The carriage lunged forward, cutting through the capital’s fog with the metallic screech of its wheels. Inside, Mathias remained retreated in the gloom, a ghost of a cold smile reflecting against the windowpane.

He reached slowly toward his inner pocket; the texture of the rough paper beneath his fingers summoned a scene from the recent past—the moment he had entered Olivia’s room carrying that small kitten.

​There, the envelope had lain like a trap waiting for its prey. Ordinarily, he would never touch her things, but the name "Elvira," written in an elegant, sharp hand, had shimmered under the candlelight, provoking his ruthless curiosity.

He had gazed at Olivia while she slept, knowing full well that no good ever came from that madwoman’s letters. And so, with a protective selfishness, he had claimed it for himself, determined to shield her with every ounce of strength he had left.

​He pulled the envelope out now, contemplating it for a moment before breaking the wax seal with a graceful, calculated motion.

He unfolded the paper, and as the carriage jolted violently, his eyes settled on lines written in ink that looked as though it had been steeped in poison.

​The letter read:

​"My dearest Olivia, I truly loved your gift; it was quite unique. Thanks to you, Silver and I can finally be one..."

​Mathias recoiled in disgust at her choice of words, but he forced himself to read on.

​"What do you say, my dear sister, to a small meeting? I would love to return the favor. Perhaps you could visit Silvester’s house once more..."

​It appeared to be an ordinary letter, yet it was booby-trapped to the core. Mathias crushed the paper in his fist, his knuckles white with rage. Had Olivia been the one to receive this, she would have rushed to her without hesitation; her hatred for Elvira was a compass that always pointed toward danger.

​Mathias let out a dark smile.

​"Oh, you won’t expect who is coming to visit you, you wretched woman," he hissed into the shadows of the carriage. "I will handle you in a way you won’t forget as long as you live."

The steady thrum of Mathias’s boots against the polished marble was the only rhythmic pulse within the oppressive silence of the Imperial Hall.

As he reached the center of the Imperial Circle, he lowered his body into a slow, deliberate bow—a mechanical motion devoid of any genuine submission, yet dripping with the cold precision of court protocol.

​"My greetings, Your Majesty."

​"Welcome..."

​Emperor Lucius’s response was clipped, as jagged and freezing as a shard of ice. There was no warmth of hospitality here, only a gaze heavy with a suspicion so thick it felt like a physical weight upon the skin.

In the far corner, Kyle stood like a gargoyle of discomfort, his features twisted in a grimace; his presence as a silent witness only served to stifle the air further.

​Mathias lifted his head with agonizing slowness. Under the white fire of the massive chandeliers, the Duke looked as though he had aged a decade in a handful of days.

The dark hollows beneath his eyes spoke of sleepless nights spent in the company of ghosts, yet his eyes retained that unquenchable spark of sharpness—a fire that refused to go out.

​"You know exactly why I have summoned you," Lucius said, interlacing his fingers atop his monolithic desk. "So... what is your defense?"

​Mathias relaxed his shoulders, adopting a posture that hinted at a mocking surrender. His voice, when it came, was a low, melodic baritone. "And how am I to defend a ghost? How does one offer a plea for a crime never committed?"

​CRACK!

​The room shuddered as Lucius’s fist struck the desktop with violent force. The Emperor surged to his feet, his entire frame vibrating with a volcanic rage.

​"Duke Locron! Do you take me for a fool? The charges of rebellion leveled against you are not merely ink on parchment; they are a hangman’s noose, awaiting only my signal to tighten!"

​Mathias did not so much as blink. He remained anchored to the spot, his gaze piercing through the Emperor—the look of a man who saw right through the gilded mask to the trembling flesh beneath.

​"Your Majesty," Mathias spoke, his tone as smooth and unyielding as polished obsidian.

"You know with absolute certainty that I have committed no such crime. Why, then, do you burden me—and yourself—with the exhaustion of this farce? Pronounce your judgment now, and let us be done with it."

​A lethal silence descended, heavy enough to drown the flicker of the candles. Lucius stared at Mathias for a long moment, searching for a single atom of brokenness, a flicker of fear, or a plea for mercy.

He found nothing but a profound, bone-deep weariness. The Emperor exhaled a sigh and sank back into his throne as if a mountain had settled upon his chest.

​Curse this madman, Lucius thought with bitter resentment. He will not even grant me the satisfaction of seeing him beg.

​"I have made my decision," Lucius announced, his gaze drifting toward the great window where the horizon promised nothing but gray skies.

"Since you offer no defense, and since the Court is plagued by unrest... you are hereby exiled to the ’Agony’ of the Northern Borders. You will go there to cleanse your name with blood—or to be buried forever beneath its ice."

​Before the echo of the sentence could fade, a movement stirred in the shadows. Kyle stepped forward from his corner with confident strides, coming to a halt beside Mathias. They stood shoulder to shoulder, two pillars of defiance against the coming storm.

​"I am going with him."

​Lucius jolted, his eyes widening in genuine shock. "What? You cannot! You are the Crown Prince; your place is here in the heart of the capital, not in the frost-bitten wastes of the North."

​Mathias tilted his head toward Kyle, his voice a sharp, low rasp. "Did I win you in some lottery I’m unaware of? Cease this stubbornness; this is a march toward death, not a scenic tour."

​Kyle turned to him with a gaze of tempered steel—a look Mathias had never seen him wear before.

"This is my decision, and you have no say in it either." He redirected his focus to his father, his voice dripping with long-repressed bitterness.

"Just as Mathias goes to clear his reputation, I intend to build my name as a true heir to this Empire—not as the Empress’s lapdog, moved according to her whims. I am sick of the whispers, Father, and nothing but my blood spilled in the North will silence them."

​A heavy, suffocating silence reclaimed the room. Lucius wavered, but his son’s words had struck the killing blow of truth. The rumors—that Kyle was merely a chess piece in Alicia’s hand—filled every corridor of the palace. He realized his son was suffocating under that shadow.

​The Emperor sighed deeply, looking at the two young men with a mixture of sorrow and pity; in the prime of their lives, they were choosing a path where death was a constant companion.

​"Very well," Lucius whispered, his voice trembling. "You have your wish. You shall accompany him." He paused, his tone breaking. "Cleanse your names, but... return safely. You depart in one week."

The two men bowed in perfect synchronization, their voices echoing in the hollow space. "As you command, Your Majesty."

​The moment the massive doors groaned shut behind them and the stifling dignity of the Imperial Hall faded, Kyle turned toward Mathias. The steel in his gaze evaporated, replaced by a raw, human anxiety.

​"Does Olivia know?" Kyle whispered.

​Mathias rubbed his forehead, the fatigue finally catching up to him as his breath hitched with exhaustion. "Not yet."

​In that instant, without a single cue, they both spoke in a simultaneous chorus of genuine terror:

​"She will kill us if she finds out!"

​Mathias brought his conversation with Kyle to a swift, chilling end, feigning an "important appointment."

---------------------

He departed the Imperial Palace, but the carriage did not turn toward his own estate. Instead, it cut through the deepening evening mist in the opposite direction, toward that house where death took up residence—the home of Silver Sylvester.

​The carriage groaned to a halt. Mathias stepped out and stood before the wooden door that looked like the very mouth of hell. Without hesitation, he pushed it open and slammed it shut behind him, sealing the outside world away.

​The air inside was stagnant, saturated with the cloying scent of a pungent feminine perfume—the smell of roses usually laid atop graves to mask the stench of decay. He whispered to himself in a soul-dead monotone:

​"It seems she is already here."

​He moved deeper into the house, his boots steady on the floorboards that failed to creak, as if the house itself were terrified of his presence. When he reached the dining hall, he froze for a single, breath-stolen second.

​At the head of the table sat Sylvester. He was not sleeping; he was not unconscious. He was a corpse, embalmed with a sickening, meticulous precision, dressed in his finest clothes as if awaiting a feast.

His features were frozen in an eternal void, preserved in the same sadistic style Roland had used on her mother’s body. Here, history hadn’t just repeated itself—it had become a portrait of dead flesh.

"Curse her... she is truly as mad as her father. She even changed his clothes," Mathias muttered with visceral contempt, his eyes unblinking before the grotesque tableau.

​At that moment, the soft rustle of a gown brushing against the stairs fractured the silence. Elvira descended with a light, almost dancing gait, a wide radiance illuminating her pale face. She moved with the predatory grace of someone certain that her quarry had finally wandered into the snare.

​"Olivia... you’ve come at last. You are her—"

​The sentence died in her throat. The light in her eyes extinguished instantly, her features twisting into a mask of stunned, venomous malice. It was not Olivia standing in the hall of her sanctuary; it was Mathias.

​Elvira’s eyes darkened with a demonic fervor. In an involuntary spasm of supernatural fury, her fingers clamped onto the wrought-iron banisters of the staircase. With a sickening, metallic screech, the heavy iron groaned and buckled beneath her grip, twisting like soft wax under her wrists. She glared down at Mathias, her gaze a physical force that seemed poised to tear the very soul from his body.

​"Mathias Locron... well, well, well."

​Elvira spat his name with a cocktail of venom and lingering disbelief. Mathias remained anchored to the spot, his hands clasped behind his back with an aristocratic chill. A faint, provocative smirk played upon his lips—the kind of expression that made blood boil and hearts stutter.

​"It has been a long time, sister-in-law."

​"Yes, quite a while." A glint of cunning returned to her eyes as she regained her footing. She continued with a serrated edge of mockery: "So, Olivia didn’t come? She decided to send you in her stead? Or is she lurking outside, waiting for your signal like a frightened bird?"

​Mathias took a single step forward, a movement so subtle yet so heavy it caused the shadows in the room to dance in a frantic rhythm. "Oh, do not fret. I shall ensure you meet her very soon. But I find myself needing to apply a few... ’artistic touches’ first. I must ensure your final form is something Olivia will truly appreciate."

​In that heartbeat, a primal shiver raced through Elvira’s marrow. The man standing before her was no longer the Duke of Locron one saw at masquerade balls or within the gilded corridors of the palace.

​His eyes darkened until the whites vanished into an abyssal void. A thick, obsidian mist began to seep from beneath his boots, crawling across the floorboards like a sentient predator scenting its prey. The smirk that had graced his face contorted into a terrifying, inhuman snarl.

​Elvira recoiled, her hand striking the twisted iron banister behind her. "You... you are that bastard! The one who tortured me back then... it was you!"

​A low, dry chuckle, like the grinding of stones in a deep well, vibrated in Mathias’s chest as he advanced through the churning fog.

​"I am delighted you recognized me, you wretch," he whispered, his voice sounding as if it rose from a bottomless pit. "Now, since we have rekindled such beautiful memories... let me introduce you to some new and inventive methods of extracting what is owed to me—and to my wife."

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