Grand chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow that stretched long shadows across the regal study. Outside, the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the distant hoot of owls formed a nocturnal symphony.
Seated behind his desk, Tristan withdrew a small, ornate tobacco powder box from his magical ring. Glancing toward a platinum-blonde, middle-aged man standing next to the balcony door beside him, he asked. "Fancy a pinch of snuff?"
Gilbert bowed respectfully. "I appreciate the offer, Your Highness, but I'll pass."
Tristan shrugged and took a pinch of the powder. Bringing it to his nostrils, he inhaled sharply. A rush of cool menthol flooded his nasal cavity, followed by a faint burn at the back of his throat. The bothersome thoughts clouding his mind dissolved into a soothing wave of catharsis.
He set the container aside and leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.
This… never happened in the past.
There had been no assassination during Lucien's training in the previous timeline—nor had his brother ever lost his memories.
Tristan knew he had altered many events, but he never expected the changes would reach Lucien. He had sworn to protect him this time, yet he failed miserably.
Tristan sighed and dragged a hand down his face in frustration. With Lucien's memories gone, the trust he painstakingly built was gone as well.
Days passed since Lucien regained consciousness, yet he still refused to see him.
His jaw clenched. Thanks to his dear mother, she finally succeeded in severing the bond between the brothers—just as she always wanted.
The creak of the balcony door drew Tristan's attention. Gilbert held the handle as a figure in a black robe slipped into the room.
Arriving before him, the man knelt. "Greetings, Your Highness."
Without preamble, Tristan asked, "How is it?"
The man lowered his head further. "The one who carried out the assassination is from the Liberation Agency."
Tristan arched a brow. "Them? Again?"
Previously, mercenaries from the Liberation Agency attempted to assassinate Lucien several times, but the men Tristan secretly assigned to protect his brother easily thwarted them.
What he couldn't understand was how they managed to wipe out both his high-ranking mercenaries and Lucien's escort knights this time.
Where had they found those such skilled assassins?
"Yes, Your Highness." The man's voice pulled him back to reality. "And just as you expected, the Vazquez family has secretly been their primary sponsor for the past few years. They carry out all of Duke Vazquez's and Her Highness the Consort's requests without question."
Tristan's jaw tightened, fists clenched tightly. Anger simmered within him. "So, in other words, the Liberation Agency has become my grandfather's and my mother's obedient hound, huh?"
Stillness enveloped the room as the man remained silent after his profane remark. Exhaling slowly to steady himself, Tristan leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming impatiently against the armrest. "How about the evidence?"
"The Emperor disposed of it all before the investigation started."
Tristan massaged his temples, a throbbing headache building behind his eyes. Again, it was always like this.
It was an open secret that Cyrus—the Emperor—despised the Vazquez household, yet each time his family caused trouble, he buried it without hesitation.
Just… Why?
Was it merely to maintain the Empire's delicate balance, or was there something else that he wasn't seeing?
After a long pause, Tristan broke the silence. "You've done well." He glanced at Gilbert, who nodded and stepped forward, handing the man in black a small pouch of gold. "Take it as a token of gratitude."
"Thank you, Your Highness," the man replied, accepting the bonus with a bow.
Tristan nodded. "Continue monitoring my grandfather and mother."
"Understood." The man bowed once more before slipping through the balcony doors.
As Gilbert locked the door, Tristan let out a weary sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The desire to raze the Liberation Agency to the ground burned in his chest—anything to prevent another assassination attempt on his brother.
But he couldn't.
Any conflict between mercenary agencies had to go through arbitration; launching an outright attack was strictly forbidden. Violating that rule could result in a permanent ban across the continent.
More importantly, the Liberation Agency had been established long before he founded his own. The gap in influence, connections, and reach was too vast to ignore.
His mercenary agency was his lifeline—one of the few domains untouched by his mother or grandfather. If he lost that, he would lose his only shield.
And without that shield, he couldn't protect Lucien.
"Will you be retiring for the evening, Your Highness?" Gilbert asked, cutting through his thought.
Tristan nodded. "Yes, I think I will. It's getting late."
"Understood." Gilbert stepped back and bowed. "Then I shall take my leave. I wish you a restful night."
"Thank you. The same to you."
The door closed with a soft click. Silence settled over the room, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.
Tristan stared into the darkness beyond the window, watching his own cold reflection. Then images flashed behind his eyelids—
—his sword cut through Lucien's body. The warmth of blood splattering across his face. The horror of watching his brother collapse. The silence that followed.
His body trembled, heartbeat quickening before he realized it. With shaking hands, he retrieved a small bottle from his magical ring, uncorked it, and swallowed a pill dry.
Exhaling slowly, he dragged both hands down his face.
Even now—despite turning back time—the memory of killing Lucien haunted him.
He couldn't sleep without the pills.
Lucien, I promise you. This time, I will protect you no matter what.