In a hall within the Royal Capital, Mobius lounged in his chair, idly watching the one-way teleportation array before him.

Minutes earlier, a magical message had reached his crystal ball: the Elf was captured and would arrive shortly.

He’d long grown bored of the Elf in his basement. Thirty years of the same pitiful cries had calloused his ears.

Only because this Elf had once been an adventurer—with a will stubborn enough to avoid breaking completely—had Mobius spared her for dissection.

Unlike the others before her…

Alone in the vast hall, Mobius touched the wrinkled skin of his face—and peeled it off.

A mask forged from Elf flesh, enchanted to mimic life. But after decades of use, its magic frayed; it slipped off too easily now.

Once the new Elf arrived, he’d slaughter the old one. Craft a fresh mask. Perfect it for his nearly finished…

But the thought of a *new* Elf—untouched, unknown—thrilled him far more.

He savored the slow erosion of their very souls.

Especially when he heard this one was merely fourteen—a former royal. The anticipation made his blood sing.

As visions of the trembling, golden-haired Elf filled his mind, Mobius’s face twisted into a grotesque grin.

His crimson pupils—the mark of Buchert royalty—rolled upward, baring bloodshot whites. His grin stretched ear to ear, revealing perfect white teeth. His tongue slid between them, licking his lips.

To any Royal Capital citizen, he’d look no older than twenty. They might even gasp, "*Prince*?"

Indeed, he resembled the current prince—his youngest son—younger self. Silver hair like moonlight. Crimson eyes hinting at corruption. A sharp nose, porcelain skin: undeniably handsome.

Yet that monstrous expression shattered the illusion, leaving only unease.

Magic rippled across the teleportation array. Something was coming.

Mobius smoothed his grin, repositioning the mask. But the glee beneath its wrinkles threatened to burst free.

He could already taste the Elf’s fear.

The light faded. No Elf stood there. Only the one-eyed leader of the Slave Catcher Squad, his battered team, a corpse… and a boar-headed young man with brown hair.

Mobius’s smile froze. Tilting his head, he asked, "My loyal subject… where is this King’s immortality elixir?"

The one-eyed leader knelt, reporting the failure and begging forgiveness.

After a pause, Mobius waved it off. "Fetch another Elf from the border."

As for the escaped Kaelxi—he’d lost interest instantly.

He ordered two men to guard Jack upon waking, then tail Alisha in Cesecity.

"*Kill him if he resists. He knows too much now.*"

The rest would remain in Cesecity under lockdown. Find the Elf if they could. If not—discard them.

As the hall emptied, Mobius’s mask slipped again. He caught it, already plotting.

Without a new Elf, he couldn’t kill the stubborn wench below. Couldn’t craft a new mask.

Then… he’d have to "*abdicate*." And "*ascend*" once more.

"*Poor, doomed Prince,*" he crooned, his handsome face contorting into another grotesque mask. Not a shred of pity touched his voice.

After millennia of this cycle, numbness had curdled into something far darker.

Something utterly, irrevocably *mad*.

...............

"*Damn it—why won’t it break!*" Kaelxi snarled like a feral pup, gnawing her wrist. Teeth scraped skin but drew no blood—only angry red marks.

This body recoiled from pain. *Should’ve desensitized myself on softer parts first!*

The Slave Catchers had vanished cleanly—even their blades teleported away. No weapon to slit her veins.

Vitt’s body grew colder by the second. Would her blood even work now? Panic made her teeth chatter.

Then—*crunch*.

"*Ugh!*" She clamped a hand over her mouth. Biting her tongue hurt far worse than a paper cut.

Copper flooded her mouth. *Blood*.

She knew how to save Vitt now.

That earlier kiss? A final "screw you" to the squad leader—and repayment for her debt to Vitt.

*(A debt far larger than she’d admitted.)*

But lover? No. Vitt was her brother-in-arms. Even if he *did* keep trying to grope her.

Grimacing, Kaelxi crouched and pressed her lips to Vitt’s. She parted his teeth with her tongue, feeding him her blood.

"*Please work…*" she thought desperately. "*If it doesn’t…*"

"*Rest easy, brother.*"

Miraculously, flesh knitted over Vitt’s wounds. Bone mended beneath skin.

Kaelxi kept feeding him, studying the healing. *Would it work topically too?*

His breath hitched—warm against her chin. He’d survived. She tried to pull away.

*Stuck*.

Vitt’s lips sealed tighter, *sucking* now.

Memories flashed: that night after the mines. He’d done the same—instinctively drinking once his breath returned.

*Just wait. He’ll wake soon.*

Eyes shut, Kaelxi endured the sting in her tongue—the strange, unwelcome flicker of warmth spreading through her.

Then—*hands*.

Gentle fingers cradled her pointed Elf ears.

Nerves ignited. A sensation utterly foreign shot through her.

Her eyes flew open.

Vitt’s dark eyes gleamed with amusement, locked on hers. His thumbs rubbed slow circles against her ear tips.

Kissing her *while* touching her ears? Her thoughts dissolved into static.

Fumbling, she clutched his ears in retaliation. Muffled against his mouth, she protested: "*Damn it… let… go!*"