From the grand balcony of the Adanile palace, Queen Cole'lai stood in quiet observation, her piercing red eyes gazing down at the distant outskirts. The night air was cool. A gentle breeze swept through her long, flowing green hair, strands dancing like silk in the wind.

She leaned against the marble railing, one hand delicately resting on it while the other held a crystal goblet, half-filled with deep crimson wine. The glass tilted slightly as she swirled the liquid absentmindedly.

Her gown clung to her slender figure, the black velvet cascading like liquid shadow down to the floor. The plunging neckline revealed just enough to be daring yet regal, the golden necklace resting against her pale skin.

Diamond earrings caught the dim moonlight, sparkling with every subtle tilt of her head. Even her gold sandals, barely peeking from beneath the hem of her dress, seemed to complete the effortless perfection of her presence.

Just as many people had said, she was the most beautiful woman. Beautiful but cruel.

Behind her, the rhythmic clang of armored boots approached. A knight, clad in the signature golden armor of Adanile, knelt before her and bowed his head.

"My Queen," he began, "The intruders—"

"I already know," Cole'lai interrupted, her gaze never leaving the horizon. She took a slow sip of her wine, savoring it before lowering the goblet.

The knight hesitated before speaking again. "Shall we send a unit to pursue them?"

For the first time, Cole'lai turned her head slightly, just enough for her crimson eyes to meet his from the corner of her gaze. A faint, knowing smile graced her lips, barely noticeable yet undeniably present.

"There's no need," she said, "I have something else in mind."

The knight remained silent, waiting for her next command.

"Summon the royal messenger," Cole'lai ordered, turning her attention back to the night sky. "I have a message to send."

Without hesitation, the knight stood and bowed deeply before retreating to fulfill her command.

As his footsteps faded, Queen Cole'lai took another sip of her wine.

-

The Laughing Skull Tavern sat at the edge of the outskirts, its wooden beams creaking with the weight of the night. The air inside was thick with the stench of ale and smoke, the last of the night's patrons either slumped over their drinks or barely conscious in their seats. The bartender wiped a stained mug with little effort, already half-asleep behind the counter. It was almost closing time, and soon, the place would be empty.

Angeline moved carefully through the dimly lit room, keeping her head down as she guided the girl toward the darkest corner. The child, still wrapped in Stefan's cloak, clung to the fabric with small, trembling fingers. Her red eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings with silent curiosity.

"Here," Angeline whispered, nudging the girl into a seat against the wall. She pressed a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder before sliding into the chair beside her.

Stefan arrived a moment later, dropping onto the bench with a heavy sigh. His clothes were still smeared with dried blood and dirt from their escape, but his focus wasn't on himself—it was on the weapon in his hands.

The golden knife.

He turned it over, watching how the dim candlelight reflected off its wickedly sharp edge. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "This thing," he muttered, "it cut through enchanted armor like it was nothing."

Angeline leaned forward, watching the blade warily. "Then we should keep it," she suggested. "A weapon like that could save us more than once."

Stefan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "No. I'm selling it."

Angeline blinked, caught off guard by his immediate rejection. "Why?" she pressed, her brows furrowing. "That thing could be worth more than gold in a fight."

Wordlessly, Stefan flipped the knife over, revealing the underside of the handle.

Angeline sucked in a breath.

The handle wasn't solid gold like the rest of the blade. No—it was something else entirely. Something living. The grip was made of dark, pulsating flesh, its surface veined and swollen like raw muscle. Embedded deep within it, a bulging mass beat in a slow, sickening rhythm—like a heart, pumping with grotesque life.

Angeline swallowed, feeling bile rise in her throat. "What... what the hell is that?" she whispered.

Stefan's expression was grim. "That," he muttered, "is why I'm selling it."

Stefan exhaled and placed the knife onto the worn wooden table. The dull candlelight flickered against its golden edge, but his eyes weren't on the blade anymore. Something else had caught his attention.

Through the round window of the tavern, just beyond the glass fogged by the warmth of the room, a figure stood. Cloaked in shadow, the man's face was hidden, but there was no mistaking it—he was watching them.

Stefan tensed.

"Stay here until the buyer comes," he muttered to Angeline, already pushing himself up.

"Wait, what—"

But he was already moving, slipping through the door before she could protest.

At the same moment, another figure entered.

The buyer.

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A plump old man waddled inside, draped in expensive purple robes embroidered with gold thread. His round face, covered in a sheen of sweat, twisted in open disgust as he took in the tavern's rough and dirty interior. His thick, bejeweled fingers twitched as though resisting the urge to touch anything. But then his gaze found Angeline, and his frown curled into a satisfied grin.

Angeline, still feeling nauseous from the last conversation, sighed as the man approached.

"Ah, you must be the seller's companion." The old man's voice was thick and syrupy, his tone oozing false charm. "I believe you have something for me?"

"Yeah," Angeline said flatly, jerking her thumb toward the table. "It's right there."

The man turned his gaze to the knife, his eyes widening with a sick sort of delight. Unlike Angeline, who refused to even touch the thing, he reached for it eagerly, lifting it with reverence.

His fingers traced the pulsating flesh of the handle, watching as the grotesque heart throbbed against his palm. Then, to Angeline's absolute horror, he leaned in—his thick tongue slithering out—and gave the handle a slow, deliberate lick.

Angeline recoiled so violently she nearly toppled out of her seat. "Are you serious?!" she gagged.

The man sighed in delight, smacking his lips. "It's alive," he murmured, almost lovingly.

"You don't have to tell me twice," Angeline snapped, wiping at her mouth as if that would cleanse her of the secondhand disgust.

The man chuckled and dropped a heavy coin sack onto the table. Gold clinked against wood. But his attention had already shifted.

His gaze slid past Angeline—past the knife—and landed on the girl.

The small, red-eyed girl still wrapped in Stefan's cloak, sitting quietly in the shadows.

The man's lips curled, his gaze turning greedy.

"And what about this little thing?" he mused, stepping closer. "How much for her?"

Angeline stiffened instantly. "She's not for sale."

The man hummed, tilting his head. "I'll pay double."

Angeline's glare sharpened. "And I'll give you triple—" she cracked her knuckles, "—punches."

A flicker of annoyance crossed the man's face, but he let out a breathy chuckle and took a step back. "What a shame," he muttered, casting one last lingering look at the girl before tucking the knife beneath his robes.

Then, with a huff, he turned and stomped out of the tavern, his heavy steps shaking the floorboards.

Angeline exhaled, leaning back against the chair. "Creepy old bastard."

The girl, still silent, clutched the cloak tighter around herself.

Meanwhile, as Stefan stepped into the cold night, the door of the tavern swinging shut behind him. The streets were mostly empty, save for one figure standing beneath the flickering glow of a street lantern.

The cloaked man.

Stefan narrowed his eyes and strode forward, calling out, "You've been staring at us for a while now. What do you want?"

The figure let out a soft chuckle, then reached up and pulled back his hood.

Stefan froze.

Beneath the cloak was an old man with thinning silver hair and sharp, knowing eyes. A face Stefan had not seen in years—one he had never expected to see again.

"Elijah?" His voice was thick with disbelief.

The old man smiled. "It's been a while, young master."

Stefan's stomach twisted at the title, but he quickly shoved the feeling down. He crossed his arms, his expression hardening. "What are you doing here?"

Elijah stepped forward, his movements graceful despite his age. "I've come to bring you back," he said simply.

Stefan scoffed. "Back where?"

"To the Blanc Mansion," Elijah replied, his voice calm but insistent. "Where you belong."

Stefan's jaw clenched. "I don't belong there."

Elijah ignored him, his gaze steady. "You need to retrieve the [White Sword], Stefan. The prophecy—"

"There is no prophecy!" Stefan snapped, his voice sharp with anger. "I am not the man you think I am."

Elijah didn't flinch. "And yet, I've seen you wield a golden blade that belonged to the Adanile family and cut down their knights with it. Fate has already set things in motion."

Stefan shook his head, his fists tightening. "I'm not going back. That mansion is nothing but skulls and bones now."

"You could change that." Elijah's voice softened. "You could restore the Blanc Family to its former glory."

Stefan let out a humorless laugh. "I don't want to. I have a life now, and I'm satisfied with it."

Elijah sighed, studying Stefan's face as if searching for something. But whatever he saw, it was enough. His shoulders relaxed, and for the first time, his expression showed a hint of sadness.

"Very well," he said at last. "I won't force you."

Stefan exhaled, relieved the conversation was over. He turned away, ready to leave.

But just as he stepped past, Elijah spoke one last time.

"I still have faith in you, young master."

Stefan didn't respond. He walked back into the tavern without looking back.

Elijah stood under the dim lantern light, watching him go. Then, with a quiet sigh, he pulled his hood back up and disappeared into the night. Stefan pushed open the tavern door and stepped inside, rolling his shoulders to shake off the cold.

His eyes immediately found Angeline, seated in the farthest, darkest corner of the room with the girl curled up beside her. But what caught his attention wasn't the girl—it was Angeline's scowl.

He raised an eyebrow as he made his way over. "What's with that look? Don't tell me the buyer was a scam."

Angeline crossed her arms. "Oh, he paid. And very generously at that."

Stefan pulled out a chair and dropped into it, stretching out his legs. "Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that he was a sick pervert."

Stefan blinked, then burst out laughing. "Of course he was."

Angeline scowled harder. "He licked the damn knife, Stefan! Licked it! I almost threw up. And...AND he tried to buy HER?!"

That only made Stefan laugh more. He leaned back, shaking his head. "Well, at least we won't have to deal with him much longer."

Angeline frowned. "What do you mean?"

Stefan smirked. "It's only a matter of time before the royal family finds out he has the knife. When that happens, they'll either kill him or worse—turn him into one of their little... experiments."

For a moment, Angeline sat in silence, absorbing his words. It should have disturbed her. It did, in a way. But then again, after seeing what the Adanile family was capable of, she wasn't exactly inclined to feel sorry for the perverted old man.

"Huh." She tilted her head, "That's... actually kind of funny."

"Exactly." Stefan chuckled, drumming his fingers against the table. Then his gaze drifted to the girl, who was sitting quietly, her wide red eyes locked onto him.

"Well," he said, "I know an orphanage back in town. We can drop her off there."

Angeline's head snapped toward him. "What?"

"The girl needs a place to stay." He shrugged. "That place takes in strays like her all the time."

Angeline looked at him like he'd grown two heads. "And what if someone adopts her for... I don't know, selfish gains? Like that disgusting buyer earlier?"

Stefan exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Angeline, she's not human. She can defend herself."

Angeline jabbed a finger at him. "She's a teenager with the mind of an infant! That's not defending herself—that's being completely vulnerable."

Stefan groaned. "Angeline, this girl came from the Adanile's experiments. That alone makes her dangerous."

"The world is more dangerous," Angeline shot back.

Their argument escalated, both of them leaning in, voices hushed but heated. The girl watched them curiously, tilting her head from one to the other as if trying to understand.

"This girl thinks you're her father!"

"I don't care. She didn't come from my dick!"

"What? Don't you feel bad towards her?"

"Oh, I feel bad, alright?... TO MYSELF!"

"Why are you so selfish?!"

Then, just as Stefan was about to snap back, Angeline narrowed her eyes and smirked. "You do remember that you live here for free, right?"

Stefan's mouth opened—then snapped shut.

Angeline leaned back, triumphant. "It's only fair that you do something for me in return."

Stefan pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're using your father's tavern against me?"

"I'm using common sense."

Stefan exhaled sharply, glancing at the girl one last time before shaking his head in defeat. "Fine. But let's be clear—I'm only helping raise her. I'm not actually adopting her."

Angeline smiled, satisfied. "Good enough."

Stefan muttered something under his breath and slouched in his chair. The girl, seemingly oblivious to the entire argument, simply stared at him with those strange, piercing red eyes.

Something told Stefan he was going to regret this.