[Underground Stronghold]
The heavy stone door sealed the room, blocking out the world, the light, and the noise—except for the noise inside Alden's head.
Legs crossed, Alden lounged in a high-backed velvet armchair, a crystal goblet dangling loosely from his fingers. The wine was deep crimson, a vintage from the Western vineyards.
He tilted a vial of viscous purple fluid over the glass, pouring one drop, then two. The paralytic swirled into the alcohol, dissolving like ink in water.
Alden closed his eyes, feeling a phantom blade slicing his arm.
'Has an agent of mine been attacked?' he wondered, his crystal goblet trembling in his grasp. He clutched it tightly.
A phantom ache hollowed his chest next, and a sigh escaped his lips. 'Another agent is experiencing a breakdown.'
He took a sip of his drink.
Bitter frost wrapped in velvet wine hit his throat.
Head resting against the chair, he gazed up at the vaulted stone ceiling. Ichor pulsed with a low, heavy thrum against his chest. He took another sip.
Finally, the poison hit.
Nerves fired in panic, blurring the edges of his vision.
Alden swirled the crimson wine, admiring its coat on the crystal.
'Beautiful…' he thought, a smile tugging at his lips despite his tightening chest.
Deep within, he steered his Essence—a void, shapeless shadow—along the pathways of his spine. A freezing numbness cascaded down his vertebrae, enveloping the sensory receptors that screamed the loudest.
For a moment, Alden wondered at the moon's delay, only to remember that the Iron Room had no windows. A soft, helpless smile curved his lips.
He tried to listen to his pulse, but it presented a chaotic pattern of vibrations; individual beats were indistinguishable.
Thump-thump-thump.
It was too fast.
"Likely... above a hundred and ninety."
Another sip. The numbness spread to his cardiac nerves.
Thump… Thump…
"Better. A hundred... and fifty something."
The glass was empty, and the tremor in his hand vanished. Another pour. The wine tasted like blood, like red lips. The sharp darkness that usually lingered in his eyes had softened, glazed over by an alchemical haze.
"In this world," the words escaped in a low, slurred rhythm, brushing against the edges of darkness. "We have names for what we are. I am a man—a man is one you call 'he.' And there is another gender... a woman. We call them 'she.'"
A faint, dry smile tugged at his lips as he fixed his gaze on the cold stone above. However, when he spoke, his voice trembled, almost as if sharing a secret pact of mutual destruction.
"A man and a woman... can marry," he whispered, voice barely audible. "Marriage is... a promise—of being together forever. Two people belonging to one another... completely."
A shaky breath escaped him, allowing the definition to sink in. He shifted in his chair, turning to face the empty space to his right.
"I'll tell you more later, some other time… about promises," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom at the silence.
He pulled out another vial, poured its contents into the glass, and took a sip. With eyes half-closed, he began another story. "Tonight, let me tell you about Michael, the baker... and his cat."
His words were tumbling out in a haze. "Michael's bakery sits where Bloomstreet Market meets the village heart. Michael's cat... Miku is her name. She is sleek... silver. Green eyes glinting like jewels... in the dark. Covered in soft fur... small enough to hold in your arms. She'll purr... softly. Insistently."
A drop of deep red wine wetted his lips, staining them like a fresh bruise in the candlelight. His fingers traced the velvet of the armrest, imagining the sensation of fur against skin, or perhaps something softer.
"A bakery is a small room. Warm. Where cold flour... and water meet fire. The oven breathes heat. Fills the air... with sweetened grain. And honey."
In the quiet room, a dark, solitary chuckle reverberated as he heard his own fragmented words.
"And what comes out... is the bread. The loaf. Steaming. Golden. The baker wraps it in paper. Covering its warmth... much like the clothes you wear."
His eyelids closed, drowning out the stone walls.
"You press your palm to the crust. And it sings... a gentle crack. Inside, the bread is warm. Soft. Tasting of morning light. Comforting. Almost as if it longs to be savored... by your lips..."
The story hummed along, steering itself back to its players.
"Every morning... first loaves emerge golden. Miku appears. Summoned by the scent."
Head leaning back against the chair, he let each word linger like a caress he couldn't deliver. "Sits primly by the door. Tail curled around paws. Expression of complete innocence. An unaware passerby... would think her sweetest. Most demure creature... alive."
Another chuckle.
"Michael, the baker. Knows that look. Learned to recognize it... since Miku appointed herself inspector. She waits. Until Michael's hands deep in fresh dough. Then strikes. Like silver lightning. Snatches a honey bread... darts between his legs. Michael pursues... wooden spoon raised. Flour in his hair."
The voice slowed. Dragged.
"But... here's the secret. The whole village knows... Michael always bakes one extra honey bread. Each morning."
The final truth of the story whispered to the empty room.
"Where's the joy in a gift... not earned? Where's the delight in bread... that isn't properly claimed?" The tone dropped, threading through the dark. "You have to... reach out. To someone else's world. Feel it... taste it... claim it if needed."
Storytelling routine intact, but all else had lost its meaning. Time dissolved, measured only by the steady burn of the Ichor against his sternum and the level of wine in the bottle, dropping. Inch. By inch.
Far beyond the stone walls and the poison, the words drifted across the void, finding purchase where there should have been none.
In the land of Antithesis, Aurenya sat by the golden lake, her feet still in the water, listening intently.
"I am a man..." the creature's voice drifted through the light. "A man is one you call 'he'..."
'Oh...' Aurenya blinked, making a short, astonished sound. She had learned a new term. 'A man.'
'He is a man,' she thought, testing the sound in her mind. 'Not 'it'. He.'
The realization settled over her like a warm cloak. The mysterious storyteller was something called a 'man'.
"A man and a woman can... marry," the voice—his voice—continued, followed by a low chuckle. "Marriage is... a promise—of being together forever."
Aurenya leaned closer to the shimmering lake of gold, as if trying to physically catch the faint trembling in his voice.
'Together forever?'
The concept sparked a strange ache in her chest. To never be left behind? To never watch sisters fly away to war while she remained alone?
'And only two people. Completely belonging to each other.'
A sudden, sharp intake of breath expanded her ribs—a frantic, bird-like rhythm she had never felt before. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, squeezing until the pressure grounded her.
'What is happening? Why does it hurt so much?'
She swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat, confused by the stinging pain. But his voice was moving on, and she didn't want to miss a single syllable. She dug her fingers deep into the damp moss, anchoring herself to the earth, trying to push the unfamiliar ache into the background. She leaned forward as he began a new tale.
"Michael's bakery... Miku is her name..."
"A cat?" she whispered, shivering as her words echoed across the golden lake. His voice drew her to a world she'd never known.
"Her body is covered in soft fur... small enough to hold in your arms..."
Aurenya spread her fingers wide, imagining the softness, the warmth. Something so small and close... a texture she had never felt, a sound she had never heard. Her brow furrowed in gentle confusion. "What is fur?"
She couldn't find an answer, so she asked more. "And what is... a bakery?"
Despite not hearing her words, he seemed to answer.
"A bakery is a small, warm room... the scent of sweetened grain and honey... Inside, the bread is warm, soft... tasting of morning light..."
"...Like the clothes you wear..."
Aurenya looked down at her own covering, woven of Virelya's flame-leaves.
'Like clothes...' she echoed.
She tilted her head, trying to picture the market and bakery he described—stalls, fish, and golden bread emerging from ovens. Gooseflesh rose on her arms at the strange, vivid sensation he gave her.
"Michael pursues her with his wooden spoon raised, flour in his hair."
Aurenya's breath caught, her heart quickening at the vivid imagery. "She... takes things that aren't hers?" she murmured.
"You have to reach out to someone else's world and feel it... taste it... claim it if needed," he whispered.
Aurenya pressed her hands together, enchanted, heart beating faster. Such strange, wonderful ways of telling stories. What a peculiar, intoxicating world he knew... and how close he felt, even across the impossible distance.
Then, the voice stopped.
She waited, leaning forward, but the silence stretched. He was gone for now.
"Will you come back?" she whispered to the empty air during the waiting times. "Will you tell me more about Miku?"
[West Annex, Consort Cordelia's Chamber]
Early next morning, sunlight flooded the room.
A woman with flowing golden hair lay reclined on her velvet divan. The book she held was loosely in one hand, titled [Custodians of Power: Silk and Sovereignty]. She rested her palm on the book's binding, but her gaze was not fixed on the text. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of her lips.
"Uncle," Cordelia, the youngest harem member, muttered, her gaze drifting to the man across from her. "What is transpiring within the palace? I have heard that the heir has requested a test and subsequently found themselves in difficulty."
Marquis Blackwood replied with a grunt, settling heavily into his chair. "Yes, Consort Cordelia," he murmured, rubbing a hand across his brow. "The Emperor was quite displeased with him this time. The test he administered is... in truth... impossible to resolve under such short notice."
Cordelia nodded, idly flipping a page of her book. "A daunting task for a seventeen-year-old with no authority. Even if he uncovered the truth, he wouldn't be able to prove it in court. It makes one wonder… does the Emperor trust him that much, or is he deliberately trying to make him fail?"
"It's quite difficult to say…" Blackwood responded with an apathetic shrug, raising a finger to summon a maid.
Cordelia added, "I have heard reports of individuals attempting to cause disruption, only to be swiftly reprimanded and shown their place."
The maid stepped forward, bowing low as she poured steaming tea into the porcelain cup on the low table.
"Yes, My Lady," Blackwood continued, reaching for his cup. "Duke Helbart and Consort Rosa caused quite a scene. And the humiliation..."
Cordelia abruptly snapped the book shut, abandoning her reclining pose and sitting upright with sudden interest.
"Really?" She sighed, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I would appreciate it if you could elaborate on the details, Uncle."
Blackwood smiled and leaned in to recount the events of the previous morning. He spoke of the failed attempt to manipulate the Heir, the unexpected turn of events, and the exorbitant fines that both parties had to pay to the Heir—a total of a million gold coins.
"I regret not having been present to witness the event," Cordelia grumbled, picking at the lace on her sleeve. "I must admit, I've been feeling a deep sense of ennui lately."
"Haha… the Consorts are not permitted in court. However, Cordelia…" Blackwood's voice lowered a register. "The Empress is. If you can ascend to the throne of Empress… our West Faction will spare no expense. Bastian has also pledged his support. But his ultimate objective is…"
"Bastian? Ah… You mean Duke Viremont. I am aware of that," Cordelia interrupted, lifting her cup from the table. "I am compelled to assist the Heir if he chooses Emmelyne as his consort. I am willing to do this because I have not yet had children. However,"
Blackwood nodded reassuringly. "Don't worry. Once you bear an Imperial Prince, I personally will ensure his succession. That Alden... will likely not live long. He has no strong faction to support him."
Cordelia took a slow sip of her Chamomile tea, the floral scent drifting through the air. "Indeed, with the Empress's demise and His Majesty's disinterest, Emmelyne emerges as the most viable choice for his survival. Failure to do so could mean the loss of his life."
Blackwood acknowledged the statement with a nod, then paused, surveying the room and lingering his gaze on the servant positioned in the corner.
Cordelia noticed the expression and slightly turned her head. "Lana, leave the room for a brief period."
The maid, Lana, bowed deeply and retreated, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
Finally, Blackwood spoke freely. "Are you still seeing that brat?"
Cordelia's expression hardened with disdain as she sneered. "Do you believe I am an idiot, Uncle? Certainly not. In this dire situation, where a single error could spell disaster, I cannot afford to squander my opportunity for even a fleeting moment of pleasure."
"Good," Blackwood nodded, relieved. "I received a report. That brat has left the wing and headed straight for the Red Light District. Associating with such a reckless boy would be disastrous. Initially, I believed he could be useful since he's the son of Consort Miriam, Duke Ashvale's cousin… but now…" He shook his head dismissively. "He has no chance. Prince Jeremy, Prince Cassius, and even Prince Aran might have a better chance of succeeding."
Cordelia placed her cup down with a distinct clink.
"Are you overlooking one?" she inquired, tilting her head. "The one currently positioned closest to the throne?"
"You mean Crown Prince Alden?" Blackwood chuckled. "If someone else takes his place, it would be more difficult to switch. He remains in power because no one of sufficient authority has attempted to remove him. Once a winner emerges, he will be deposed."
Cordelia fixed her gaze on the window, observing the leaves rustling in the breeze.
"Hmm…?"
She lightly tapped her chin with a finger.
"I am curious… would it truly be as straightforward as you believe, Uncle?" Her voice was hushed, barely audible. "I trust we are not misinterpreting a wolf disguised as a sheep."