The palace courtyard stirred with life as Reinhardt's carriage came to a halt. Servants bowed in perfect unison, their gazes fixed to the ground as the emperor descended, his golden hair catching faint glimmers of the late afternoon sun. His steps were unhurried, almost casual, yet each one carried the weight of command.
From the crowd, a distinguished nobleman stepped forward, an elderly figure with a sharp gaze, his assistant trailing dutifully behind. The noble bowed, measured and formal.
"Welcome back, Your Highness," he said, voice even. "It seems your journey was brief this time."
Reinhardt's lips curved into a light smile, but his eyes remained unreadable. "Brief, yes," he replied with an easy tone. "But then, all of you seemed rather eager to summon me back. One might think you missed me." His gaze flicked toward Teodore, his smile widening by a fraction. "Isn't that right?"
Teodore straightened, his face giving nothing away.
Reinhardt gave a small chuckle, a sound as polished as crystal. "Shouldn't a man be allowed his rest now and then? It's hard to enjoy a holiday when I'm chased back to the throne so quickly." His words were playful, but there was an edge to them, veiled like steel wrapped in silk.
"The capital needs its emperor," Teodore answered steadily. "Now that you bear the crown, Your Highness, duty must come first."
Reinhardt stepped closer, laying a hand lightly on Teodore's shoulder. To anyone watching, it looked almost fraternal. Yet beneath the touch lay an unspoken reminder of hierarchy. His emerald eyes met Teodore's, calm and unwavering.
"Of course, duty first," Reinhardt agreed smoothly. "Though… if I'm kept endlessly busy, I wonder—how would my loyal subjects find the time to plot among themselves?"
The words were spoken so casually it was difficult to tell if it was jest or accusation. But Teodore's assistant stiffened, his composure cracking under the weight of the implication. Reinhardt's gaze lingered on him for the briefest moment, noting the nervous twitch of his hands, before returning to Teodore.
"So tell me," Reinhardt continued lightly, as though making idle conversation, "how goes your progress? I imagine Count Lances is reluctant to lend his military strength for that little venture at the mana mines near West Port, isn't he?"
For the first time, Teodore's mask faltered—his eyes widened by a fraction. Reinhardt's smile deepened, though it never reached his eyes.
He gave Teodore's shoulder two gentle pats, like a father imparting advice to a son. "A word of caution, as your emperor. When you move in secret, be sure your allies are truly bound to you. Influence from the old kingdom runs deeper than you might think. History has taught us that, hasn't it?"
The words hung between them, soft and measured, yet heavy as lead.
Teodore held his silence. Anything he said would only bind him tighter to the snare already around him.
Reinhardt let his hand fall away, stepping past with the same easy grace he had arrived with. Servants quickly fell in line behind him, following their emperor back into the palace.
Only when his figure had vanished through the great doors did Teodore's calm facade crack. His hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into his palm.
"I… I'm sorry, my lord," his assistant whispered, his voice trembling.
Teodore exhaled slowly, regaining control of his voice. "It's nothing. Even if you had stayed silent, he would have known. He always does."
The two men exchanged a tense glance, then turned their eyes toward the palace.
"Investigate his visit to the Vaelthorn manor," Teodore murmured, his voice low and deliberate. "It is no coincidence he chose to go there. Find out what he was doing."
His assistant nodded quickly and slipped away, leaving Teodore staring after Reinhardt's shadow, his eyes cold with suspicion.
The golden afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of Reinhardt's chamber. He entered without haste, dismissing the servants with a flick of his hand, and reached into his inner pocket. A folded letter lay hidden there—a secret report delivered from Robert.
Reinhardt unfastened his outer coat, letting it slide from his shoulders until he was left in a crisp white shirt. He sank into the high-backed chair beside the fireplace, the flames crackling softly, casting restless shadows across his face.
He unfolded the letter. Robert's handwriting, carefully encrypted, flowed across the page. Reinhardt's eyes scanned it quickly, his expression shifting as he read:
"K's condition is improving, though a slight fever lingers. The fragments are affecting him in ways I cannot explain. But something ill has occurred. D made a move, and they did not hesitate to harm K."
The emperor's grip tightened on the parchment, veins standing out on the back of his hand. His jaw set, and for a moment the calm mask he always wore cracked into something darker.
"Even at home…" he muttered under his breath, fury barely contained, "he is still their target."
A sharp sigh left him, and he cast the letter into the fireplace. The paper curled in the heat, blackening to ash until no trace remained.
For a while, silence filled the room, broken only by the rhythm of his finger tapping against the chair's armrest. Then—without sound of footsteps or door—the air shifted. A shadow detached itself from the wall: a figure dressed head to toe in black, face hidden behind a mask. Reinhardt's personal assassin, silent as mist, dropped to one knee.
"You called, Your Majesty?"
Reinhardt crossed one leg over the other, leaning back with the unhurried poise of a man accustomed to power. His voice was low, deliberate, leaving no space for hesitation.
"Go to Delcra Castle. Protect him. If anyone dares harm him—or his companions—you have leave to kill."
The assassin bowed once, wordless, and vanished as swiftly as he came, leaving behind only the faint stir of disturbed air.
A knock at the door followed. Servants entered, bustling quietly to prepare him for the court session. Layer by layer, they draped him in formal attire suited for the throne. Reinhardt remained still, his thoughts elsewhere, until another servant entered bearing a tray of scrolls.
"The reports for today's court, Your Majesty."
Reinhardt plucked one scroll at random, unrolling it with practiced ease. His eyes scanned the report. A flicker of amusement tugged at his lips—it was about the spread of malicious rumors concerning the mysterious death of Hero Kael.
A laugh escaped him—sharp and sudden. The sound made the servants startle, eyes wide with unease. They had heard that laugh before. It was never harmless.
He rolled the scroll back with deliberate slowness, a smile curving his lips as though savoring the thought. "They never fail to amuse me," he murmured, "whenever I turn my gaze away for a moment…"
He handed the scroll back, his smile polished, concealing the sharp edge beneath. "Make this the first matter for today's discussion," he instructed smoothly. Then his voice dropped lower, colder: "And have prisoners with death sentences dragged to the court. I believe their presence will… clarify a few things."
The servant bowed quickly and departed.
-----------------------------------------
The Imperial Court was already alive with chatter when Reinhardt's approach was announced. Ministers and councilors filled the chamber, their whispers dying down as the throne room doors swung open.
Before the emperor's arrival, another figure had already commanded attention: Teodore. As the guardian of the South Gate, his presence alone drew respectful bows. He moved with calm dignity and settled near the throne, his sharp eyes sweeping the chamber.
Three seats of the four guardians stood empty. His gaze lingered on the one marked with the crest of Delcra—the seat given to Hero Kael. Since the day Reinhardt had honored his fallen friend with the rank, the chair had remained untouched, a hollow monument to his supposed death.
Teodore's lips tightened faintly.
"Vaelthorn and Chesly are absent as well?" he murmured to his assistant.
"Lady Elric has been reported at the North Gate, my lord, and Lady Iris remains occupied with her Academy."
Teodore's eyes narrowed. Suspicion stirred in him. Elric's absence was unusual; she almost always accompanied Reinhardt when he returned to the capital. To have her missing now, alongside Chesly, gnawed at him like a puzzle missing pieces.
"This is why I despise commoners elevated beyond their place," he whispered with disdain, his gaze fixed on the empty seats. "They climb high, yet they know nothing of proper court discipline."
The assistant bowed his head but dared no reply.
And so the chamber filled with murmurs once again, waiting for the emperor's entrance. Above them all, the empty seat of Delcra stood silently, a ghost at the table none dared name aloud.
The chamber doors opened wide at the guards' announcement.
"His Majesty, Emperor Reinhardt!"
Silence rippled through the court as every minister, noble, and councilor rose to their feet. Heads bowed low, all eyes drawn toward the man entering. Reinhardt's steps were unhurried, his face as unreadable as polished marble. No one could discern whether he was pleased, angered, or indifferent—his expression was a mask that concealed everything.
Before approaching the throne, Reinhardt stopped. His gaze settled upon the vacant chair marked with the crest of Delcra—the seat that once belonged to Hero Kael.
As always, he bowed slightly toward it. The room held its breath. To the courtiers, this ritual was a testament of deep respect: the emperor paying homage to his sworn brother, the savior of their empire, the man the world believed dead. A gesture that only deepened the people's admiration for him.
Only Reinhardt knew the truth.
He straightened and continued forward, cloak brushing the floor as he ascended the steps and seated himself upon the throne. His leg crossed over the other, and he leaned back with effortless confidence.
"Welcome home, Your Majesty," one minister said smoothly, a smile tugging his lips. "How was your journey to the North?"
Reinhardt's own smile unfolded, refined and disarming. "Ah, marvelous. I've grown rather fond of the northern lands. The winter air… it suits me well. Perhaps I should visit more often. Why don't you join me? A little rest amidst the snow might ease your mind."
A few ministers chuckled nervously. The tension in the room lessened; Reinhardt's tone was gentle, his charm disarming. For a fleeting moment, they thought the court might pass without a storm.
But then his voice sharpened, velvet wrapping a blade. "Or perhaps," he continued softly, "the blizzards there might help close your eyes to the suffering of my people? Convenient, wouldn't you say?"
The laughter died. The minister's face paled, his lips pressed into silence. No one else dared speak.
Reinhardt's smile faded. His eyes, cool and steady, turned toward the steward. He plucked a scroll from the tray—one he had already read before arriving. Slowly, deliberately, he unrolled it.
"I've received a most curious report," he began, his voice carrying clearly through the hall. "It claims that Lord Kael's death was orchestrated by a demon cult… a cult that he himself once led."
Gasps rippled through the assembly. Reinhardt continued, tone deceptively amused.
"They say he died not honorably but as a traitor, cut down by his own followers. Remarkable, isn't it? They even claim to have proof."
He let the scroll fall from his hand, the parchment fluttering to the marble floor. His gaze swept the court, sharp as a blade beneath the calm surface.
"Tell me," Reinhardt said softly, "are you all so old now that you forget everything I have ever spoken in this chamber?"
No one answered. No one dared. Whispers broke out only in the corners, ministers trembling at the weight of his words.
Reinhardt raised his hand slightly. The guards understood at once. The doors opened, and three prisoners were dragged into the hall, chains clinking against the stone. Forced to their knees before the throne, their bodies shook with fear.
The court's murmur deepened into dread. Everyone knew Reinhardt's temper when it came to Kael.
The emperor rose from his throne with deliberate slowness. The chamber seemed to hold its breath as he stepped down. With a gesture, a spear materialized in his hand—a weapon summoned from the air, gleaming in the dim light.
The prisoners flinched as he approached, his steps measured, his grip firm on the weapon's shaft. He stopped before them, lowering the point of the spear to hover over their trembling forms.
"Let me guess…" Reinhardt's voice was calm, almost conversational, though each word carried lethal weight. He leveled the spear at the first man. "Smuggling drugs, weren't you? Corrupt trade routes, poisoning my people."
The man whimpered, unable to answer. Reinhardt tilted the spear to the second.
"And you," he said, voice tightening, "human trafficking. Selling lives as if they were cattle."
The man choked, trembling uncontrollably.
Finally, Reinhardt turned the spear to the third. His brows arched ever so slightly, as though entertained.
"And this one… ah, how interesting. A serial killer, is it? How many lives have you stolen?"
The prisoner's body shook violently under the weight of his gaze. His lips tried to form words, but no sound emerged.
Reinhardt smiled faintly, cold and polished. "Damn… what a collection we have here."
He straightened, spear still in hand, eyes flickering briefly toward the court. No one moved. No one breathed too loudly. For they knew—when Kael's name was insulted, Reinhardt was not the emperor who ruled them. He was the executioner.
The three prisoners knelt at Reinhardt's feet, chains rattling as their bodies shook. None dared to speak, their eyes fixed on the marble floor.
Reinhardt tilted his head slightly, his spear resting casually in his hand. His smile was calm, almost gentle—yet his voice carried a chill that silenced even the whispers in the hall.
"Why are you trembling?" he asked softly. "Surely, it is no different from when you committed the crimes that brought you here. Or is it only now, when the end stands before you, that fear takes hold?"
The prisoners swallowed hard, unable to answer.
Reinhardt's gaze shifted from them to the assembly. "Who was responsible for capturing these three?"
A pause. Then Teodore lifted his hand. "It was I, Your Majesty," he replied firmly.
Reinhardt turned, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly on the old man. "And where were they caught?"
Teodore stepped forward, unflinching under the emperor's gaze. "Near the southern gate, close to the capital. My men have been hunting them for some time. At last, we caught them."
There was no fear in his tone. Teodore knew Reinhardt's wrath was not meant for him—not today.
Reinhardt gave a small nod, turning back to the kneeling criminals. His voice lowered, heavy with finality.
"Then you should be grateful," he said, "that I will be the one to pass judgment on you."
The first prisoner lifted his head slightly, only to meet Reinhardt's cold eyes.
"Kael saved this world," Reinhardt said, his voice rising with a sharp edge, "yet men like you dare to stain his sacrifice… and poison my empire with your filth."
Without hesitation, Reinhardt drove his spear forward. The steel tore through the man's chest. A wet gasp escaped his lips before his body collapsed lifelessly, blood pooling on the marble floor. Reinhardt withdrew the weapon with a flick, not even glancing at the corpse.
His steps carried him to the second. The man's lips trembled, but he could not form words. Reinhardt looked down at him with contempt.
"Kael wished for a world of freedom," he said coldly. "But you—selling human lives—you sold freedom itself. You denied others the very thing he bled for."
His spear pierced the man's throat in a single strike. The prisoner struggled, choking on his own blood before falling still. Reinhardt stepped back, watching without emotion as life drained from his eyes.
The final man broke. He collapsed forward, clutching at Reinhardt's leg, sobbing uncontrollably.
"P-please… forgive me! I don't want to die—I'll change, I'll—" His words dissolved into panic.
Reinhardt looked down, utterly unmoved. He leaned slightly, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade. "Pathetic."
The spear plunged into his chest, ending his pleading with a single, merciless thrust. The man fell, still clutching at Reinhardt's boot as his body went limp.
Reinhardt pulled the weapon free, the crimson blade gleaming under the torchlight. He turned slowly to face the assembly. The court was utterly silent—every minister, every councilor, frozen in their seats.
No one dared to breathe too loudly.
With deliberate calm, Reinhardt wiped the blood from his weapon and let it vanish back into the air. His voice, when he spoke, was composed, almost soft again.
"Let this court remember: Kael's name will not be tarnished. His sacrifice will not be mocked. And those who dare attempt it…" His gaze swept the room, sharp enough to pierce bone. "…will share their fate."
The silence stretched long after his words faded, the corpses still bleeding at his feet.