“Then the intel’s ready, stitched neat by my men. Please look it over, Sister.”

Nero tipped a finger behind him. Jasmine lifted the file like a cat crossing ice and carried it to Fenrir, every motion tight as a drawn bow.

In truth, her tautness hadn’t begun with Fenrir’s arrival. Since that meeting with Senro, her nerves had been a bowstring under an unseen cloud.

“Please review.”

She offered the file with both hands, bowed like polished jade, then returned behind Nero. The flawlessness itself drew a curious glance from Fenrir.

Fenrir took the file and skimmed fast, ignoring Nero and Zhe’s low murmur. Arcane Power traced circles on the pages like fireflies gliding over ink.

“Nero… I don’t plan to meddle in your calls, but about that person…”

Zhe kept his voice like mist hugging ground; only Nero’s side could hear. Even Fenrir would need Arcane Power to catch it.

“Don’t worry, Zhe. If we’re talking about reliability right now…”

Nero’s gaze slid to Fenrir like a blade to its scabbard. Zhe sighed, wind through reeds, tuned his Arcane Power, and watched her like a hawk.

“Little Nero, you trust Sister that much? I’m a true Titleholder. Even these aspiring Titleholders couldn’t hold me back.”

A short while later, Fenrir closed the file. She leaned in, elbows on the table, chin in both hands, a playful smile like a blade under silk.

“You didn’t bring your scribe, only Duke Dion. That’s trust enough. I won’t be that petty.”

Nero waved lightly, but his guard stayed up like a shield behind his back. Out of respect for Duke Dion, he’d kept both guards and killers off the board.

Who doesn’t know the Dragon Princess’s fame? From court to camps, her name rides banners on every wind. Reason? A crown heir who wins, almost never tasting defeat.

If not for her harsh hand and no mercy to nobles, she’d draw even more houses. In a fight like this, winners and losers show like peaks after rain.

“I truly miss the capital,” Fenrir said, voice like dusk. “Aside from those two idiot brothers, everything was bright. Nero, as your sister, I’ll ask one last time—won’t you give it up? Be someone who keeps clear of power…”

Nero saw it: sincerity pooled in her eyes like winter water. If he stayed out of politics, he could be a free border lord—wine and wind—shielded by the crown.

With her name, as long as he never challenged the capital, he’d share peace with the royal house. He smiled, then cut the thread before it wound tighter.

“Sister, why press it?”

His voice was tired sunlight. He met Fenrir’s gaze without flinching.

The struggle for the throne is a mudflat; step in, it swallows your boots. Wear the mask of a useless hedonist at the start, and you rest under a king’s shade.

But Nero had stepped in already; the mud held his ankles. Guilds, banks, and bloodlines behind him were anchors; they would never let go.

He was their spokesman. Their rise was his rise; their fall was his fall. Choose the wrong banner before a new crown, and the storm comes.

Even if the new ruler keeps hands clean in public, knives move in the dark. Shadows are busy when drums fall silent.

Against commerce: pinch the roads, pressure counties, raise costs—each turn tight as a screw. Against families: cut industries, strip titles and lands, send troops to the front—examples pile like stones.

If Nero agreed to retreat, the two behind him would object first. Besides, fire still burned in him—unfinished work, the highest throne, a tight fist around the reins.

Fenrir sighed and rose, breath like a fading ember. “Then I disrespected you, Nero. You’re the same as ever—once you choose, you never let go, even if you shatter on stone. I hope next time we don’t meet in arms.”

“I hope so, Sister.”

She slipped out of the command tent, red eyes holding dusk’s melancholy. Nero sat, words snagged like fish on a line; his nail had sliced his palm, a thin red leaf of blood.

“Nero, should we send a few men…”

Zhe’s words came like sparks, but Nero only shook his head. Jasmine glanced over, puzzled—Nero was not soft; after table talk, deeds should follow like thunder after lightning.

“No. The one outside training the soldiers—Duke Dion. Guess his strength?”

Nero let out a slow breath and sank against the chair, head tipped back, gaze on his two companions like starlight on a pond.

“Strength… a Titleholder? Even a Titleholder, we could—”

Jasmine peered through the tent flap. The older man in uniform stood like an old pine, bark rough, heart green. He roared at Nero’s soldiers, yet his aura stayed sealed; no stray pressure bled out.

“A Demigod,” Zhe cut in, voice cold as dew. “And one who’s brushed the laws of the Heartscape.”

A bead of sweat slid beneath his hairline. Jasmine’s eyes widened, disbelief fluttering like a startled bird.

“Right,” Nero said. “You finally saw it, Zhe. Duke Dion’s an old noble, seasoned by two reigns. Back when I lived in the capital, he taught me and Fenrir the sword.”

“His insight could make court tutors bow their heads. We learned more than blade-work; we drank deep from a wider well.”

Nero stood and waved toward the commander outside, a casual salute like a feather over steel.

“Check the family histories—his feats read like epics. If he hadn’t been injured mid-breakthrough during the capital’s rebellion, that general who tried a coup might’ve been crushed without Lord Senro lifting a hand.”

“His pull in the army was too great; so he stepped down early and took up idle pastimes, keeping the wind off the flames.”

“Then why is he with your sister?” Zhe asked, worry like a tight drum. “A figure like that is a mountain on any side. Our spies never saw it.”

“He hasn’t taken her side,” Nero said. “He’s half-retired; it’s no wonder your scouts missed him. I don’t know why he’s accompanying her today, but he swore a blood oath never to meddle in the struggle for the throne.”

Zhe flicked orders through a magic array, sigils pulsing like ripples. He sat back, brow shadowed.

“Could he be here to look into the plains?” he said. “Half-retired makes it plausible. If he stays out yet voices a stance after, for claimants like you, it could be disastrous.”

“Exactly,” Nero said. “We have to settle the plains fast. We’ve lost contact with Aphelia, but the fresh watchers say she’s heading to the temple.”

“For now, we throw our weight behind Number Two. At least reach the temple when Aphelia does, rendezvous, and end it quickly.”

He drew a scroll, the vellum whispering like dry leaves, and had Jasmine scribe. He pressed his aura into the seal like heat into wax.

“As for Fenrir, let those half-true reports stall her a while. If she misreads the field and draws Hydra’s eyes for us, our road clears faster.”

Zhe nodded, a small wave meeting the shore. Nero’s plan covered the angles; only details needed stitching.

As they finished and moved to leave, Zhe paused, a thought snagging like a hook. “By the way, Number Two’s been replying with scrolls for a while. He hasn’t used the comm array. Remind him this time, so we don’t trip an accident.”