Kaelus sighed, a sound of profound disappointment.
He uncrossed his legs and slowly stood up.
The sound of his heavy boots hitting the wooden dais was like a death knell.
"Sir Lucas," Kaelus said, not taking his eyes off the trembling Count.
Sir Lucas, the scarred veteran, stepped forward with a terrifying grin, pulling a pair of heavy iron tongs from a leather pouch at his waist. "Yes, Your Grace?"
"The Count seems to have misplaced his memory," Kaelus said smoothly. "Let us see if removing a few digits helps him count his sins more accurately."
Count Rodhe shrieked, scrambling backward like a crab. "No! Please! Have Mercy!"
"Papa Duke!"
The high-pitched, childish voice rang out across the vast, terrifying hall like a silver bell in a graveyard.
The effect was instantaneous and incredibly comical.
Sir Lucas dropped the heavy iron tongs.
Clang!
They hit the marble floor, narrowly missing his own steel-toed boot.
The twelve stoic, terrifying knights lining the walls all twitched simultaneously, their heads snapping toward the entrance.
Duke Kaelus froze mid-step, the terrifying aura of killing intent surrounding him dissipating so fast it created a literal gust of wind in the room.
Seraphina trotted down the long carpet toward the dais, her little blue dress swishing around her knees.
She completely ignored the weeping, kneeling nobles and the intimidating knights.
She marched straight up to the dais, stopped at the bottom step, and looked up at the towering warlord.
"Sir Gallahan said you were doing an interview," Seraphina said, crossing her small arms and puffing out her cheeks in a perfect display of childish disapproval. "Why is he crying on the floor? Is he failing the interview?"
Around the room, the knights of the Black Bastion were currently experiencing an internal crisis.
'Papa Duke?!' Sir Lucas screamed in his mind, his scarred face turning a violent shade of red as he desperately tried not to smile. 'She called the infamous Northern Reaper... Papa Duke?! And she looks like a little blue doll! Oh, my heart. My hardened, battle-scarred heart is thumping so loud that I'm starting to doubt whether it's really scarred!'
Another knight in the corner bit down so hard on his lip that it began to bleed, his shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed giggles.
The contrast between the child's innocent scolding and the Duke's bloody interrogation was too much for their military discipline.
Kaelus stared down at the child.
His violet eyes darted toward Gallahan, who was standing by the door, desperately avoiding eye contact and pretending to inspect the ceiling frescoes.
Kaelus looked back at Seraphina.
He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his terrifying persona.
"Seraphina," Kaelus said, his voice deep and stern. "This is official Bastion business. You should be in your room for now. The floor is filthy, and this man is just a pile of trash. Do not stand so close to him."
He stepped down from the dais.
Without a shred of hesitation, he reached down, grabbed her by the waist, and hoisted her up into the air.
He didn't put her down; he carried her back up the steps, sat down on the elder's chair, and plopped her squarely onto his lap.
He wrapped one arm securely around her waist, effectively locking her in place.
"But, if you insist on being here," Kaelus muttered, adjusting his cape so it draped over her legs, "you will stay and observe from here. I will not have you contracting whatever disease this rat is carrying."
Count Rodhe, who was still kneeling on the floor waiting to have his fingers crushed, looked up in utter bewilderment.
The terrifying, heartless monster who was just about to torture him was currently adjusting the hem of a little girl's dress to ensure she was comfortable sitting on his knee.
"Y-Your Grace?" the Count sniffled, confused.
"Silence," Kaelus snapped, his eyes turning back into frozen shards of ice. "Speak unless spoken to, and you lose the tongue."
Seraphina settled into the Duke's lap and found out that it was surprisingly comfortable.
She looked down at the Count.
But she wasn't actually looking at Rodhe; rather, she was looking exactly two feet behind his left shoulder.
There, hovering in the air, was the ghost.
It was an older man with a neatly trimmed, translucent beard.
He wore a spectral suit that resembled a high-ranking steward's uniform, with a ghostly monocle resting over his right eye.
However, ruining his dignified appearance was the gaping, spectral slice across his throat, from which shadowy blood continuously poured but never hit the ground.
He was glaring at the Count with a look of pure hatred.
"So," Seraphina started, swinging her legs slightly against the Duke's shin. "You hid the papers, Mr. Count?"
"I didn't!" Rodhe pleaded, looking desperately at the child, hoping her innocence might save him. "I swear on the Gods, little miss, I have no such papers!"
Seraphina ignored him, looking directly at the ghost with the monocle.
'Okay, Mr. Ghost,' she thought. 'Let's play charades. Give me a sign.'
"Did you put them in a box?" Seraphina asked, tilting her head.
The Count shook his head vigorously.
The ghost, realizing the strange child on the monster's lap was looking directly at him, blinked in shock.
Then, understanding his moment for revenge had arrived, the ghost began to mime.
The ghost shook his head furiously, pointing downwards with both hands.
"No box," Seraphina deduced out loud, making it sound like she was just guessing. "Did you bury them in the dirt? Could it be that it's in the garden?"
"No! I am innocent!" the Count cried.
The ghost shook his head again, crossed his arms to mimic shivering, and then pointed downward again, making a drinking motion.
'Cold... down... drinking,' Seraphina translated in her head. 'Ah! That's right! The wine cellar!'
"Are they in the cold place where the juice is?" Seraphina asked, pointing a chubby finger at the Count. "The basement with a lot of big jars?"