Adelaide’s mind blew apart like a flock of crows startled at dusk.

Rockridge’s news hit like a dam bursting, a brown river smashing through her skull.

In a heartbeat, needles pricked her wrist in a storm so dense it numbed; her breath dragged heavy, thicker than after unleashing Crimson Frenzy, a wet rope around her throat.

Shame flooded first; she wanted to whirl, clutch Mira’s shoulders, demand if Rockridge’s words were true—yet shame crawled like frost, and courage shrank; she didn’t even dare turn.

Thoughts tangled like wires, blender blades shredding what remained, and she only wanted to run—anything to drown that noise like rain on tin.

…Ah. The scroll in Rockridge’s hand.

To distract herself, she grasped at that straw and looked up; the ink on the vellum carried her own hand, a familiar tide-curve of strokes.

She stood blank as a winter statue, trying to recall how it had drifted here.

She was never careless; she knew the risk of leaving Blood Magic on paper, so each scroll bore a unique sigil. Without her blood, any hand would trigger self-immolation, a white moth into ash.

She had never slackened, meticulous to the bone—except for that recent time. Hunting the spell Toka had hinted at, she’d rushed; the sanitarium summons fell like a sudden gale, and she lacked time to reseal every scroll.

That single loosened knot unraveled every veil she’d woven, turning cover into smoke.

“If the public learns the High Tribunal’s silent, righteous ‘mystery,’ the one who cleaned the underground labs, is a Blood Mage who can singlehandedly unleash legion‑grade Blood Magic—akin to the demons of old—what then?”

Rockridge’s words fell, and murmurs rippled from the second‑floor rails like wind stirring reeds; Adelaide lowered her head and let a thin, bitter laugh slip, a thorn under the tongue.

His purpose stood naked now, a trap sprung in daylight.

He had gathered reputable witnesses, slit her identity open before them, and aimed to remake her into a blade against the High Tribunal and the Red Orchid Society. And her own house…

The “disappointment” was a fig leaf; her parents had sent her to the sanitarium to crack her vault and pluck its proofs. They’d seen her value in the current chess game, turned her into a bargaining chip, and sold their daughter to trade for Rockridge’s patronage.

She didn’t hate them now; irony tasted like cold tea. She’d been naïve, believing blood‑ties would grant her a soft bed and quiet years once she failed to become the princess consort.

It was her fault; ever since she found the dragon’s head Lahman had tailor‑made for her, she should’ve known—tonight’s weave was a snare spun for her throat.

Chaos in her mind began to freeze, not from clarity but from exhaustion; spirit and flesh sank like stones, too tired to struggle.

Mira must have heard rumors and chose to act, to pull eyes off the true line. But against her own notes, any defense felt like paper in rain.

“Enough…”

Adelaide closed fingers around Mira’s sword hand and eased the blade outward, a petal pushing past thorns.

She wanted to yield, but resistance tightened; she was spun half a turn, a strong arm catching her at the waist, and she met Mira face to face, breath to breath.

“No… you’re my hostage, Adelaide. Don’t you run!”

Adelaide froze. Mira’s sword still kissed her throat; it trembled yet held, clinging to the story she’d thrown to the crowd—that the villain wore Adelaide’s mask.

But what meaning was left? She was exposed under a noon sun; the Knight Order must have ringed the manor by now. She’d be hauled to a royal cell; no play would change minds.

She meant to tell Mira so, but the words died at her lips, because she saw Mira bite down, saw those eyes flicker like lamps in rain.

Mira’s gaze wavered, lids wet with grief and guilt, sea‑blue eyes locking on Adelaide and stealing her breath like a tide.

Since the birthday ball, Adelaide had tried to read those windows of the soul, hoping for the blueprint behind them; when Mira finally met her stare without flinching, she found no clockwork scheme. Only one simple thought, clean as a bell.

Don’t give up.

It was almost a plea. Mira wasn’t calm; she was flustered, and at near‑zero distance Adelaide felt the fear humming—fear she would drop everything, accept the ending carved for her.

But why… why wear that look for me?

In your eyes… what am I, Mira?

Even knowing Mira’s aims, Adelaide drifted into fog again. Her frozen thoughts cracked, like a dead courtyard receiving a sudden kitten, pawing at the lone weed in the bricks and waking an itch.

She wanted the answer.

Riding that small, warm itch, Adelaide spoke again.

“I don’t know what you’re saying… it hurts so much, please—save me…!”

She cried to the crowd. Meaning might be sand, yet she chose to act with Mira to the last note.

She didn’t need to feign weakness; after consecutive Crimson Frenzy, her voice was genuinely thin, a willow bent by ice—an easy victim’s tone, simpler than the old sickly‑heiress mask. She joked at herself in the quiet of her heart, and with the hand hidden from Rockridge, she slid an arm around Mira’s waist and leaned in.

If this mischievous god had written such an ending for her, she would not leave the stage wearing despair.

Yes—if not that, then let her steal a little more of Mira’s warmth before the curtain falls.

Thinking so, she tightened her hold. Seeing her rally, Mira’s face lit with surprise, then flushed at the sudden closeness, dawn touching fresh snow.

Adelaide drank in the blush and let a rebellious smile curve her mouth. Pity the nettlesome man behind them refused to let go.

“I’m happy to help you too, Miss Adelaide—so long as you prove your innocence.”

Rockridge’s slow, timeworn voice brushed her skin like dry paper, and irritation crossed Adelaide’s face. She didn’t answer; she let out another pained sound and flicked her gaze to Neprah, a quick sign—help, if you don’t want the royals holding the knife.

He finally shook off the shock. He hesitated for a beat, but he wasn’t the simpleminded muscle fool he used to be. The High Tribunal hadn’t told him the mystery was Adelaide, yet the talk had shown him the end if she were taken.

So he lifted his chin and thundered at Rockridge, voice like a drum in storm. “You’re out of line, old man. No aptitude means no aptitude. I could say you’ve got Blood Magic aptitude too—can you prove you’re not a Blood Mage right now?”

“Neprah, a person can’t prove the absence of a magical aptitude,” Rockridge nodded, eyes like slate. “But one can prove what one has. Miss Adelaide need only condense a bead of water with water mana, reaffirm the Mage Appraisal’s result, and her innocence stands.”

Neprah stalled, breath snagging. He stole a glance at Adelaide and caught a silent no.

Adelaide had rushed here barebones, with barely any battle offerings; she certainly hadn’t brought that death‑row brain tissue fluid. Neprah could only bluster, voice raised like a shield. “Don’t be ridiculous! Does she look like she can cast right now?!”

Against Rockridge’s airtight reasoning, Neprah’s shout barely scratched stone.

Doubts rustled through the crowd by Rockridge, leaves in a dry grove. He looked pleased. With the game in hand, he didn’t answer Neprah; instead, he turned to the silent man beside him—Samir.

“And you, Your Majesty—what do you think?”

Neprah stiffened and looked to Samir at once, a bird sensing hawk‑shadow.

“Alexander, think this through…”

He spoke, but the bottom fell out of his tone. Rockridge was forcing Samir to choose, and with the tilt so one‑sided, anyone could guess his side.

Sure enough, Samir ignored his brother. He cut a glance over Mira and Adelaide, then spoke steady, a judge’s hammer.

“Adelaide must be weighed on the scales of justice.”

Neprah and Mira sagged with despair, but Samir didn’t stop; he drove the stake deeper.

“She will be placed under the High Tribunal’s supervision until the day of judgment.”

Silence pooled, cool and deep, across the room.

Adelaide was first to catch what Samir was building.

He called for the scales, but he was buying time.

As long as she wasn’t locked straight into a royal vault and walled from the world, there was room to turn. The High Tribunal could delay the trial; in that span, she could deal with them, release what she knew bit by bit, and claw for advantage. Done well enough, the tide could flip.

In truth, Adelaide had never killed; shaping her into a guilty‑shouldered hero wasn’t impossible.

Of the three brothers, he was the only one who wore glasses; in wit, he stood steadier than his younger brother. Adelaide smiled inwardly at that. And because she’d thought it, Rockridge thought it too.

His eyes narrowed, a knife‑slit—his first truly serious look tonight.

“With evidence this conclusive, I don’t believe a trial’s necessary.”

“No. On the contrary, Emperor Belior founded the Tribunal to keep us from such snap judgments.”

Rockridge lifted the scroll, parchment cracking like old bark. “Some evidence can’t be denied, Your Majesty. The corpse fragments remain in Miss Adelaide’s secret room even now.”

“They could also be private interest.”

Samir pushed his gold‑rimmed glasses with a finger, sight cutting to Rockridge’s guests like a cold beam.

“For example, Matilda beside you borrows Einmeier Trading’s name every year to ‘import’ dozens of beautiful boys from small nations, then turns them into specimens when she’s bored. By your standard, why don’t you accuse her of being a Blood Mage?”

As the king’s words left his lips, the crowd erupted like a pond struck by storm. Matilda, named by him, went iron-blue. She flung up her hand, sausage-thick finger stabbing at Samir, then collapsed, high blood pressure snuffing her like a candle.

It wasn’t his revealing her secret that set her off; that wasn’t the thorn. Those quirks are an open secret among nobles, a hush shared like perfumed letters passed in shadow. But saying it out loud, as Samir did, strikes like a hammer on ceremony.

Neprah stared at his brother, shock bright in his eyes, then the doubt melted like frost. He burst out laughing, clear as bells, because he knew what it meant. Samir wasn’t reasoning with Rockridge; he was throwing a straight punch. In other words, Samir, the Empire’s king, had chosen the reformists’ side.

That truth drained the color from Rockridge’s face like dusk falling. He tapped his cane; chatter fell still, not from awe, but from an invisible field blooming from him. Air turned to glue; every motion slogged like wading reeds. The air wasn’t truly thick; the domain did it—the space itself refused outside changes like doors barred from within.

Innate Magic Domain—Repulsion Field.

Inside it, any act against the caster’s will gets smothered, even mana. That’s how Rockridge withstood the dispel in a dragon’s roar and forced a legion-tier spell to slay Dalahaman’s dragon.

“Finally dropped the act, old fossil!” Neprah shouted toward Dalahaman, excitement crackling like sparks. His timing made the intent plain; Neprah showed no fear, wind mana gathering around him like a rising gale.

Almost everyone looked baffled, Adelaide included; faces clouded like a brewing storm. Even with “Extreme” earth-water aptitude and that Repulsion Field, Rockridge was a bruiser; but they weren’t alone. They had Neprah and Samir. Even without Adelaide fighting, Mira sat over a Time Domain, a clockwork throne; losing seemed impossible. So why strike with no chance to win?

A prickle of wrongness bit Adelaide first. She felt the blade at her throat sag, and saw an unnatural flush bloom on Mira’s cheeks. Next heartbeat, Mira let go of Adelaide’s waist and covered her mouth, coughing hard. She fought to control it, but bright red leaked through her fingers like a cut petal.

Only then did Adelaide catch the eerie, familiar flute in the air. It was the same wicked melody that had bound Skela in the underground lab.

“What did you do!”

Rockridge watched Adelaide lose her cool; his wrinkles folded, like a fan opening into a smile. “You didn’t think it was just to change her hair color.”

Adelaide grasped he meant the surgery after the modification; real killing intent surged like winter steel. In that instant she forgot she couldn’t kill, even forgot to hide her Blood Magic affinity. She almost called her Bloodsword—if Samir hadn’t moved first.

Samir snapped his fingers; a thin rope of fire kissed Neprah’s gathered wind mana, shaping a burning war eagle. Inside the Repulsion Field, any spell hits like a muted drum, so Neprah fed wind to Samir’s fire for a combo. He meant to slam Rockridge, but after the eagle flew a few meters, Samir jerked the fire-cord. The spell swung ninety degrees and dove toward the floor.

The war eagle of storming flames detonated against the stone.

“What are you doing!”

Neprah shouted at Samir, anger sharp as broken glass. Samir ignored him and turned to Adelaide. “Go. Don’t look back.”

Adelaide froze; a crack raced to her feet; stone tiles splintered and fell like brittle ice. In the next breath, she and Mira dropped into the dark.