In the summer of Imperial Year 4025, sunlight was scarce, rain relentless, and famine spread like blight.

It had been nearly a year since Chief Justice Padini, speaking for the High Tribunal, approved the Royal March Order.

During that time, Crown Prince Samir took the throne. His studies weren’t done. So, by a will Richard VI had penned while alive, Minister Rockridge was named to aid him and govern in his stead.

In his eighties, Rockridge became the empire’s de facto regent. Great affairs fell to his hand like reins in a storm. The March Order, most weighty, moved under his lead.

In two short months, imperial troops, under the banner of punishing Hakadi, leveled Dalahaman. The place turned to a man‑made hell.

Not without cost.

In Dalahaman’s deepest reach, they stumbled on a dragon, a guardian the old tales swore had watched that land since antiquity. It stood with Hakadi’s remnants and fought to the last ember.

Thousands died. In the end, Rockridge himself stepped in. He cast legion‑tier magic—spells like falling suns—to bring the dragon down.

He turned that blood‑price into grounds for nationwide martial law. In the name of prevention, he inked lists of “likely rebels”—groups and regions. Refuse to yield what he wanted, and he’d march in, “quelling rebellion.”

War‑smoke rose across the Sarman Empire. A once‑in‑a‑century spell of foul weather hit. Furrows drowned, and wide fields went to waste.

It was the empire’s first modern famine. Public anger climbed like vines over ruins and took shape as the Red Orchid Society’s rapid rise.

After Hakadi’s annihilation, Second Prince Neprah went again to Dalahaman. He saw the ruin and held his tongue for a week. Then he shifted the Society’s course, joining social efforts actively, and he toured the nation with speeches, the dust of ruins clinging to his words.

He didn’t flinch from denouncing Rockridge’s tyranny in public. Straightforward and bold, his charisma rang like clear bell‑metal. Support flooded in.

The Red Orchid Society grew from a student club into an influential political body. They even drew several Council families as backers. In a short span, their roots bit deep enough to tug at imperial domestic policy.

But that move split him from his brother, the face of the Crown. Alley whispers said Neprah wanted the throne. Fear spread like damp through stone.

In that unrest, Hazel sat in her small room. Rain hissed outside for half a month, and the cloud‑packed sky held no moon. She worked tweezers and scalpel through mushy yellow tissue, each cut releasing the fatty stench.

She was preparing. She knew the drizzle was only the herald of a coming storm.

Thump. Thump.

A dull knock sounded. Hazel’s hand paused. She didn’t answer.

After an indeterminate span, the handle turned. A man’s steps thudded on the wooden floor. Hazel kept on with tweezers and blade.

“You haven’t come home for a long time, Hazel Padini.”

His voice held no warmth, as if he spoke to a stranger.

Hazel answered without lifting her head.

“I’m fine here. Who knows how many wronged souls circle the Padini manor, crying injustice. Better to sit with corpses than go back, Father.”

“You’re angry. Why act so childish.”

…

Heat rose under her ribs. Hazel finally lifted her head from the bench, looking at her father as she took off her glasses.

“Yes, I’m furious. The Chief Justice Padini, who should stand for justice, chose to pass Rockridge’s March Order—he sold that man hundreds of thousands of bodies in disguise. Is that reason not enough? Not ‘reasonable’?”

Her voice climbed two notes. Her eyes fixed on him, hunting for a ripple on his face.

He replied without emotion.

“The March Order’s passage was inevitable. Rockridge murdered the royal physician and held a full chain of evidence to indict Hakadi. The gears were already set for war. Once he sat as regent, even if the Tribunal opposed it, he could force the order through with the Council.”

He turned his head. Hazel followed his gaze to the small wood carving on her nightstand. Her pupils tightened.

“I simply brought that future forward, to block his other target. Nothing unreasonable in that.”

Yes, her father’s choice was right. If the order couldn’t be stopped, resisting was useless. By approving it early as a bargaining chip, he forced Rockridge to publicly affirm Skela’s innocence, binding his hand against her, trading a slice of flesh to save the heart.

Hazel knew her father was reasonable, as always.

If you want to protect something, you keep giving ground.

“…Get out.”

Hazel closed her eyes, drew a breath, and dismissed him.

Padini looked at his daughter’s trembling shoulders. He said nothing. He turned and left.

Hours crawled by after that. The rain held. New tissue replaced old on the table. Jars and vials filled her sack, and the stench of fat and the iron tang of blood seeped into every corner.

Thump. Thump‑thump‑thump. Thump‑thump.

The knock came again, this time with a pattern.

Hazel packed the last scrap into a jar and tied off the sack.

“Door’s not locked. Come in.”

“Okay~”

The handle turned. The wooden door swung. A white‑haired beauty in a wheelchair rolled in. As always, she wore that harmless, gentle smile, a porcelain mask. Every gesture was elegant yet shallow, like a noblewoman bred for political marriage.

Lovely, kind, soft, refined—she looked like no threat. You saw her and let your guard down. That was Adelaide’s usual mask. But Hazel’s face wasn’t its usual “tired of trouble.”

Adelaide had barely entered when she saw Hazel standing, holding that heavy sack of jars.

She blinked, then smiled. “No wonder you’re my dearest friend. You know what I want without a word~”

She reached for it. Hazel lifted her arm slightly, just high enough that a seated Adelaide couldn’t reach.

“…?”

Adelaide arched a brow. The unusual gravity in the room seemed to chafe.

“What’s wrong?”

“Adelaide, you’re a Blood Mage, aren’t you.”

Hazel stared into Adelaide’s blood‑red eyes, searching for a thread.

“…Quite an excessive accusation, dear friend.”

“You’ve taken so much material from me. I should’ve seen it sooner.”

Adelaide toyed with a lock of hair. The path traced by her pale, slender fingers looked like the draft of a spell circle.

“Why think that? I’ve always told you it’s just my private collector’s quirk.”

“Ordinary necrophilia can’t make flesh in jars vanish into thin air, Adelaide.”

At the memory of how they’d met, Adelaide’s hand paused.

“How unexpected. I thought you’d forgotten.” She shrugged. “So? You throw this over‑the‑top accusation—are you jealous of how close Skela and I are? Ready to report me, ruin me?”

Hazel ignored the teasing. Her gaze didn’t budge.

“No. I’m asking you—for our years together and for all you’ve taken—to agree to one thing.”

“Oh? What thing?”

“Just for tomorrow, be my sword, Adelaide.”

Adelaide’s eyes narrowed. Since they met, this was the first time Hazel had seen confusion in those red eyes.

After a brief silence, Adelaide waved a hand.

“I refuse.”

She turned her head. The faint circle traced by her hand faded like breath.

“Suppose you’re right, and I’m a profane, pitiful Blood Mage. Even then, I’ve no need to obey you.”

…

“Don’t think to threaten me. As you hold my handle, I hold yours. If the public learns the Chief Justice Padini’s only daughter is a little otter soaking daily in corpse solution, what will they think? Will they still trust the testimony you gave in court?”

Her wheelchair reached the doorway. Hazel, who’d fallen silent, spoke again.

“Don’t you want to know what they did to your sister?”

Adelaide’s hand on the wheel stopped.

“Tomorrow night, I’m going to investigate a place.”

Hazel tossed the sack. Adelaide caught it one‑handed.

“The address is in the bag. If you’re coming, meet me there when the moon is one‑third full.”

Adelaide said nothing. She didn’t look back.

After a brief silence, she left Hazel’s room. The air held only the sound of rain hitting earth.

And Hazel knew her road tomorrow wouldn’t be walked alone.