John saw the woman he had admired and respected lying motionless in a pool of blood, her silver hair soaked red, her eyes dim. And now, her only child was in his arms—thrashing, screaming, desperately trying to reach the mother who could no longer respond.
It took everything John had to restrain the boy, to keep him from running toward his doom. Jack's wild, anguished movements threatened to tear them both apart. But John held on. He had to.
Footsteps echoed behind him, closing in from the narrow passage he had come through. Regret clawed at his chest. He had been foolish.
He should have taken a different route. Should have escaped while he could. Should never have brought Jack here, to the Duke's chamber. He had hoped—prayed—to find the Duke here, or at the very least his elite guards. The Duke was a formidable swordsman, but more than that, he was never without his personal knight order: the Ignis Blades.
But there was no Duke.
No knights.
Not even the Duchess's personal guard had been present. She had been left to face assassins alone.
And now, all the exits were sealed. He was trapped. Jack in his arms. Death on all sides.
Then—just as hope faded—something changed.
The assassins in front of him faltered.
Their blades, which had been pointed at John and the boy, slowly shifted… toward the door.
John followed their gaze.
And there—framed in the broken threshold—stood a tall man. Lush black hair fell just past his shoulders. A sharp, cleanly defined face, marked by a subtle beard. Brown eyes—deep, cold, burning with restrained fury—stared past the corpses, straight at the bleeding body of Duchess Elena.
Grief.
It carved itself into his expression like a blade through ice. And then, as his gaze turned to the assassins—
Rage.
Unbearable. Uncontrollable.
Red aura exploded from him in a wave of sheer killing intent. Two spectral figures stepped forth behind him—red phantoms—moving as one with their master.
John barely had time to process what he saw before heads began to fall.
One by one, the assassins dropped. No screams. No mercy.
When it was over, only one was left alive—kneeling, trembling, sword clattering from his fingers.
John's breath caught.
The phantoms stilled, eyes like crimson glass, and turned toward him. Without a word, they pointed—to the child in his arms.
Jack had fallen unconscious at some point, his tiny body limp.
John understood.
He stepped forward and handed the boy over to the knights.
They were the Ignis Blades.
The pride of the Duchy. The pinnacle of its might.
The Duke's personal guards.
Relief finally crept into John's limbs. The worst was over.
He watched them cradle the boy with care, stepping aside as the Duke himself entered the blood-stained room. But then—something caught his eye.
A face.
A familiar face, lying among the dead.
His breath left him. His knees buckled. He fell hard to the floor.
Among the corpses… just beside the Duchess…
Lay his daughter.
He hadn't seen her before. He hadn't noticed.
His heart shattered.
Tears poured down his cheeks as his body shook.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder.
John looked up—and saw the same grief mirrored in the Duke's eyes.
Without a word, the Duke knelt and gently lifted Elena's lifeless body from the shattered ground. Her arms hung limp. Her silver hair trailed behind like silk. His tears fell silently onto her bloodied form.
Then he turned and walked—slowly, with reverence—toward the exit.
The knights followed, Jack in their arms.
And John was left behind, kneeling in the carnage, alone with his grief.
__
Elsewhere, in a grand hall lit by towering chandeliers, a long table stretched across the center of the room. Gold-trimmed tableware glinted under the warm light, and the high-backed chairs were filled with men of influence—ministers, nobles, and advisors of the realm.
Tension hung in the air like a storm cloud, thick and unmoving.
One of the ministers finally spoke, his voice heavy with resignation.
"All our contacts have been silenced. The only confirmed report is the death of Duchess Elena and a handful of lower nobles from the Ignis Duchy's retinue. No high-value hostages were secured. The coronation was a failure, plain and simple."
There was a moment of silence. Quiet murmurs rippled around the table—until a deep, composed voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Failure, you say?"
The voice came from the head of the table.
It belonged to the King.
A subtle echo followed the dignified tone, silencing the rest of the hall.
"You call it another failed mission," the King continued, his expression unreadable. "But you're wrong. The plan did not fail. It simply strayed from its expected course. No plan is ever certain. To expect otherwise is to defy fate."
Another official, older and equally distinguished, raised his voice carefully. "I may be overstepping, Your Majesty… but we failed to achieve our primary objective. We did not secure a hostage. And the Duchess—though eliminated—was not our intended target. The future of the plan is unclear."
Despite the weight of the King's gaze, the man bowed his head, though his voice remained composed—seasoned with the dignity of someone used to speaking truth to power.
The King's eyes narrowed.
"Oh? Then tell me—what was our true objective in securing a hostage?"
The official fell silent. For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, the realization hit him.
His eyes widened slightly. He bowed even lower.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I spoke out of turn. Your insight sees far beyond ours. I apologize for my arrogance."
The King gestured idly. "You may continue."
The official straightened slowly and, for the first time that evening, stood.
"As Your Majesty rightly said, the mission has not failed. It only diverged. We intended to capture a hostage to provoke the Duke into rash action. Though we failed to take one, we may have achieved that provocation nonetheless."
A younger minister leaned forward, adjusting the sleeves of his fine robe. "I see now. The plan was to take a hostage, hide them within our capital, and force Duke to act. And once he did, we'd label him a traitor—someone threatening the safety of the crown. But since the hostage wasn't taken…"
He paused, a smirk forming.
"…we can use the death of Duchess Elena to the same effect. Let the blame fall elsewhere. The Duke will still act. And when he does, we'll be ready."
A quiet cough interrupted.
"You are mistaken, Minister William."
All eyes turned toward the speaker: Count Caroline.
He was a man of sharp mind and sharper instincts, one who had shared a border—and many words—with Duke Ignatius.
"I know him," Caroline said slowly. "Not just as a Duke, but as a man. He will not act carelessly. Even in grief, he is calculated. Cold when needed. He may already suspect the capital's hand in this attack."
Minister William scoffed lightly. "How can you be so sure, Count? Yes, you've spoken with him. Yes, you share a border. But to claim he's already figured us out? That's quite the leap."