A place hidden far from maps, beyond the eyes of kings and even the moons' watchful gaze, sat a round stone table in a chamber of black silence. The air in the room was heavy, thick with presence rather than scent. Each breath inside it felt like it came with weight—a pull, as though the room itself wanted to swallow sound.
Four figures sat in darkness, one at each corner of the circular space, positioned like points on a compass around the stone table. Their faces were not visible, their forms cloaked in hoods and shadow. Nothing of their skin showed—only the subtle shifting of dark cloth and the air of quiet power.
A sharp, furious bang cracked the silence.
The figure to the east, voice wild and full of heat, slammed his fist on the stone table. "That headache of a prince is changing! He should've just shut himself in some dusty old library! Why's he acting up now?!"
He hissed through clenched teeth, his voice full of restless impatience. "It was supposed to be the first son we had to monitor. Not him!"
Across from him, the figure to the west was calm, their voice smoother, older. There was an unmistakable sense of command in their tone, as though the others deferred to them even without title.
"We commence with the plan earlier than expected," the calm one said, fingers lightly tapping the table. "The second prince is becoming a problem. If he develops at this rate, he will become a major headache."
A third voice, vague and smoky, spoke next from the north. It was a tone that didn't belong to man or woman but floated somewhere between, laced with contempt. "He was a headache even before his changes. That tactical brain of his was always too sharp. Should we just finish him off? Quiet. Clean."
"No."
The leader, still seated in the west, spoke with absolute finality. "We cannot waste time with anything beyond the plan. Not now. If we want to commence everything properly, it will take at least six more months. Until then, we let the prince be."
A pause. Then the leader continued:
"We can kill him anytime, after all."
The stone table seemed to pulse faintly in the silence that followed.
The royal chariot carved a path through the sunlit wilderness, its wheels whispering over soft earth and stone. Made of polished silverwood and veined obsidian, it gleamed like a mirror in motion. Inside, every detail was refined—moon-thread cushions, sky-glass windows, lanterns filled with slow-burning crystals.
Fortis Lactresia sat by the window, leaning slightly out to enjoy the warm breeze. His eyes followed the sprawling fields, forest veins, and distant hills that led to the Valenhold territory.
Across from him sat Ervian Halbrecht—the Fourth Sword of the Royal Guard. Tall, sharp, and always composed, Ervian's armor wasn't ceremonial. It bore faint signs of battle: small faded nicks and scratches, expertly maintained but proudly worn. His hair was tied back neatly, and his sword rested near his side—not as a formality, but as part of him.
Ervian glanced up.
"Have you been to the Second Noble's territory before, Your Highness?"
Fortis nodded casually. "Yes. A few times. There were some quiet occasions."
Ervian's expression didn't shift immediately, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "That's strange. I was informed you've never left the royal territory."
Fortis froze for just a beat. A drop of cold sweat slid down the back of his neck. He smiled lightly.
"Well, that's that."
Ervian blinked once but didn't press further. He was trained to notice lies—but also to choose his battles.
Fortis leaned forward. "Let me ask you something instead. How far is it from the capital to Valenhold's territory?"
Ervian answered almost immediately, as if the answer had always been ready. "Approximately one hundred and twenty kilometers, sir."
He added, "We could've run there in three to four hours, if we kept a steady pace. But the chariot will take at least eight."
Fortis laughed softly. "I am a prince. I should keep the dignity of a prince. We'll run back when we return—make a proper impression on the way out."
Ervian gave a rare nod. "As you command."
The view outside was breathtaking. Hills danced in gold and green. Streams glittered in the sun like scattered silver threads. A flock of birds took flight above a distant tree line.
Inside, Fortis's expression turned thoughtful. He looked at Ervian again.
"There's something I've been wanting to ask."
Ervian turned his gaze back.
"You've been assigned to me now, which makes you one of my men. That's a bond I don't take lightly."
He tilted his head slightly. "There've always been rumors. That you're fiercely loyal to the king. That you're incredibly strong. But I've never heard your last name. Never seen a family crest. Who are you?"
Ervian didn't respond at first. His lips tightened, but he didn't look away. His voice, when it came, was even but quiet.
"I don't think it's a story someone of your status would find interesting, Your Highness."
Fortis smiled.
"Yeah, see, that's where you're wrong. I like stories. I was basically buried in them until recently."
Ervian looked down at the floor. Then he spoke.
"I was a citizen of Croven."
He paused. Fortis didn't speak.
"Compared to our land in Lactresia, Croven is what we call ugly. Disgusting. Like bread that's been molded and molded until pests crawl out of it. The streets were as dark as it could get. Slave traders. Street fights. All kinds of filth you could imagine."
His tone didn't waver, but the disgust in his words was sharp.
"And the current Lord of the Croven household is a psychopath."
He stopped. Looked up—expecting some shift in Fortis's expression.
A prince should be angry hearing a vassal noble called such a thing.
But Fortis didn't even blink.
He sat still, waiting.
"What's the matter?" Fortis asked.
Ervian looked down again.
"I don't know if I have the right to call him a psychopath. But to me... he's a devil. Darker than a devil himself."
He took a long breath.
"To be frank... I want to kill him."
He closed his eyes.
"But I can't bite the hand that fed me."
"The king would be disappointed in me if I tried something like that."
The mc asked with low and calm voice: the REASON.