A silver tray clinked softly against the dark mahogany table of the inner palace study.
An imperial messenger dressed in the formal livery of the Capital District dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he held up a thick, cream-colored scroll sealed with the heavy iron lion crest of the House of Abernathy.
“Your Imperial Majesties,” the messenger stammered, his eyes glued strictly to the floorboards.
“Duke Abernathy requests the honor of receiving His Grace Grand Duke Caelum and Lady Vivienne for a private family dinner at the estate tonight.”
Vivienne sat perfectly still in her high velvet chair, her fingers lightly smoothing the midnight silk of her gown.
Her dark eyes, bottomless and cool, fixed on the iron crest.
A sharp, freezing irritation throbbed within her chest.
Her father had never wanted her.
He had spent her entire childhood treating her as the unwanted, talentless daughter of a maid—a mistake to be locked away in the attic whenever royal guests arrived.
For twenty years, his glances had carried nothing but silent accusation and disgust.
So suddenly inviting her to a private family dinner after Caelum had effectively taken absolute military control of the capital?
She didn’t believe for one single second that it was born of fatherly affection.
Caelum didn’t even look up from the northern border registries he was reviewing.
His massive frame remained relaxed against the high backrest, his loose black military coat casting a long shadow across the desk.
“No,” Caelum commanded, his deep baritone carrying a rough, growling certainty that left zero room for argument.
The messenger bowed his head until it touched the carpet, scrambled backward out of the study, and shut the heavy doors in a fraction of a second.
Vivienne slowly turned her head, her deadpan gaze locking directly onto his sharp, sculpted profile.
“You didn’t even read the invitation.”
“I don’t need to,” Caelum murmured, his piercing crimson eyes slowly shifting from the registries to lock onto her face, a dangerous, possessive heat dancing within his features.
He reached out, his large, calloused fingers lightly tracing the edge of her shared armrest.
“A man who ignored your existence for twenty years does not suddenly discover fatherly affection after watching my armada take his capital. The old wolf is cornered. He is trying to smell for a trap.”
“I know,” Vivienne replied smoothly, her lips curving into a slow, ruthless smile.
Her fingers tightened against her silk.
“But we are going, Caelum. I want to see exactly what my father is planning behind those closed doors.”
~♡~
~♡~
The dining hall of the Abernathy Estate was a monument to fake warmth.
Dozens of gold-stone lamps cast a bright, artificial glow over the massive obsidian table, which was stacked high with imported southern delicacies, roasted meats, and vintage elven wine.
The heavy iron candelabras along the walls had been perfectly straightened, masking the structural damage Vivienne had caused during the engagement fallout weeks ago.
Duke Abernathy sat at the head of the table, his unhinged, ruthless expression completely replaced by a rigid, polite mask.
The golden hum of his metal magic was entirely suppressed beneath his pristine noble coat.
He offered a soft, welcoming smile—the exact frequency he used to fake whenever he wanted to please the imperial family.
“I must apologize for the past misunderstandings between us, Vivienne. The stress of the imperial succession had clouded my judgment. I am truly pleased to see you looking so magnificent.”
Vivienne sat opposite him, her hands resting flat against the dark wood, her face completely deadpan.
My dear daughter, her mind echoed grimly, a phantom weight pressing against her ribs as her past-life trauma rushed back into her thoughts.
She remembered pressing her knees against the cold stone of the execution platform, reaching for this exact man, crying out, Just once… tell me you love me.
And he had looked down at her with nothing but absolute disgust, calling her a mistake that should have never happened.
Now, he was suddenly smiling at her.
He was calling her his dear daughter because she was sitting directly beside the most powerful warlord in the North.
“You have chosen an exceptional partner, Vivienne,” Duke Abernathy continued, turning his polite gaze toward Caelum, who sat completely silent, his massive frame radiating an oppressive, suffocating heat that caused the wax on the nearby candles to melt prematurely.
“The Valerius family has always held the true teeth of the frontier. I believe the House of Abernathy and your northern army could become the strongest political force in the new empire if we stand together during this difficult transition.”
Vivienne sneered inwardly.
He wasn’t trying to reconcile with her.
He didn’t feel a single ounce of remorse for twenty years of neglect.
He was simply a cornered villain trying to secure his family’s survival by leaching onto Caelum’s power.
“There are matters concerning the estate’s iron parameters,” Duke Abernathy said, leaning forward as he swirled his vintage wine, his voice dropping into a lower, confidential tone.
“Matters of a private nature that I would prefer to discuss exclusively with His Grace, Grand Duke Caelum.”
Caelum’s crimson eyes narrowed into lethal slits, his dominant energy instantly tightening the air in the dining hall until it felt thin and scorched.
He shifted his broad shoulders, his hand dropping slowly onto the hilt of his sheathed obsidian broadsword.
Beside his chair, General Freya stood like a silent, protective gargoyle, her hands resting tightly on the six-foot haft of her twin-headed battleaxe, her golden eyes burning with unadulterated hostility.
“General Freya remains,” Caelum growled, his deep voice carrying a low, growling certainty that brooked zero argument.
“I don’t leave the woman under my protection alone in a room with a man I do not trust.”
Duke Abernathy’s polite mask fractured for a brief second, a flash of his natural, ruthless malice flaring behind his golden eyes.
“This is a private family discussion, Your Grace. It is customary for family matters to be discussed strictly between blood relatives.”
“The moment you invited her here because of her connection to me,” Caelum whispered, his baritone dropping into an unhinged, terrifying frequency that made the silver cutlery on the table vibrate, “it stopped being merely a family discussion, Duke.”
Vivienne looked at the white knuckles of her father and the rising shadow mana around Caelum’s boots.
She realized the Tyrant was about to turn the entire dining table into a bloody battlefield within a fraction of a second.
She reached out, her small hand firmly catching Caelum’s wrist to anchor his energy.
“Caelum,” Vivienne commanded smoothly, her voice a sharp needle cutting through the tension.
“Take Freya with you. Wait in the outer courtyard.”
Caelum’s head snapped toward her, his crimson eyes flaring with a dangerous, protective rage.
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“I can handle my father,” Vivienne replied, her dark eyes meeting his intense gaze with a deadpan, unyielding stillness.
“That isn’t what concerns me,” Caelum growled, his grip on his hilt tightening.
Vivienne gave him a flat, knowing look.
“You don’t trust him.”
“Correct.”
“Neither do I,” Vivienne whispered, her voice carrying a diamond-hard certainty.
“But I need to hear his final play alone. Go.”
Caelum stared down at her for several agonizing seconds, his breathing heavy and ragged in the quiet room.
The slow-burn possessiveness inside his chest fought against her command, but finding nothing but an absolute resolve in her void-like eyes, he finally let out a low, gravelly sigh.
He stood up from the table, his massive frame completely eclipsing the light of the gold lamps.
General Freya offered a quick, respectful military bow to Vivienne, her axe shifting as she followed her master toward the double doors.
Before Caelum stepped through the threshold, he stopped.
He didn’t look back at Vivienne; his piercing crimson eyes locked directly onto Duke Abernathy’s pale face, delivering a final, freezing warning that made the old warlord’s metal mana completely sputter out.
“If she calls for my name once, Duke,” Caelum growled, his voice a demonic baritone that rattled the stone foundations of the estate, “I will forget that this is your home.”
The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him, leaving Vivienne completely alone in the silent room with her father.
~♡~
Meanwhile, on the furthest edge of the capital district, the air inside a derelict, fog-covered alleyway smelled heavily of damp brick and wet wool.
Catherine Abernathy stood hidden within the deep shadows of a crumbling stone archway, her white silk cloak pulled low over her face to camouflage her identity from the northern patrols.
Her sapphire eyes, wide and burning with a manic, psychotic malice, tracked the slow approach of a figure draped in a pitch-black leather tunic.
The man stopped three paces away, a heavy silver mask covering his features, a curved dagger pulsing with volatile dark-light mana mounted along his thigh.
He was an Elder of the Hidden Silk Guild—the ancient, eastern faction of assassins that operated outside imperial law.
“The payment has been verified, Lady Catherine,” the assassin spoke, his voice an artificial, mechanical whisper that carried zero human emotion.
“The Guild has accepted your contract. But the target is the Grand Duchess of the North. She has an awakened core, and the Iron Tyrant’s shield is absolute.”
“I don’t care about his shield!” Catherine hissed, her fingers clawing into the stone wall until her nails cracked against the brick.
Her innocent facade had completely rotted away into a mask of pure, unadulterated venom.
“She stole my crown, she stole my father’s mines, and she thinks she can sit on that imperial throne while I rot in her shadow! I want her torn apart. I want her core melted in front of her warlord’s eyes!”
The assassin reached into his tunic, pulling out a small, crystal vial filled with a glowing, volatile purple fluid—Nightshade Acid.
“The coronation feast is tomorrow midnight,” the masked assassin whispered, handing the vial into her trembling fingers.
“My blades will be positioned within the servant ranks. When she drinks from her formal chalice… the abyss will officially meet its end.”
Catherine clutched the poison against her chest, a psychotic, triumphant laugh bubbling in her throat as the assassin vanished into the midnight fog.
The stage is set, sister, Catherine thought venomously, her teeth grinding together as she looked toward the palace towers.
Enjoy your final hours… because your coronation is going to turn into your funeral.