Chapter Text
Marquis Ellen never made the mistake of underestimating Duke Eckart.
He was everything a man like Ellen despised—composed, influential, untouchable. Eckart didn’t claw his way to power with bribes or bluster. He simply existed above the fray, a force of order in a court that thrived on chaos. His words held weight. His silences held more.
Worse still, he played no side but his own.
The duchy remained staunchly neutral, yet its influence stretched further than most factions combined.
That made him a threat not just to Ellen’s ambitions, but to the entire volatile balance of power.
Because Duke Eckart didn’t seek control.
He commanded it—effortlessly. Quietly.
And that was far more dangerous than any open enemy.
It was his grandson who stood second in line for the crown. But it wasn’t the boy Ellen feared.
There was only two great obstacles in his way to control the entire empire.The crown prince Callisto Regulus and Duke Eckart.The crown prince had most of the noble families that were involved in the empire's military on his faction whereas marquis Ellen had all the pathetic corrupted greedy blue blooded nobles on his grandson 2nd prince's faction.And there was another faction which held neutrality.
Duke Eckart had built his duchy like a fortress—politically neutral, yet indispensable. Respected even by his enemies. No scandal, no weaknesses, no cracks in the walls. A chess piece neither side could fully control, yet both relied upon.
That made him an obstacle.
And obstacles were meant to be removed.
It was never just about the Duke. His eldest son, Derrick, was poised to succeed him—a polished blade forged in the same fire. He didn't just wanted the duke gone .He wanted the line shattered.Remove both, and the duchy would stumble.
And what remained? Two younger children. Reynold and Penelope. One a brooding disappointment who lacked his brother’s tact, the other a delicate girl with no ambition and a reputation for wasting time in gardens and libraries.
In Marquis Ellen’s eyes, they were nothing. Or better—perfect symbols of a fallen house.
So he sent the assassin.
A master of shadows, trained to move unseen through noble corridors and silk-covered lies. The plan was clean: Derrick first, then the Duke. A pair of silent deaths in the night. Leave no trail. No mercy.
But the first crack in the plan wasn’t made by a sword.
It was made by laughter.
Three maids—young, careless, lingering in a hall past curfew. Whispering gossip in the flickering candlelight of the east wing, a story about a love affair between nobles, heads close together.
They never heard him approach. But they saw him.
And their screams split the stillness like a blade.
The assassin reacted on instinct. Three flashes of steel. Three bodies. But it was already too late.
Doors opened. Boots slammed into polished floors. Guards shouted. Metal rang.
The duchy was awake.
The assassin fled, breath harsh in his lungs, footsteps pounding against marble. Plans dissolved into panic. He turned down a hallway and climbed, deeper into the unfamiliar spine of the fourth floor.
He was out of time.
A door creaked open.
Penelope Eckart stepped into the hall, barefoot, in a white nightdress that hung like mist around her figure. Her hair was down, magenta strands tumbling across her shoulders, and her face—half-lost in shadows—held the soft confusion of someone not yet fully awake.
She didn’t even scream.
The assassin shoved her aside, sharp and brutal. She stumbled, hit the window, and—
The glass gave way with a sound that would haunt the corridor forever.
Reynold Eckart didn’t sleep well most nights. His bed was too soft, the silence too loud, and his thoughts too full of things he could never say aloud.
So when he heard the crash—a shattering, gut-deep sound like the world breaking in half—he was already awake enough to know something was wrong.
Then came the scream.
Not a guard. Not a servant. A maid. Familiar voice. Emily.
“Lady Penelope!”
He didn’t remember standing. Didn’t remember crossing the room. All he knew was that his body was already moving, even as his heart clenched like a fist in his chest.
He leaned out the window, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat. The courtyard below looked almost surreal in the moonlight—silver-touched leaves, swaying bushes, soft shadows that danced over stone.
And then—
Penelope.
She was sprawled across the flowerbed, limbs twisted unnaturally, her white nightgown soaked through with red. Blood spilled in heavy streaks across her side, trailing from her shoulder, pooling beneath her head. One of her legs was bent at an angle no human limb should bend. Her bare feet were streaked with crimson and dirt.
And worse—he saw the glass.
Shards of it embedded in her arms. Glittering like ice in the dark. One jutting cruelly from her thigh, another near her collarbone, and God—were those splinters in her face?
Reynold’s stomach lurched.
He stumbled backward from the window, gagging, the bile rising hot in his throat. His knees hit the floor before he realized he’d dropped. His hands were shaking.
He tried to breathe—
In. Out. In. Gods, why wasn’t she moving?
She always moved. She fidgeted. She sighed dramatically when she didn’t get her way. She walked too fast in the halls and talked to flowers as if they could talk back. She moved.
Now she looked like a doll tossed from a balcony. Beautiful. Broken. Drenched in blood and moonlight.
The garden that had always smelled like roses now smelled like iron.
And Reynold—
He couldn’t hear anything at all.
Behind him, guards burst into the hallway, yelling orders, metal clanging against scabbards. Somewhere, someone called for a physician. Another shouted about a figure on the roof.
He couldn’t feel his hands. His body. Anything at all.
Except the nausea, gnawing at his insides like fire. And the pounding of his own heartbeat screaming one word over and over in his skull:
Too late. Too late. Too late.