After Samael left the room, I threw myself into the chaos of court reports and mounting complaints.
Word after word, letter after letter, the nobles' scorn seemed to shift—where once their eyes were fixed on Therese, now every accusing gaze landed upon me.
They whispered that I must be the mastermind behind the massacre, claiming that I orchestrated everything under the guise of protecting Therese.
Honestly, what kind of mind conjures such absurdities? For them to believe that my protective instincts masked a ruthless plot—it was as if their logic had been steeped in baseless envy.
I had already sent a telegram to Anwyl, ordering him to report immediately to Saxon Manor. In that dispatch, I spelled out our predicament and even provided a carefully contrived excuse—a misdirection that must keep our enemies in the dark.
I could not risk anyone learning that Samael had already appeared there, scouting the grounds and tracking that elusive man who seemed to haunt us all.
