A heavy silence settled over the grand chamber, thick as fog.
Sunlight streamed in through the tall arched windows, but it did little to warm the chill in the air. The air was still, taut with unspoken words. It felt like the room itself was holding its breath.
At the long obsidian table, a tall black-haired noble shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers tapped lightly against the carved wooden armrest—an unconscious display of unease. Finally, he cleared his throat and broke the silence with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
"There’s no need to be so tense, is there, Grand Duke?" Marquise Ferdin asked, his voice light, but his shoulders just a little too stiff.
On the other side, seated beneath the imperial crest embroidered behind his throne-like chair, Grand Duke Ruth lifted his gaze slowly. His silver-white hair was immaculately combed back, his crimson eyes sharp and unreadable.
His cold stare cut across the room like a blade.
"That depends entirely," Ruth said, voice low and clipped, "on the contents you’ve brought with you, Marquise Ferdin."
Ferdin’s jaw twitched. He gave a strained laugh, waving a hand as if to swat away the tension.
"Come now, it’s nothing so grave. Just a minor matter."
Then, grasping for a softer approach, he added with a chuckle, "By the way, I heard about your son’s recent exploits. Seems the young man’s coming into his own and has grown up.He has talent—something my boy sadly lacks."
Ruth leaned back slightly, one gloved hand resting atop the armrest, the other gently tapping the side of the letter opener on the table. His lips curled faintly, though not in amusement.
"He has grown," Ruth said. Then, with a slight narrowing of the eyes, "But he still falls short."
Ferdin froze, caught mid-nod. He hesitated. The wrong reaction could be costly. Praise too much, and Ruth might accuse him of shallow flattery. Agree too quickly, and he might seem rude. He simply smiled thinly and gave a deferential nod.
"Well then..." he muttered. "To the point, yes?"
Ruth gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Ferdin reached into his robe and pulled out a golden envelope from his storage ring. Its seal bore the imperial crest—etched in ruby wax.
"The Emperor asked me to deliver this personally."
Ruth took the letter with practiced grace, slicing it open with the letter opener in a single swift motion. The room was utterly silent as he unfolded the parchment and began to read.
The further his eyes scanned the text, the more severe his expression became. His brows knit. His jaw tightened. A low exhale slipped from between his lips.
Ferdin watched nervously, adjusting his collar, shifting his weight in his chair. Beads of sweat formed near his temple.
’What’s with that face? What could possibly be so grave?’
’Didn’t His Majesty say this was just procedural?’
Finally, Ruth set the letter down on the table with a soft thud.
He leaned forward, folding his hands under his chin, elbows resting on the table’s surface.
"The Crown Games... will begin next month."
His voice was calm, but his tone was as heavy as stone.
He glanced toward the towering imperial banners on the wall.
"So, his reign is nearing its end."
Ferdin inhaled deeply and nodded, the weight of the moment dawning on him. The implications were clear.
With no Crown Prince named, the Empire would soon descend into a contest of blood and fire. Only one heir would emerge alive—an age-old trial known as the Crown Games. Ruth’s involvement was no surprise—but it carried its own shadows.
Ruth’s gaze shifted back to him.
"Did His Majesty say anything else?"
Ferdin hesitated for a heartbeat, then gave a respectful nod.
"He said... he would feel safer with you at his side."
Then, as if remembering something that had slipped his mind, he added, "And... he mentioned Lord Ramos."
Ruth’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"He said, ’It would be good if Lord Ramos were there too.’"
The Grand Duke leaned back in his chair, eyes gazing up at the painted ceiling as though weighing something far beyond the room.
Then, waving his hand dismissively, he muttered, "Don’t worry. He’ll be there."
For a few minutes, they exchanged idle formalities—empty words to fill the space. Then, Marquise Ferdin rose to his feet with a bow.
"I thank you for your time, Your Grace. I should take my leave—other matters await."
Ruth nodded absently, eyes once again on the letter, fingers tracing the sharp edges of the imperial seal.
As the grand doors shut behind Ferdin with a muted thud, silence reclaimed the chamber.
Then, without turning his head, Ruth spoke—his voice sharp, commanding.
"Stop hiding... and come out."
The sudden gust of wind startled the quiet room as one of the tall windows banged open. A lean silhouette wriggled its way in with awkward agility, one leg dangling awkwardly before slipping inside.
Kael stumbled slightly as he landed on the polished marble floor with a light grunt. Straightening himself and brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves, he glanced around.
"Are you alone?" he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
He peeked over the window frame and scoffed. "Tch. That old man ran away the moment he heard your voice echo. What a coward. And to think he forced me to come here..."
Kael muttered under his breath, but he wasn’t exactly telling the truth. He was the one who practically begged Ramos to sneak into the Duke’s estate. Initially, Kael had no intention to eavesdrop, but curiosity had gnawed at him like a hungry rat.
Was that letter for Adele?Or maybe for me?
Did Martina send something dangerous again...?
The paranoia crept in, and next thing he knew, his sneakers were rubbing silently against the window ledge beside Ramos’s boots.
Ruth didn’t move for a while. His crimson gaze slid slowly toward Kael like a sword being drawn. Cold. Judging. Displeased.
"It seems," Ruth said with a voice like winter frost, "you lack heavily in manners... and in etiquette."