The streets were quiet, bathed in silver moonlight.
Kael moved through them like a shadow, the memory of Nyra's healing warmth already distant.
But the closer he drew to the estate of House Drenlor, the louder the sounds became—guards shouting, hounds barking, metal clinking. The aftermath of the Divine General's escape still lingered like smoke.
He sighed.
Sliding into a dim alleyway, Kael closed his eyes and reached into his space ring. In a practiced motion, he pulled out a neatly folded set of clothes—noble attire, slightly rumpled to suggest urgency.
He stripped off the Devil's black garments and quickly changed into the pre-prepared outfit. A splash of water across his face and shoulders completed the illusion: Kaelion Drenlor, disheveled, breathless, and loyal.
He staggered into the open, panting.
Veyran's voice called out, sharp. "Where have you been?"
Kael looked up, just the right amount of exhaustion in his eyes.
"I saw the Devil… he broke in. Took Uncle. I ran to alert the city patrol, activated wards, told every outer post to be on alert."
Veyran stared at him for a moment, eyes searching.
Then—he nodded. "Good. At least you're useful for something."
Kael offered a weary smile. "I'm always loyal to House Drenlor."
Just then, another voice—cooler, silkier, with a tinge of danger.
"Oh? And who's that trembling so earnestly in our courtyard?"
Kael turned.
From the shadows, flanked by two elite guards, stepped a figure he hadn't seen in months.
Aerik Drenlor. Second son of the house.
He was home.
Kael's smile faded as his heart sank. He lowered his gaze.
Another storm was brewing.
A sharp yank pulled Kael forward.
Aerik's fist gripped his collar, eyes blazing.
"You little bastard! I leave for a few days and return to hear rumors—me, poisoning you?" His voice cracked with fury. "Why in the Abyss would I need to poison you, huh?"
Hot-tempered as ever.
Kael's lips barely parted—but Veyran stepped in swiftly, placing a firm hand on Aerik's shoulder.
"Enough. Father has summoned us. Now isn't the time."
With effort, Aerik released him, snorting in contempt.
They walked in silence through the stone halls of the inner estate, the echo of boots bouncing off high archways. Tension clung to the air like smoke.
The doors to the Duke's chamber creaked open.
Inside, Duke Drenlor sat upright—but barely.
His face was pale, drained of color, and his once-imposing frame seemed to sag beneath invisible weight.
It was unclear whether the toll was from his brother's escape—or something deeper.
Beside him stood Renold, stoic and watchful, and the Duchess, her face drawn with worry.
All three sons saluted.
Veyran stepped forward first. "Father. We failed to stop the traitor… but we will bring him back."
Aerik followed. "No matter where he runs, we'll hunt him. I swear it."
Kael said nothing. His silence wasn't defiance—it was calculation.
Across the room, General Morien remained quiet, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
The Duke exhaled heavily, his voice worn and hollow.
"It's good… that I still have you three by my side."
Veyran stepped forward immediately. "Father, don't speak like that."
Aerik followed. "You'll recover. House Drenlor still stands strong."
Kael said nothing again. But inside, a faint, bitter smile tugged at his thoughts.
How touching.
They played the part of loyal sons well—like actors on a stage. But behind the bowed heads and solemn words, each held a dagger aimed at the other's back.
Yue's dry chuckle echoed in his mind. They're so dramatic, I might cry.
Then Aerik straightened, voice suddenly sharp.
"Father, I can't stand by anymore. Third Brother has falsely accused me of poisoning him. I demand a formal duel."
The room shifted. All eyes turned.
The Duke looked slowly toward Kael, uncertain.
But Kael didn't flinch. "I accept the duel."
Aerik laughed, stepping closer.
"I thought you'd slither out of it. You're magicless, after all."
Kael didn't rise to the bait. His face remained stone.
The Duke's voice cracked.
"Enough! Kael, the House will be in shame if the brothers fight like dogs."
Still, Kael didn't waver.
At last, the Duke sighed again, the weight of politics and bloodline pressing on his chest.
"So be it. But there will be no killing."
He gestured toward the steward.
Renold stepped forward, bowing. "By decree of the Duke, a formal duel between Third and Second Sons shall be held at dawn tomorrow. The entire province shall bear witness."
The chamber went still.
Kael turned to leave without a word.
###
After some time....
The chamber was still.
Only Duke and Renold remained, shadows long across the polished stone floor.
The last echoes of footsteps had faded down the corridor, leaving behind the weight of truth and treachery.
The Duke stood facing the hearth, hands clasped tightly behind his back.
"What sons have I raised…" he spat, his voice low—more bitter than angry, more tired than cold.
He already knew.
Veyran, his first son, had quietly gathered an army: over a hundred Rank-2 magicians under his banner.
And General Morien—the trusted sword of western province—now leaned toward Aerik, the second son. It was all aligning, too quickly.
Renold stepped forward, voice careful.
"Your Grace… we've confirmed it. The Master Red Pass Key has been stolen from the servant quarters."
The Duke's eyes narrowed. "The Red Key?"
Renold nodded grimly. "It was used to bypass the prison wards. That's how the devil freed the Divine General."
A cold weight settled over the room.
The Duke's voice dropped to a whisper. "You did soul-searches?"
"Everyone connected to it—nothing. No memory, no trace. Whoever used the key either never came into direct contact with the servants… or knows how to erase memories completely."
The Duke leaned back, fingers tightening on the carved wood of the armrest.
"That code… it was sealed into that vault."
Above them, gliding unseen through the rafters, Yue floated like a specter—arms crossed, watching.
She smiled, whispering to the air.
"Ghosts are good at stalking, dear Duke… and better still at finding what should stay buried."
The flames in the fireplace crackled. The Duke stared into the blaze, unaware that a presence far older than any of his sons had been listening to every word.