from the lake.
As Nex approached the tree, he called up, "Actaeon! Come down and lead us to the lake."
A lazy groan drifted from the branches. "Why should I? It's east—go there yourselves."
The guard escorting them sighed. "It's Her Majesty's order. Now come down and lead us, you squirrel."
Actaeon swung down with a loose, unbothered grace—only to catch sight of Nex.
He stopped mid-step. His eyes took in the black and gold noble attire, the eastern crest gleaming proudly on Nex's chest… and then the mud-caked face, the sweat-matted hair, the filth still crusted under his nails.
A strange, choked noise slipped from his throat—then he burst out laughing. No sarcasm, no performance—just full, uncontrollable laughter. He leaned against the tree, struggling for air, pointing at Nex without managing a single word.
Nex blinked… then, just barely, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Actaeon truly laugh. Not scoff. Not smirk. Not snort. But laugh. For a moment, the weight of command, mud, and blood slipped from his shoulders.
"Her Majesty is waiting," Nex said quietly, nodding toward the nearby storage tent.
Actaeon, catching the gesture, drew in a breath to settle himself. His grin didn't fade. "Well then," he said, brushing dust off his coat, "we shouldn't keep her waiting, should we?"
He fell into step beside Nex, laughter still echoing faintly in his chest as they turned toward the lake.
Minutes later, at the camp's center...
The walk to the camp's center felt longer than usual—each step weighed down by anger simmering just beneath Alexander's calm exterior.
The camp itself seemed to hold its breath; the usual bustle and chatter had quieted to an eerie hush. Soldiers glanced nervously at one another, some gripping weapons tighter, others casting uneasy glances toward the gathering crowd.
As Alexander followed the guard through the maze of tents, whispers faded to silence. Even the crackling fires seemed to dim, shadows stretching longer under the growing tension.
They reached the circle formed around the Guard and the captain of the Dark Knights. The camp's guards stepped aside, clearing a path with hesitant reverence.
The Dark Knights, however, remained unmoved—standing tall and resolute, their stoic gazes daring Alexander to challenge them.
A soldier, barely able to keep his voice steady, pleaded, "Please, Your Highness… don't—don't make this worse."
The soldier's words hung like a fragile thread in the thick, suffocating silence—a silence that screamed louder than any battle cry.
He stepped into the circle, the tension sharp in the air.
There, he came face to face with an old knight—a deep scar cutting across his left eye, stretching from brow to jawline.
The wound looked fresh, angry—almost alive. It pulsed with pain, as if still echoing the blow that caused it.
"Since when do the Dark Knights' authority exceed that of a prince?" someone muttered under their breath. "They usually obey with unwavering loyalty…"
Prince Alexander didn't wait for silence. His voice cut through the whispers like a blade.
"Not this one," he said coldly, eyes locked on the scarred knight. "He always has something more important than loyalty to carry out... Isn't that right, Asura?"
Alexander's jaw tightened, his eyes locked on Asura. The air between them crackled with silent fury—neither willing to break first.
The name fell heavy in the circle, drawing stillness from the air itself. Asura didn't flinch. The faintest curl of his lip suggested a smirk—or perhaps pain from the pulsing scar.
"It is Captain Asura," the knight growled, his voice gravel and fire. "Even to the empire's sun himself, you will address me by my title, boy."
A ripple went through the circle—some gasped, others instinctively reached for weapons, uncertain if this was the moment everything would unravel.
Alexander didn't blink. His jaw tightened, but he held Asura's gaze, letting the silence stretch dangerously.
"This is my camp, Captain," Alexander said, each word deliberate, sharp enough to draw blood. "My authority. You will not punish my guards without my explicit command."
His voice echoed through the circle, silencing even the wind. The soldiers watched with bated breath, caught between fear and awe.
Asura's expression didn't change, but something in his stance shifted—subtle, like a blade tilting before a strike. For a heartbeat, it was unclear whether he would bow… or draw steel.
"It is within my jurisdiction," Asura said coldly, "granted to me by the Emperor himself, to eliminate any trace of contamination by the Death Language."
At the words Death Language, the tension in the circle shifted.
One of the older soldiers stepped back, muttering a warding prayer under his breath.
Another averted his gaze from the kneeling guard, eyes wide with superstitious dread.
Asura raised his armored hand. "And that one," he said, voice cold and absolute, "was seen speaking to a corpse—whispering in the Death Tongue.
A black book was in his hand. He's since hidden it."
Alexander narrowed his eyes. "And who saw this?"
"A slave," Asura replied, without a trace of shame or hesitation. "One of the latrine crew. He reported it immediately. Described the book in detail."
Alexander's eyes narrowed further. "Who was this slave who reported it?"
Asura's gaze flickered, but he said nothing.
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. No one stepped forward to answer.
Alexander's voice dropped, sharp as steel. "No name. No witness. Just a rumor passed down the ranks. Is that enough to condemn a man to death?"
"Yes," Asura responded firmly, without hesitation.
"And yet... there is no book," Alexander said. "Just a frightened guard and a memory."
"The book was concealed. Or destroyed," Asura said. "They always try to hide the evidence."
"No!" the guard sobbed. "Please! I didn't do anything—I swear it! I never spoke to the dead—never saw any book—please!" His voice cracked under the strain.
He didn't look defiant—he looked lost, like a child caught in a storm.
Alexander studied him carefully. He had seen liars. This didn't feel like one.
"I was just... mourning. Talking to my brother's body before the burial. That's all. I—I didn't know anyone was watching."
Asura stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. "This isn't a prayer book. And the dead don't answer mourning rites. They answer summons."
"Superstition," Alexander snapped. "You see shadows and call it sorcery."
"You call it superstition because you've never heard it speak," Asura said, voice like grinding stone. "The Death Language does not lie. It stains. It leaves traces."
The camp held its breath. Even the fires seemed to burn quieter, shadows watching.
Alexander stepped closer, voice low but dripping with disbelief and sarcasm.
"So these… traces," he said, voice laced with mockery, "what exactly are they? Smoke trails? Glowing marks? Invisible stains that only you can see?"
He gave a bitter laugh. "I've heard stories. Tales told to frighten children at bedtime. Ghost stories whispered by superstitious old women in taverns."
He looked around the circle, locking eyes with several soldiers.
"No emperor has ever publicly admitted this 'Death Language' exists. No law, no decree. Just shadow tales and fear."
He shook his head, voice hardening.
"If it's real—if it stains—why do you hide it? Why keep it a secret from the very people you claim to protect?"
His gaze returned to Asura, cold and challenging.
"Or is this all a convenient excuse? A means to wield power, to silence those you deem inconvenient?"
The air thickened with tension. Some soldiers exchanged uneasy glances; others tightened their grips on weapons.
With his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, Asura's voice dropped to a dangerous growl, pleading one final time.
"The reason it's kept hidden, boy, is to stop fools from seeking its power—and losing themselves to it."
His hand twitched, betraying the barely contained fury beneath his calm exterior—a fury aimed at the entitled brat playing king on the front lines.
"Step back," he warned, eyes flashing, "and let me do my job—before I hurt you by accident, boy."
A low murmur began at the back of the Dark Knights' ranks, growing steadily louder. The tension shifted—not broken, but paused.
A figure was approaching.
And with it, something changed in the air