But a soft knock at the door shattered that silence.

Aithur growled.

"Enter," he said lazily, swirling the contents of his cup.

The door opened, and a guard stepped in—nervous, rigid, his armor polished to perfection but his posture betraying unease. "My lord," the guard began, bowing low. "Forgive the intrusion. A message from the palace. It's… urgent."

Aithur arched a brow and set his cup down on the side table, crossing one leg over the other. "Urgent, you say? Either the Emperor has finally decided to retire, or someone's misplaced his crown again."

The guard hesitated, unsure whether to laugh. "No, my lord. It's regarding… an assassination. The prisoner, Hans was found dead in his cell yesterday at dusk."

Aithur's hand froze for the briefest moment over the armrest, before he leaned back again, expression cool. "The temple traitor, dead? Hmph. I guess that man was just bound to die as secrets and temples never mix. How unfortunate."

"There was… also a note, sir," the guard added, stepping closer. "A warning, addressed directly to His Majesty."

Aithur's head tilted slightly. "A warning, you say?"

"Yes, my lord." The guard fidgeted. "The contents were cryptic, but enough to alarm the court. His Majesty has ordered for the leader of the temple rebellion, Harold to be brought to the capital immediately from the Temple. He believes the incident may be tied to the Temple's and a bigger problem, wanting to bring him back quicker to the capital for a proper trial."

Aithur's laughter came softly, like the hiss of a snake before a strike. "So, the old fool finally moves his pieces. How predictable. Did no one tell His Majesty that playing chess without knowing your opponent's hand is suicide?"

The guard remained silent, not daring to respond.

Aithur drummed his fingers lightly against the armrest, the rhythmic tap tap tap echoing faintly in the chamber. His mind was already moving three steps ahead. "And who," he asked casually, "was sent to retrieve our 'Holy' guest?" he spat the word like venom.

"The task was given to the Second Prince, Eilan," the guard answered.

For the first time, Aithur's composure cracked—only to reveal something far more dangerous. He smiled. Slow, wide, and wickedly amused.

"Oh, that's delightful," he murmured, setting the cup down. "Little Eilan, sent to fetch the traitor. Like sending a cub to wrestle with a lion."

"A srew loosed one"

The guard blinked, uncertain if he should respond.

Aithur stood from his seat, moving toward the window behind his desk. The afternoon light poured over him, outlining his form in amber gold. He rested his hand on the window frame, gazing out at the sprawling city beyond—the capital of the Empire, still nameless on many tongues but beating like a living heart. Soldiers trained in the courtyards below. Merchants shouted across the streets. It was beautiful chaos, and Aithur, with his amused eyes, drank it in like fine wine.

He whispered, almost to himself, "I wonder… what kind of fun might happen during the transport."

"My lord?" the guard asked hesitantly.

Aithur chuckled, a sound low and serpentine. "Prepare a carriage," he said, still watching the sun dip toward the horizon. "I have someone I wish to see."

"Yes, my lord," the guard said with a salute, turning to leave.

But just as he reached the door, he hesitated. "If I may ask, sir… who exactly do you plan to visit?"

Aithur didn't turn. The corners of his lips twitched upward. "Does it matter? Curiosity, my good man, is a luxury I suggest you keep under control. Too much of it tends to end badly."

The guard paled, bowed again, and hurried out the door.

Aithur's smile lingered.

The peace, however, was short-lived.

There was another knock—a heavier one this time—and an all-too-familiar voice followed.

"Aithur," came the deep, measured tone of Elder Wieen. "We need to speak."

Aithur's expression immediately soured. He turned halfway toward the door and said, "Not interested."

There was a pause, then the door opened halfway anyway. The elder's gray hair peeked through, his wrinkled face set in that annoyingly calm, moral expression Aithur hated. "You've been avoiding my request for three days, Aithur. The Elders—"

"—are a butch of decrepit fool clinging to borrowed time," Aithur interrupted, his voice smooth but cutting. "And I'm a very busy man, Elder. So unless you're here to die in my office, I suggest you leave."

Elder Wieen frowned. "This arrogance will be your downfall. Your father—"

Aithur's black eyes narrowed dangerously. "Ah, there it is. The father lecture again. Tell me, Elder, how many times will you use that same tired line before it bores even you?"

Wieen's voice deepened. "Your father served the Empire and the temple faithfully, and you—"

"—am nothing like him," Aithur snapped. "And that's precisely why I'm still alive."

Silence blanketed the room for a tense moment. Then Aithur's smile returned, all teeth and venom. "Now, Elder Wieen, if you've finished your sermon, I'd appreciate some silence. I have better things to do than listen to the nostalgic ramblings of a man who still believes honor is a currency."

Wieen's face darkened. "You've gone too far—"

"Guards," Aithur said, voice sharp as a whip. "Remove him."

Two armored men at the doorway immediately stepped forward. Elder Wieen stepped back, but his gaze didn't waver. "You can keep ignoring the truth, Aithur," he said coldly, "but sooner or later, you'll face the consequences of your mockery."

Aithur chuckled, the sound dry. "Consequences are for men who still have something to lose."

"I lost that the day my so called father ruined my life"

The door slammed shut.

The echo faded, leaving only the quiet hum of the room—and Aithur's low sigh.

He walked back to his desk, fingers trailing across the polished surface before his gaze flicked to the parchment lying atop it. His earlier calm began to return, though his lips still held that mischievous curl.

"That old man really doesn't know when to quit," he murmured. "If I had a coin for every lecture about my father, I'd have enough to buy the throne by now."

"Perhaps you already have," came the amused whisper of his own thought—a reflection of himself, always questioning, always mocking. Aithur ignored it, picking up his pen.

Before he could write, however, there was a faint flutter at the window—like a whisper of wings. He looked up, only to see a raven perched on the sill, its feathers sleek as night. A small scroll was tied to its leg.

Aithur's brow arched. "Oh? What's this?"

He untied the scroll, unrolled it, and read the contents in silence. Then his laughter spilled again—light, amused, and dangerous.

He opens the small scrowl and frowns. The content are exactly the same.

"The Emperor wants Harold brought here alive and sends Eilan to do it."

"Is it now they decide to inform me, when I have already done my own digging"

He leaned back, the parchment twirling between his fingers. "How utterly poetic. The fool's already playing right into their hands."

The parchment burned to ash in his hand with a faint hiss of magic, scattering like dust.

Aithur returned to his seat, resting his chin on his hand. "Still… the fact that someone dared to kill Hans within the palace walls. Bold. Almost reckless." He smiled faintly. "It's been a while since I've seen a move this entertaining."

He lifted the pen again, finally lowering it to the parchment. For a long while, only the scratching sound of the pen filled the air. He wrote a few lines, paused, then crossed them out. Again and again, he tried to commit words to the page, but each time, his expression shifted from thoughtfulness to faint irritation.

"What am I doing," he muttered. "It's not the Emperor I'm curious about."

His pen slowed, the strokes of ink becoming deliberate—careful.

"I wonder," he whispered to himself, "if that brat is still at the Temple."

The final line was drawn, and he set the pen down, exhaling softly.

On the parchment, the image had taken form—not words, but a drawing. A sketch of a young man, half smiling, half scowling. The eyes were sharp, the expression unyielding, almost defiant. Luther.

Aithur's smirk deepened. "You were always good at attracting chaos, weren't you, little saint?"

He leaned back in his chair, one leg over the other, studying the sketch like it was a puzzle he was itching to solve. "It seems fate still wants our paths to cross. How… inconveniently amusing."

He glanced once more toward the window where the sun was setting behind the spires of the capital. Shadows lengthened, cloaking the city in hues of gold and violet. He could already feel the game shifting—the ripples spreading across the Empire.

"Prepare your stage, Boy," he whispered. "I'll bring the fire."

The scene lingered on his satisfied expression—the faintest glint of danger flickering in his golden eyes—as the room darkened around him.

And then—

A knock.

Soft, almost hesitant.

Aithur didn't look up. "If that's Wieen again, I swear I'll hang him by his robes."

The door creaked open slightly, and a familiar, calm voice answered from the other side.

"Grand Duke, It's me."

Aithur froze but then a smirk appeared as if brought in by happiness.

The door creaked open and the figure stepped in.

Aithur breathed in and finally answered, the smirk growing wider.

"Now what do i own the pleasure of having your presence?"

"Emperor Advisor Hale Molkwen?"

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