Midnight draped the back garden of Tommis Manor; a rare guest stepped across the dew.

“I want to walk alone. Fall back.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The royal attendants answered, but they didn’t slip from sight. They held the garden entrance like lanterns in the dark, watching anyone who might come to speak with Samir.

Cold anger pricked behind Samir’s eyes. He turned into the unlit yard. The imperial mantle—once on his father’s shoulders—flowed like shadow, wrapping him whole.

Since graduating from Holywell Academy and taking the crown, Samir had rarely strayed beyond the palace walls. He came out now for the five-year Financial Summit. By tradition, the great houses of the Sarman Empire take turns hosting state banquets. This cycle belonged to the House of Tommis.

To show good faith, His Majesty would welcome the guests himself. That reason was clean and proper; even the Regent approved in public.

But the other half of his reason, Samir hadn’t told anyone.

He turned past a gardener’s perfect hedge, and found a small pavilion buried in the garden’s depths. No lamps burned here. Only silver moonlight sifted through leaves, spangling the ground with star-like speckles and giving peace a stray, shifting face.

Neprah sat in the pavilion, and waved him over.

“Hey.”

He didn’t bow to the King. He hauled a chair beside him, like inviting any passerby for afternoon tea.

“How’s it feel to breathe fresh air again?”

A tangle tugged at Samir’s chest. Familiar, and strange.

He was still built like a wrestler. The blond hair hadn’t changed. But everything else that once shouted royal blood had been pared off.

He wore a red-and-black coat. The cut differed from a standard Red Orchid Society uniform, but the fabric was plain—no hand of a royal couturier. Where skin showed, it was wheat-brown, the sun’s brand from long days of open-air speeches.

More than that, his face had changed. The bull-headed youth, all charge and proof, had burned off. He still carried a rogue’s ease, but the old, aimless heat had settled into a steady, unswerving gaze.

Their eyes met. Samir’s fingers tightened without asking.

“What’s with that look? Those lapdogs at the gate don’t want you talking to our side, fine. Don’t tell me you feel the same.”

“You called me here. Say it.”

“Straight to it. Good.” Neprah sat up. “I—and we—want you to refuse the early marriage.”

It was expected. If they dragged him out now, it was for this.

Samir stood in silence for a long time, then shook his head.

“No.”

Neprah’s eyes sharpened.

“Letting him set your wedding date admits you—King of a realm, heir to Emperor Belior’s blood—are that old dog’s private toy. You get that, right?”

“If I refuse, there’ll be no more kings of Belior’s blood at all.”

Neprah froze. Then he understood, and his hand trembled. He set his cup down, and tea black as blood slopped over the lip.

“So Father… he always knew about the underground lab, didn’t he?”

Samir’s quiet confirmed it. Neprah clenched his teeth, pressed his brow, and groaned like a wound.

“Why… why would he do that?”

He threw his face to the sky and asked it. Rage blew through the dam. Veins rose. His fist hammered the table. Brass screamed as it warped.

Neprah shut his eyes and breathed. Half a minute later, his gaze found Samir again.

“We have to stop him.”

“Then everyone will know the sins in our blood. They’ll deny what our name stands for.”

“Then let the Belior line bear the punishment it’s earned.”

The certainty in him drained the color from Samir’s lips under the moon.

“How can you say it so lightly? That’s everything we have.”

“Lightly?”

Neprah held him, unblinking, on that word.

“Lightly?” He stood, stepped in, heat pressing like a forge. “No. You just haven’t been called ‘the blond demon.’ You haven’t had a starving old man claw your shoulders, with eyes that would eat us alive.”

Nightmares rattled out of him, slick with cold sweat—hate laced with fear.

“You sit in your little castle and seal your ears against the world, guarding what’s already rotten, because the family handed you the First Heir’s privilege—”

“Shut up, you idiot!”

Samir’s roar cut him off.

“You never had to mind the house. You did what you wanted, went where you wanted. No kneeling before the Emperor’s statue to recite the family catechism. No being locked in your room for a wrong answer on an exam. The family gave you all the freedom, and you call me privileged? You’re the privileged one, Pat!”

Blood threaded the whites behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Since Richard VI’s death, he hadn’t broken like this in front of anyone.

“I… I’m the King. When I took this mantle, I swore to guard everything of our house. People like you, who never carry weight, won’t understand…”

He turned away. The imperial mantle felt like iron stone, breath crushed under it. He wanted to leave, to get back to his room—the only place he could take it off—

“What about your own vow?” Neprah’s voice came from behind.

“I told you, I’m the King—!”

“No. Not as King Belior. As yourself. Alexander—the vow you made.”

Samir’s steps stopped.

Alexander—a name that felt foreign even to him.

Like “Pat.” They had only called each other by their middle names, once. That was long ago. When Neprah rebelled, “hey” replaced everything—even “Samir” was rare.

But he knew. However long it had been, only his brother would call him that.

He turned, slow. Neprah’s eyes flickered black fire in the night.

“You swore in your own name to Adelaide. You promised that, once you took the crown, you’d return Mira her freedom, let her decide her fate. And the brother I know would never break a vow.”

He stared straight into Samir. Under that steady look, there was no dodging.

He waited for an answer. Samir knew it. But the weight inside him pressed until nothing came.

No. Don’t falter now. Stand firm. As a King—

Boom!

A thunderous blast cracked the night. Both men turned toward the sound.

It came from the direction of the palace.

—

Adelaide’s palm slammed to her chest. The lunging serpent tail blurred, then slowed like syrup. Pain bit as blood drained; panic flared first, then she ran—stumbling, light-headed.

With her strength-sigils gone, there was no glyph to lift those thin arms and legs. Even in Crimson Frenzy, she escaped Rahman’s strike by a hair’s breadth.

She looked ragged, no doubt. Crimson Frenzy bought her ten meters of space, maybe more. Then it ebbed, and she had to brace against the wall, breath ragged, knees shaking from motion she hadn’t asked her body for in too long. Rahman saw it and didn’t rush. He stroked his scales, and his slit reptile eyes glittered with a sneer.

“With a skill that sharp, you use it to run. A person like that isn’t fit to be my ‘companion,’ Miss Adelaide.”

She lifted her head. Pride steadied her breath. She smiled back, voice ringing down the corridor.

“Is that so? I’d say you and I are alike in more ways than one.”

Rahman blinked, then dipped his chin. “Go on.”

“For one, like me, you’ve got talent that stands shoulder to shoulder with your siblings. But because you’re a Blood Mage by birth, you were barred from even sharing their stage.” Adelaide spread her hands. “Isn’t that absurd? You’re a variant-magic adept. Who doesn’t get pampered by the Academy, woven like a Savia Rose garland? With a different element, everyone would call you the strongest of the three crown heirs, wouldn’t they?”

Rahman chuckled, shaking his head, almost weary. “Disappointing. I thought you’d bait me with something smarter. Your acting at the Academy was much better.”

He glanced at Mira, still unconscious where Adelaide had laid her gently against the wall. “It’s because of your sister, right? Mention her, and you lose your cool—turn stubborn and naive.”

“Mm… maybe? She and I are just like you and your brother.” Dark red light bloomed in sigils on both her hands. “Annoying blood ties. Think of them, and you want to slap a table. You know that feeling, don’t you?”

“No. I’m not you—I’ve never spared those two idiots a thought.”

Rahman spoke, and his tail lashed at her again. Adelaide crushed a sigil in her left hand, pressed it to her chest, and leaned into the burn.

Dizziness swarmed as her blood fed the magic. She slid under the strike as Crimson Frenzy bent time, then ran, fingers already sketching sigil-trails in the air. In her head, she counted how many Frenzies she had left.

If she hadn’t misread her body, there were two more casts’ worth of blood. Any more, and she’d pass out from anemia.

Two more dodges. Not a pretty number.

She bit down, heart stabbing, and pulled more distance. As Frenzy faded, she called out again.

“Fine. You’re right—there’s a difference. Different families, different luck. You had a father who knew you were a blasphemer’s child and loved you anyway. I wouldn’t dare dream of that.”

His smile finally folded, cut to the cheek.

“Oh, wait. My mistake. You joined a Blood Mage outfit and assassinated him, didn’t you? Poor Richard VI. If he knew what his favorite youngest son did, his face would be sour as vinegar. By the way, allow me one quiet question—the gaze I felt from the window that night was feverish. You… didn’t do it yourself, did you?”

Adelaide dragged out the last note. The scales at his neck bristled in answer. Her fingers snapped; baby-tooth shards hidden in her sleeves smoldered to ash. Rahman surged straight at her.

Now—Adelaide pressed her left hand to her heart. Her right, hidden behind her this whole time, snapped up to sight Rahman, like a drawn bow finding its mark.

Her sharp, high, compressed chant was doubled by Crimson Frenzy. The bowl-sized array bloomed like ink in water. A forest of hounds’ teeth surfaced in the air and locked the circle shut.

This way, he’d be hit before he even touched her. Her fingers flicked like sparrows, guiding mana to his chest. But as she loosed the power, the bone spurs crawling in slow motion on Rahman’s body flared a strange yellow.

Dread surged first, hot as a coal in her throat. She slid aside on instinct.

The illusion of time-paused under Crimson Frenzy snapped like ice. A blade of orange flame carved the space she’d just vacated. A blast cracked the room, and rubble peppered the newlywed furniture like a hail of bullets.

Rahman stood in the room’s center, head dipped, breathing like a lizard in heat. The scales below his navel were scraped clean, raw as skinned bark. Before flesh could fully show, new scales flowed in and sealed the wound like frost knitting glass.

Her spell had drifted. That dodge had thrown the array’s correction off track. There was no helping it; a brushstroke once broken leaves a scar.

She glanced at the gaping wound blown in the wall, gasping, a bitter smile tugging at her lips.

“Ha… I figured you lot wouldn’t dare scuff your ‘precious conduit’.”

He turned his head. Seeing her sway like she might faint on her own, he squinted, then relaxed. “Your acting’s worse, but your tongue’s getting harder.”

“I’ll take that… as a compliment…” She snorted, then coughed, the sound dry as gravel.

She played the brat, but the tide had already heaved to Rahman’s shore.

Unlike when she’d stormed the underground lab in full kit, she’d been dumped into the family sanatorium without warning. No time to restock offerings. No time to plan beyond a rough sketch. All she’d brought were low-grade, portable offerings—teeth and bones clinking like poor man’s dice.

The spell she’d used was Rabid Hound’s Fangs, a clean decomposition of tissue. It was one of the fiercest strikes she could still field. It ate nearly half her offerings. All it did was strip the dragon scale off his hide; the body beneath barely felt a draft.

He seemed to grasp her limit. A cruel smile curled up, a snake about to toy with a mouse.

“I can’t kill you, Miss Adelaide. But let me fix one thing—you heard right. I can’t kill you. Whether you’re short a few fingers or a tongue isn’t my problem.”

She set her stance again and crooked a flashy finger at him. “Then by all means—try.”

“Foolish.” He sighed, almost regretful. His scales flared and settled, then he bared the bone spurs in his hands like twin pale knives.

Adelaide locked onto his coiling frame. She drew a deep breath. Her fingers trembled like reeds in wind.

One last try left.

He pounced, all whipcord and hunger. Her right hand traced the same arc through the air as before, mirroring the last exchange. She fired Crimson Frenzy and Rabid Hound’s Fangs in the exact same order—save for one choice. She didn’t dodge those spurs barreling at her. She poured everything into the array.

Shnk.

A bone spur speared her scapula with a teeth-aching rip. She couldn’t hold back the grunt. Blood flecked her lips. Rahman drove her back and pinned her to the wall like a butterfly.

At that same breath, the array in her hand flared red. Because she’d never flinched, the shot didn’t skew this time. Countless fangs surfaced from the void, rushing Rahman like a starving pack.

So, a death gamble? His slow-motion grin mocked her. He let those fangs peel the scales from his belly and tail. He had an Ancient Dragon’s boon. His armor grew back in half a heartbeat. A momentary breach meant nothing—unless someone else could match Adelaide’s speed and land the second hit in that window—

Wait. Someone else… keeping pace…

His grin froze. Adelaide’s mouth bled, yet she was smiling brighter than he was—bright with the same scorn reserved for a fool.

Crimson Frenzy ended.

The electric crackle of a blade returning to its sheath whispered in his ear. He stared, unbelieving, at the figure wrapped in blue-violet lightning. Heat bloomed from his groin and belly, then detonated into pain.

A third of his abdomen was gone. Viscera hung like ropes from the bite of the wound. His tail was cut in two. He dropped from the air and splashed his own blood like crimson rain.

“Im… possible…!”

Detached pieces boiled into slush. He dragged his head up out of his ruin and saw golden hair, a shine that matched his own.

“Mi… ra!”

He rasped her name, but the girl didn’t even look back. She rushed to Adelaide and caught the pale woman as she sagged.

Only then did he understand. Everything she’d done—even the loud taunts at the start—was kindling laid for this exact spark.

When he loosed that first draconic roar, Adelaide had already plotted the path. The Elenoru bloom used to brew her anesthetic was itself a monster. Its fluids were a marriage of mana and reagent. When Rahman dispersed the arrays on Adelaide, he also broke apart the anesthetic inside Mira.

Adelaide had noticed Mira waking from the very start. The drug had failed, but a body takes its time crawling back to feeling. So she hammed it up, even took the hit herself, to keep Rahman from seeing Mira whisper-cast in the margins—until the moment she struck the killing stroke.

Fine, she had to admit the last beat was a gamble. She didn’t know if Mira, once awake, would choose her side. She had drugged the girl, after all… But the warmth on Adelaide’s back right now said enough.

She let her eyes close, heavy as dusk. Inside, joy rippled like sunlight on a pond.

She’d not only guessed right; she hadn’t lost her touch. She stole his gaze, made him set down his guard, and watched him bare his weak seam. Satisfaction purred in her chest—then a sharp, numbing sting bit her shoulder.

Her breath hitched. A faint smell of scorch curled in the air.

Mira was cauterizing her shoulder with a tremor of lightning?

Warmth flooded Adelaide’s heart at the thought, but panic nipped its edges. What now? What should she say? She’d never planned for Mira to wake midstream, much less to fight the Third Prince Rahman at her side.

What to do? Maybe… like last time underground—play dead and call it a day—

Cold brushed her throat, clean and metallic.

She didn’t need to open her eyes. The same Mira who had fought beside her and tended her wound now had a sword resting on her neck.

Her thoughts snapped like a severed kite string. Her hands and feet went cold. Then, by her ear, Mira’s voice fell, word by steady word.

“Don’t speak.”