Augustus sat behind his desk, a titan dimmed by worry. His large hands pressed against his forehead, the knuckles white from the strain. Papers were scattered across the oak surface—reports, sealed letters, one of them half-open, its crimson wax broken.

The faint scent of old ink and steel filled the air, mingling with the earthy musk of the viscount's worn armor hanging beside the hearth.

Aiden closed the door behind him softly. He didn't need his system to read the turmoil brewing before him; the man's despair clung to the room like smoke.

"Lord Augustus," he began quietly.

The viscount looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion. He smiled, a brittle curve of lips that held neither warmth nor conviction.

"Aiden," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Thank you for coming..."

There was a pause—one of those silences that lingered like a held breath, heavy and brittle. The fire cracked, spitting a flake of ember.

Aiden nodded. "As promised, my lord. I bring word from the garrison… and proof."

He stepped forward and laid a neat bundle of parchment before Augustus. The wax seal glimmered faintly in the firelight—his forgery, perfect and clean. The name Wessex sprawled elegantly across the top.

"The earl of Wessex and his kin," Aiden continued, "have been siphoning funds—over a hundred premium coins. The garrison's accounts show the same flow. It was their doing, all of it."

Augustus's eyes scanned the documents with a trembling focus, each word sinking into him like a dagger. For a long moment he didn't move. Then he leaned back, exhaling hard, as though air itself had betrayed him.

"So it's true," he whispered. "All of it. The sons… the father… the whole damn family."

Only Aethal was spared in the forged records, and Aiden noted how Augustus's gaze softened slightly at his name. Aethal had been a childhood friend to his daughter, Flora. Perhaps that small mercy would buy him trust later.

Aiden remained still, hands folded behind his back. He could almost taste the tension in the room—the faint iron of ink and blood and fear. The air was too still, too brittle, like a world waiting for the crack of thunder.

Then Augustus asked the question Aiden had expected.

"And Flora…?" His tone sharpened, a father balancing pride and dread. "Was she the one who ordered the punishment of the earl? The execution of the Blood Commander?"

For a heartbeat, Aiden hesitated. He had been prepared for many outcomes, but this question carried more weight than politics. It was paternal. Personal. Dangerous.

He started to speak—ready to twist the story, to shoulder blame if needed—but Augustus's face shifted suddenly. From suspicion… to revelation.

"She did, didn't she?" the viscount said, rising from his chair. His eyes glowed with a strange light, his voice trembling not from anger but joy. "My daughter… she did! Hah!" He slammed his fist against the desk, laughing softly. "A lioness. Bold. Fearless. She's no child anymore, Aiden. She's ready."

Aiden exhaled quietly. Relief seeped through him like warmth after frost.

"She is indeed remarkable, my lord," he said carefully. "Her resolve saved us all."

The viscount chuckled, pacing before the hearth. The firelight rippled across his armor, each movement sending glimmers across the room. But beneath that joy, Aiden saw the fracture—the shadow behind the smile.

When the laughter died, silence returned. Augustus stared into the flames, and the lines of his face deepened.

"She has her mother's spirit," he said after a while, almost to himself. "And yet… Catherine grows colder each day. I wonder sometimes if it's me, or if her heart has gone elsewhere."

Aiden said nothing. His gaze drifted to the window, to the reflection of a man pretending to care. He had planted this seed long ago, a whisper to the duke about infidelity—a small, poisonous truth to turn gears in noble hearts. And now it bloomed, as expected, curling through the viscount's soul like ivy around stone.

But when Augustus looked at him again, the man's composure returned—half-forced, half-felt.

"No matter," he said briskly. "Let us talk of victory, not of ghosts. You've done well, Aiden. Truly."

He gestured toward the table where a decanter of amber wine stood waiting. He poured two glasses, handing one to his knight.

"Tell me," Augustus said, settling back in his chair, "how did it all unfold? Every detail."

And so Aiden began to spin the story—carefully, elegantly, every sentence woven from truth and shadow. He spoke of long nights under stormy skies, of corrupted soldiers and silent executions. Of how he endured mockery, isolation, betrayal, and yet stood firm. He painted himself not as hero, but as faithful servant—the loyal spear that never wavered.

He added Flora's name like a refrain, each mention lighting Augustus's pride anew.

When he spoke of his own trials, his near death, the viscount leaned forward, enthralled. The crackle of the fire punctuated his tale, a rhythm of burning and rebirth.

"…and when the dawn rose," Aiden concluded softly, "it was her command that saved the garrison. She gave the order, without hesitation."

Augustus's hand trembled slightly as he drank. "Good," he murmured. "Good… That's my blood."

Then came the pause. A strange stillness.

The viscount stared into his cup, the amber light flickering in his eyes. "Aiden," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me truly… you've heard nothing of Catherine, have you? No… rumors?"

The words hung in the air, fragile and heavy all at once.

Aiden's heart didn't skip, didn't stumble. He had been waiting for this.

"No, my lord," he replied gently, his tone steady, his expression crafted in quiet respect. "Only admiration. She is spoken of as the jewel of Leonidus still."

Augustus smiled, but it was the smile of a man clinging to the edge of something deep.

"Yes," he said. "The jewel…" He chuckled softly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Perhaps it's I who's lost the polish."

The silence that followed stretched long. Aiden could hear the faint tick of the clock, the whisper of wind against the glass, the sound of the viscount's breath—uneven, weary.

Then—

[Lilith senses the taint of another demon on the charmed individual.]

[Lilith is devouring the delicious taint.]

[Lilith is pleased. She demands more.]

The notifications flared in Aiden's vision, their glow cold and violet. His eyes flicked briefly toward Augustus—and he saw it happen.

A soft ripple of power brushed the air. The viscount's face, once ashen with fatigue, began to flush with life. The hollowness in his eyes filled with color, the slump in his shoulders lifted.

He sat straighter, breathed deeper. His pupils gleamed faintly, like polished obsidian under moonlight.

"I feel…" Augustus murmured, eyes wide. "Better. So much better." He laughed suddenly, the sound startling in its rawness. "You… you must be some miracle, Aiden. Speaking with you—hah—it's like shedding years of weight."

Aiden lowered his head humbly. "It is an honor to serve, my lord."

Aiden said nothing aloud. His lips merely twitched in something like a smile.

When Augustus finally rose, he looked transformed—buoyant, even radiant. He crossed the room and clapped a heavy hand on Aiden's shoulder.

"My boy," he said, voice rich with pride. "You've done more for this house than any man in a decade. And now…" He paused, his eyes gleaming with sudden thought. "Now I see it clearly. The gods have placed you here for a reason."

Aiden met his gaze, playing the part. "My lord?"

Augustus smiled—a genuine, warm smile this time, stripped of politics and fear. "Flora," he said. "You've fought beside her. You've proven yourself loyal, steadfast. You understand duty. She needs a man like that beside her."

Aiden's pulse didn't quicken, though it might have in another life.

"You mean…"

"Yes." Augustus's grip on his shoulder tightened. "When I return from the capital, I will speak to Catherine. I would see you and Flora wed. You will guide her, protect her, help her rule this land when I am gone. Leonidus deserves strength—and you, Aiden, are strength."

For a moment, time itself seemed to slow. The fire murmured softly, as if uncertain whether to roar or fade. Aiden's mind raced, not from surprise but from cold, measured calculation.

He could almost hear the chain of consequence forming—the bonds, the traps, the opportunities. Marriage into the Leonidus bloodline would seal him within the very heart of nobility. Power, wealth, legitimacy—all within reach.

And yet, beneath that logic, a flicker of something else stirred—an image of Flora's face, fierce and proud in the torchlight of the garrison. Her voice sharp with defiance, her eyes haunted by something she never spoke aloud.

He bowed slightly. "If it pleases my lord, I would be honored.....Immensly Honored..."

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