The Empire, despite its numbers and its arrogance, had failed to break the defenses.
Its first wave had shattered against the walls like a powerless tide. The mask of imperial invulnerability had cracked. For the first time in decades, the Empire's shadow bled.
From the high observation tower, Naira watched the battlefield in silence.
The wind stirred her white cloak, now stained with the dust of the day. In the distance, the last rays of dusk illuminated the Kingdom's banners—those of Erkhan, Bourlance, and the unbreakable Douglas—still flying above the devastation.
"We underestimated this kingdom…" she murmured.
Her voice was calm, yet a slight tightening of her jaw betrayed her frustration.
Her attendant, a man in gray robes bearing the seal of the Fourth Imperial Circle, bowed his head.
"The initial probing battle has concluded, Your Highness. We now know their strengths and their weaknesses. Within a week, our lines will be prepared for a full siege. The issue lies with those three fronts.
"I propose dispatching two level-eighty generals, Delta affinity, against the Douglas flank. That will suffice to break their defense."
Naira did not answer at once.
Her eyes remained fixed on the right flank, where the black wolf emblem still flew proudly amid pillars of smoke.
Laurence Douglas…
Father of Lusian.
She recalled his technique: simple. Precise. Without waste.
The kind of warrior who does not rely on chance or fortune, but on absolute control of himself.
The kind of enemy numbers alone cannot defeat.
"Send three," she said at last, her tone firm and unquestionable. "Two will not be enough."
The attendant looked up, surprised—but he did not argue.
Naira's orders were obeyed.
Always.
She turned, gazing at the horizon set ablaze by sunset. A spark of emotion touched her lips—a restrained smile.
It was not fear.
It was anticipation.
In one week, she thought, she would claim her first great victory.
The Empire would tremble once more beneath a single name.
Perhaps then they would call her Naira the Conqueror…
—or Naira, Supreme Empress.
Steam rose in slow spirals from the white marble bath.
The scent of medicinal herbs filled the chamber with a warm, almost drowsy fragrance. Lusian reclined with his eyes closed while Isabella massaged his shoulders with trembling hands.
"I-I'm sorry, my lord…" she whispered for the third time, her voice barely audible. "I should not have… mixed the healing herbs with the tea… nor entered without announcing myself."
Lusian exhaled wearily.
He had lost count of how many times she had apologized that afternoon.
Since Isabella had been assigned as his personal attendant, mistakes had followed one after another: water too hot, clothes folded poorly, bitter tea.
Nothing serious…
But unbecoming of someone serving House Douglas.
And yet, he could not blame her.
She had not been born to serve.
She was the daughter of Count Armett, raised among banquets and jewels—not buckets of water and linen cloths.
Now she knelt before him, her hands trembling less from fear of error than from the weight of her oath.
Lusian looked away.
Each time he recalled the vow sworn before Sagmus, a sharp pain pierced him.
The young woman had pledged loyalty with her very life. If she broke that vow, a curse would awaken, her body would rot, and she would die.
All… to survive.
This should not be so, he thought.
He had never wanted a servant—least of all one forced by circumstance.
But had he refused, her entire family would have been executed.
And he could not bear that burden.
"That is enough for today, Isabella," he said at last, his voice calm but firm.
She stopped at once.
As he rose, the young woman hurried to prepare the bath.
The water bubbled softly; mana-infused herbs shimmered with faint green light.
Everything seemed in order…
Until she froze in the middle of the room.
"The… the towel…" she stammered, horror washing over her face.
Lusian barely had time to open his eyes before she spun around to fetch it—caught her foot on the rim of a bucket—
—and fell headfirst into the bath.
The crash echoed through the chamber.
For a second, there was only the violent splash of water.
Isabella surfaced drenched, her face burning with embarrassment. Her white dress clung to her skin like a second layer.
Lusian turned away instantly, squeezing his eyes shut.
"For the love of the gods, Isabella!" he exclaimed, covering his face with one hand. "Are you hurt?"
"N-no, my lord! I'm sorry! It was an accident!" she replied, scrambling to rise—only to slip again, even more mortified.
The young man clenched his jaw.
Not in anger—
but against the storm of emotions surging through him.
He was young, and his body reacted with the impulsiveness of youth… yet his mind knew he could not surrender to instinct.
She was not merely a servant.
She was someone who had lost everything.
And she served him not by choice, but because circumstance had forced her hand.
He drew a slow breath.
"Get out of the water. And change."
His voice was steady, though tightly restrained.
Isabella nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.
The silence that followed weighed heavier than any rebuke.
Lusian stepped toward the window, gazing out at the hills of the duchy bathed in sunset light.
The war moved forward out there.
But within the duchy…
all advanced in fragile, fleeting peace.