Dawn had barely brushed the torn walls of Dara in gray when, inside an improvised pavilion near the northern rampart, Duke Laurence Douglas rested among his closest subordinates: shadow captains, dark knights, heirs of vassal houses, and warriors who had survived the slaughter of the night before.
The atmosphere was a strange blend of exhaustion and restrained euphoria.
One of the captains, half his armor shattered, laughed loudly as he drank water from a metal bowl.
"By the gods, my lord…! They say the Fifth Legion wept like children when they learned they'd be facing us!" He barked another laugh. "They were writing farewell letters before they even marched!"
"Hmph," another snorted. "And there are rumors the new imperial recruits think our shadows swallow soldiers whole. Imagine those poor devils marching toward Dara thinking they're about to fight demons!"
Laughter swelled, accompanied by claps on shoulders and the clatter of battered armor.
Laurence watched them.
In silence.
With a calm that stood in stark contrast to their noise.
Not because he did not value their laughter… but because every smiling face reminded him of one that was missing.
Many of his men had died.
Many far too valuable.
Far too young.
If he closed his eyes, he could still see the moment when three imperial generals had surrounded him in the dim haze of the previous night.
He had been close. Very close.
If not for the sacrifice of his most loyal vassals…
he would not be breathing now.
Two counts of the duchy had died defending him.
A third had lost his right arm—the hand with which he wrote, fought, and waved to his children.
The price of his survival had been… obscene.
And yet none of them had hesitated.
Because he was Duke Douglas.
The pillar of the duchy.
The heir to a lineage that bore the will of darkness itself.
The shield of his people.
And he… he could not afford to fall.
He drew a slow breath.
As always when death brushed against him, his thoughts drifted backward… toward a wound that had never healed.
Caleb.
His lost son.
His greatest regret.
His most intimate failure.
The murmur of his soldiers faded in his mind, replaced by the image of a dark-haired boy, lively eyes, a mischievous smile… a smile so much like Martha's.
If I had followed my father's plan…
The thought returned, bitter.
If he had accepted that Sofia—his lawful wife, the duchess imposed by his late father's will—must bear him the heir.
If he had relinquished the illusion that, for once, his life might follow his own desire.
If he had accepted that Caleb, however beloved… was never meant to take Lusian's place.
Caleb would be alive…
Perhaps Martha would have looked at him with resentment.
Perhaps she would have wept at not seeing her son become duke.
But he would be alive.
Laurence felt the familiar knot in his stomach.
The same one that had gripped him the day he told Martha the news—and watched her world collapse before his eyes.
"I was a poor husband to Sofia… and a worse father to Caleb."
He had never loved Sofia.
He had never wished to share a child with her.
He had told her so from the day they were wed—bound by the duchy's designs, by old Douglas's ruthless strategy.
But Sofia…
Sofia had never hated him.
Never shouted.
Never demanded love he could not give.
She demanded only one thing:
An heir.
A child born of her womb, as the lineage required.
And when Laurence refused, she did not leave the chamber.
She did not cry.
She did not beg.
She simply said, in a voice firm and unbreakable:
"I do not ask this for myself.I demand it for the duchy."
And thus Lusian was born.
The most astonishing moment of that forced marriage had not been the birth itself.
It was the first time Laurence saw Sofia smile—truly smile—while holding the infant in her arms.
A real smile.
Not for him.
Not for their union.
But for the child.
"She has suffered as much as I have… yet she never neglected Lusian."
Lusian.
The son who was never in danger.
The child guarded by magical beasts from the cradle.
The praised prince of the duchy, destined from the beginning to inherit.
Even a thousand assassins could never touch him.
But Caleb…
Caleb had been exposed from the day Laurence gave in to his heart.
An unforgivable mistake.
One paid for with his own son's life.
Laurence clenched his fists.
His men still laughed, trading stories, celebrating the night's victory like wolves who had survived winter.
He let them.
He allowed the joy.
Perhaps they could celebrate.
Perhaps they deserved to forget.
But he—
as duke, as father, as man—
could not.
The weight of the duchy was too heavy.
The darkness guiding his lineage was both honor and curse.
And despite everything—
he lifted his gaze toward the soldiers who lived because of him, and for whom so many others had died.
And he thought:
I must continue.As long as I breathe, I must continue.For them.For Martha.For Sofia.For Caleb.For Lusian.For Aster.
A shadow passed through his eyes.
In the Kingdom's capital, Acropolis, activity surged like a living tide. From dawn, palace bells had announced a new phase of the defensive plan, and inside the Royal Palace of Atrium, Queen Adelaine directed every movement like a general commanding her own battlefield.
"The recruitment?" she asked firmly, without lifting her gaze from the reports spread before her.
"Completed, Mother," replied Crown Prince Andrew, posture rigid, tone respectful. "Units are positioned. The new fortress can be deployed at any moment; its defensive capacity will surpass Dara. It will hold… even if we cede territory, the Kingdom will not fall."
Adelaine released a breath she seemed to have held for days.
"Then give the order. Have Keitaro, the spatial mage, depart at once. Your father must know the second line is ready to receive the Empire."
Andrew nodded and departed to carry out the command, leaving the queen alone with her thoughts. For a few seconds, her unshakable façade wavered. She was mother, wife, and queen… and each role pulled her in a different direction.
But there was no time for weakness.
She summoned the next ministers.
In another wing of the palace, Princess Elizabeth, exhausted yet resolute, finished filing the day's final reports.
Since the king had departed for war, she, her mother, and Andrew had borne nearly the entire weight of governance.
The reports were endless:
• An unusual surge in monster activity—double the norm.• Food distribution to isolated villages.• Harvests disrupted by troop movements.• Refugee flows from the northern frontier.
Elizabeth gently massaged her temples. Despite her natural elegance and royal composure, she was still human—tired, strained… and longing.
She sat at her small desk adorned with fresh flowers and opened a half-written letter. Her expression softened completely; warmth replaced political rigidity.
It was addressed to Lusian Douglas.
"My beloved Lusian…"
She continued writing with sighs and secret smiles she allowed no one else to see. She exaggerated her burdens, shared small anecdotes, and between the lines, let slip a trace of jealousy.
"…and if I so much as hear a rumor of another woman setting her eyes upon you, I will punish you personally when you return. Do not test me."
She sealed the letter with the royal emblem, utterly unaware of what was happening hundreds of kilometers away.
While Elizabeth imagined her noble, upright Lusian composing a faithful reply full of praise…
Lusian was engaged in a very different kind of battle.
A battle without armor.
Without swords.
Without mercy.
And clearly—
without victory for him.
"Hah… I surrender…!" Lusian gasped, collapsing onto the bed.
Beside him fell Isabella, equally exhausted, entirely bare, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she draped herself over the young master with shameless familiarity.
"Defeated… for the third time…" she whispered sweetly.
Isabella had waited for this opportunity. She had studied, calculated, and prepared every approach with a hunter's patience. Her natural beauty, delicacy, and devotion to Lusian had not been enough at first.
Lusian was difficult.
A Douglas—raised with noble discipline.
Resistant to temptation.
Proper to the point of frustration.
But she had not yielded.
The opportunity came when she "accidentally" engineered a moment where he saw her half-dressed. She feigned a stumble, he caught her—and the rest became an inevitable storm.
Now, resting against his chest, she smiled in quiet triumph.
If she played her cards well…
If she cared for him…
If she made herself indispensable…
Perhaps she would not remain merely a servant.
The highest position she could hope for in this world was to become the heir of Douglas's concubine.
And that night… she had taken the first decisive step.
Five more days of war.
Five days of blood.
Five days of siege that wore down Empire and Kingdom alike.
But since that infamous night—the night when a thousand imperial mages vanished without a trace—something inside the imperial army had fractured.
They feared the darkness.
Not symbolically.
Not superstitiously.
It was pure military terror.
When the sun set, the legions retreated to camp like hunted souls, lighting thousands of torches, forming rings of fire around their tents.
No one patrolled the fortress closely.
No one approached the shadows.
They watched from afar…
waiting for dawn to begin another day of assault.
And that was precisely what the Kingdom needed.
Two nights earlier, after a brutal day's fighting, when the moon stood high and the imperial army rushed back toward the safety of its lights, the Kingdom made its final decision.
King Felipe Erkhan gathered the nobles.
"It is time. We march tonight."
"At dawn, my lord? We are exhausted…" one protested.
"Hope grants strength that fatigue cannot steal," the king replied. "And the Empire does not watch the night."
He was right.
Silent. Disciplined. Determined.
More than fifteen thousand soldiers left Dara under the cover of darkness.
They marched through the night.
With broken armor, bloodstained bandages, and legs threatening to give way.
They marched not by physical strength, but because they knew a new fortress—larger, stronger, more magical—awaited them.
When the sun rose, they were gone.
And the Empire, too afraid to look into the shadows, had seen nothing.
The next day the Empire would attack again with ferocity—
War has a way of turning even tragedy into routine.
The deaths of thousands no longer shook anyone.
It was simply… another dawn.
One of the remaining imperial formations, composed of survivors from shattered legions, received its final order before advancing:
"Your mission: eliminate the Douglases."
Silence fell.
Many trembled.
Others paled.
Some crossed themselves, though the Empire tolerated no superstition.
Because everyone—even new recruits—knew the name.
The Douglases.
Synonymous with silent death.
With shadows that devoured entire squads.
With the night itself.
And since the massacre, no order had inspired such terror.
They marched with the resignation of men walking toward their graves.
There was no honor in the task.
No glory.
No hope of promotion.
Only obedience.
Yet as they advanced that morning, something felt wrong.
Upon reaching Dara's perimeter, they expected arrows, magic, curses, traps, fire—
Instead…
Silence.
Not ordinary silence.
An oppressive stillness, as if the fortress itself had died.
Veterans halted.
Recruits swallowed.
A general frowned.
"…Why aren't they attacking?""Where are the sentries?""Why is there no movement on the walls?"
The walls—cracked, nearly collapsed—were… empty.
A captain raised his hand.
"Archer forward! Confirm enemy presence!"
A scout climbed the shattered stone.
Five seconds passed.
Five seconds of total silence.
Then he shouted:
"T-there's no one!""What?""The fortress… it's empty!"
A murmur rippled through the ranks.
Confusion spread like fire.
"A-are they… all dead?""Did they flee?""Is it… a trap?"
A general swallowed his own fear.
"Inform Her Highness Naira immediately. Now!"
Inside the imperial tent, Naira stood surrounded by maps, brow furrowed, patience worn thin by five stagnant days.
A messenger burst inside.
"Y-Your Highness! Dara… Dara is empty!"
Naira blinked.
"Empty?"
"Completely. No soldiers. No staff. No fresh corpses… nothing."
"And the night sentries?" she asked, her tone dangerous.
The generals stiffened.
They all knew the answer.
"Your Highness… since the massacre… our troops return to camp before nightfall."
"We have not watched the walls after dark."
Naira did not reply immediately.
Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from pure fury.
"So they escaped…"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"When?"
"We believe… during the night."
Silence.
Naira struck the table with her fist.
"At night—and none of you noticed!"
The generals bowed their heads.
She drew a sharp breath, mastering her rage.
"We march. I will see this abandonment with my own eyes."
When the imperial princess stepped through Dara's shattered southern gate, the echo of her footsteps rang through desolation.
She had imagined this moment from the day her father entrusted her with this mission—her first conquest.
To enter the legendary fortress in triumph.
With her army behind her.
With banners raised.
With glory.
What she found instead was—
Empty ruins.
Absolute silence.
A dead fortress.
Imperial torches lit broken corridors, half-collapsed towers, deserted courtyards.
No fresh corpses.
No abandoned armor.
No recent blood.
Only the remnants of a resistance that had vanished.
"Where is the royal army?" Naira asked without turning.
The generals exchanged uneasy glances.
"Your Highness… we believe they escaped at night."
"And why did you not see it?" she whispered, venom in every syllable.
"Our men… do not approach the fortress after dark… since that night…"
"Since the massacre," she finished.
Her eyes burned.
The night.
Always the cursed night.
Always the cursed Douglases.
"Fools," she spat. "I will not let them escape."
She looked up at the fractured wall and exhaled bitterly.
The Douglases had not merely defeated them—
they had used the Empire's fear to disappear beneath its nose.
They had turned darkness into their ally.
And Naira understood:
"This is not a victory.
This is a humiliation."
Whispers spread among the soldiers.
The imperial princess—the heir to the throne—
had been outmaneuvered.