The marble floor was still stained faintly red when the servants finished dragging the corpses away. Buckets of water sloshed as attendants scrubbed, their eyes averted from the throne. The court resumed its session, but the atmosphere hung thick, every word weighed down by the memory of Reinhardt's merciless execution.
Not a single minister dared to mention Kael again.
When the session finally dismissed, the councilors filed out one by one, their footsteps hushed, their eyes lowered. Soon the great chamber emptied, leaving only Reinhardt sitting leisurely upon his throne, one arm draped along the rest, his chin balanced against his hand.
A lone set of steps approached.
Teodore.
The emperor tilted his head as the older man came forward. A smile curved Reinhardt's lips—arrogant, almost mocking.
"Well, Lord Teodore," Reinhardt drawled, his emerald eyes sharp with amusement. "Everyone else scurried away trembling after today's little… display. But you…" He leaned forward, his smile widening. "…you dare to stand before me."
The tone was arrogance laced with sarcasm. Yet beneath it, there was a flicker of genuine intrigue.
Teodore met his gaze without hesitation. "Why should I fear, when I have done nothing wrong, Your Majesty?"
Reinhardt let out a short laugh. "Ah… 'nothing wrong.'" He echoed the words with relish, as if savoring them. "Well, you are correct. You have done nothing wrong." He straightened slightly, his voice dipping low with calculated weight. "…Not yet."
His smile never faltered.
"So then," he went on lightly, "tell me, my dear Guardian of the South… what brings you here? Surely not to compliment me on my theatrics."
"I wish to discuss the three criminals you executed," Teodore replied firmly. His voice was steady, deliberate—without a trace of hesitation. "I believe they are connected."
Reinhardt's brows arched, but his smile remained. He reclined against the throne again, as though listening to a pleasant tale. "Connected, you say? Hm. Entertain me, then."
At his signal, Teodore's assistant stepped forward, presenting a neat stack of documents. Reinhardt took them without hurry, eyes scanning the coded reports.
A faint hum of amusement left his throat. "Interesting." He looked up, his smile cutting sharper. "You do know how to entertain me, Lord Teodore."
He shifted, no longer lounging, but leaning forward in his seat. His voice dropped, smooth yet edged. "But… surely you wouldn't hand me such an interesting story without expecting something in return." His eyes glinted, dissecting Teodore with calm precision. "So tell me… what is it you want from me?"
Teodore remained standing, unflinching. His tone was simple, direct. "What did you do in Vaelthorn?"
For the first time, Reinhardt's smile dimmed—not from shock, but from dissatisfaction. He had expected bargaining, perhaps ambition. Not this.
"…Vaelthorn?" he repeated, voice coldly curious. His emerald gaze narrowed. "Haven't you already sent your shadows to pry into me? Or…" His smile returned, slow and poisonous. "…did your little spies fail you?"
A subtle twitch crossed Teodore's brow. A slip—unwanted, but visible.
Reinhardt laughed. A rich, mocking sound that echoed through the empty chamber. "Hah. This is delightful, Lord Teodore. You reveal your weakness without me lifting a finger. Truly… hilarious."
He rose from the throne, his movements unhurried, graceful. His spear did not appear, no malice radiated from him—yet his presence alone pressed heavy in the room.
He stopped beside Teodore, close enough for their shoulders nearly to touch. Turning his head slightly, Reinhardt's voice lowered to a murmur, silk-wrapped steel.
"I merely visited old friends. This court, as you know, is not a place for honest conversation."
Teodore's eyes narrowed. "Duke Elric, then?"
The only names that fit were Elric and Iris. Robert, Reinhardt's own brother, was harder to place—if Reinhardt even counted him as such.
Reinhardt did not answer. He only smiled.
A hand landed firmly on Teodore's shoulder. "Then I bid you goodbye. Have a pleasant day, Lord Teodore."
He walked past him, his cloak brushing the stone floor, leaving the chamber with the weight of his presence lingering behind.
Teodore stood still, staring after him, his mind turning. For all Reinhardt's words, nothing was answered. And yet, that silence was more dangerous than any reply.
-----------------------------------------
The echo of his boots followed Teodore down the long marble hallway of the palace, but his mind was still inside the throne chamber. Reinhardt's last words clung to him like smoke—"I merely visited old friends."
His jaw tightened. Old friends?
The first thought that stabbed him was scandal. Could it be Lady Elric?
But even as the idea rose, he dismissed it. Reinhardt had never shown the slightest interest in women. In fact, he had humiliated and executed noblewomen who once tried to seduce him, making an example of their ambition. And besides—Reinhardt's reverence for Kael was absolute. He would never touch Kael's fiancée, not even under the guise of politics.
Then perhaps… Robert? The emperor's only living blood relative. Yet Reinhardt's coldness toward his brother was no secret. Robert had fled to Vaelthorn for a reason. Whenever they met, Robert's unease was palpable, as if standing too long in Reinhardt's shadow was suffocating.
"Did you uncover why His Majesty visited Vaelthorn?" Teodore asked at last, his voice low, sharp.
His assistant, walking a pace behind, shook his head. "No, my lord. The Vaelthorn manor is too tightly guarded. Our men struggled even to get near. It's as though the household has shut itself away from the world."
Teodore slowed, turning sharply to look at him. "What do you mean? Vaelthorn lies far from any border. Their estate has always been considered secure."
"Yes, precisely." The assistant nodded, his own voice wary. "That is what makes it so unusual. Their security has doubled—perhaps tripled—these past months. And… what is more troubling, my lord…" He hesitated before continuing. "After Lady Elric's last visit here, His Majesty sent Viscount Jaesper to Vaelthorn. Personally."
Teodore stopped walking altogether. His brows furrowed. "Jaesper? The Tower's leader?"
"Yes. And as we both know, the Viscount obeys no one except those of loyal blood. Yet he went without protest."
Teodore's lips pressed into a thin line. "Perhaps… Prince Robert fell ill. The Viscount is a master of healing arts. That would explain it."
The words came out with forced reason, but even as he said them, his mind rebelled. Something in his gut told him that was not the answer. Too many threads wove together in the dark, and Reinhardt's movements were never without purpose.
"Continue the investigation," Teodore ordered, his voice like flint. "If His Majesty hides something at Vaelthorn, then it may be the weakness we've been waiting for."
He resumed walking, his cloak brushing behind him. "And send word to Lady Elric. Inform her that I intend to pay a visit to her estate. Quietly prepare my belongings."
The assistant bowed deeply. "As you command, my lord."
Left alone in the hallway, Teodore clenched his fist. His eyes burned with determination. Reinhardt is hiding something… and when I uncover it, the balance of power may finally shift.
What he did not realize was that far away, in the emperor's private chamber, Reinhardt already knew the exact shape of his thoughts—waiting patiently, as always, three steps ahead.
Reinhardt watched Teodore's retreating back. He did not need spies or hidden ears to guess the man's thoughts—he had already predicted them the moment Teodore dared stand before him.
"What a fool," Reinhardt murmured to himself, voice barely above a whisper. The corners of his lips curled, not in amusement, but in cold disdain.
A quiet step halted behind him.
Viscount Jaesper knelt, bowing his head low. "Your Majesty."
Without turning, Reinhardt's eyes remained fixed ahead. "Did you complete the investigation I sent you from Vaelthorn?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." Jaesper unwrapped a bundle of thick cloth and revealed a blackened dagger, its surface pulsing faintly with a sinister energy. "You mean this dagger. I examined it thoroughly. Its mana is indeed malignant."
At last Reinhardt turned, emerald eyes narrowing at the weapon. "Explain."
Jaesper's tone sharpened with grim interest. "This mana is subtle. Too thin for ordinary people to notice. But once it grows thick enough to be sensed… it will already be too late. It is fortunate Your Majesty intercepted it while its aura was still weak."
Reinhardt's gaze darkened as he studied the dagger. "Is it the same taint the Demon Cult uses?"
The Viscount shook his head. "No, Majesty. This is different. This mana is not of human origin. It resembles the raw mana of demons themselves—born from the Demon Realm. No ordinary human should be able to wield it."
Reinhardt's smile faded, his brow twitching slightly. "What do you mean?"
"You told me the intruders dissolved into ash when you and Lady Elric cut them down," Jaesper continued, tone almost eager. "That reaction is not human. I suspect they are not cultists who worship demons… but men who have been remade into demons themselves."
Reinhardt's eyes narrowed to slits. So the cult no longer worships their god—they become him. A far greater threat than zealots. A puzzle even Kael would not have anticipated.
"If we manage to capture one alive," Reinhardt said slowly, his voice edged with steel, "can you uncover what they truly are?"
Jaesper's lips curved into something too close to a smile. His eyes gleamed unnaturally. "Yes, Majesty. But I require them unbroken. Give them to me directly. If you minimize their injuries, I can… test them. Push them. Perhaps they will become the most fascinating subjects I've ever studied."
A flicker of disgust passed Reinhardt's eyes at the man's glee, but he smothered it beneath his polished calm. "Very well. I will try to catch them alive next time."
That single promise sent sparks across Jaesper's gaze. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I cannot wait." He bowed deeply before retreating with hurried steps, clutching the dagger like a prized treasure.
When the chamber fell silent, Reinhardt looked down at his gloved hand. A sharp pain spread through it, and crimson seeped faintly into the pale leather. His smile faltered.
Without hesitation, he strode quickly down the corridor, avoiding every wandering gaze, and pushed into his private quarters. The heavy door slammed shut behind him.
He tore the glove from his hand. Blood smeared across his palm. His breath hitched, uneven, as he stumbled toward the basin. The sight of it repulsed him—his own hand, drenched in red. He scrubbed it beneath water as though filth clung to his very skin.
But the more he rubbed, the clearer the memories became.
His mother's lifeless body, small and broken, cradled in his child's arms. Kael's torn figure, drenched in blood, lying against his chest after the final battle. Too much red. Too much loss.
His knees gave way. Reinhardt collapsed against the cold marble floor, trembling hands pressed to his chest. Sweat clung to his skin, his breath shallow and ragged. He forced himself against the wall, holding it as if it were the only anchor keeping him from shattering.
This side of him—fragile, haunted, human—no one could ever be allowed to see. Not his court. Not Robert. Not even Kael.
In the silence of his chambers, the emperor buried his weakness in the shadows, gripping his chest until the tremors finally dulled.
Tomorrow, the mask will return.