Ravina understood then—the difference between them. And it was not what she had imagined.

The prince had miscalculated. He had assumed that his royal blood, his title, and the backing of powerful families would command obedience. That the Count would react within the confines of courtly etiquette—that he would play his game.

In this game, if he told a good enough story, if he orchestrated the scene just right, then the world would bend to his will. He would get what he wanted.

But the world was not so black and white.

Power was not just titles and politics. It was not simply about playing to the crowd.

The prince had power, yes. But so did Count Ravenshield.

And the difference was that the Count was alone. He did not need approval, did not seek validation and he did not need allies to hold him up.

Where the prince stood tall, bolstered by five noble families, the Count stood alone. And he was unshaken.

He did not bargain with lesser men. He did not seek favor. He did not justify himself.

He did not bend to politics—he shaped them.

And in this moment, before a room full of nobles, before the weight of an entire kingdom’s expectations, he had made it clear:

The Crown Prince was beneath his concern.

The King’s expression remained impassive, but there was a weight in his eyes, a flicker of something close to regret. He understood.

The Queen, however, was far less composed.

Her fingers clenched into the folds of her gown, her lips pressed into a tight, white line. Her narrowed gaze flicked between her husband and the Count, the cold fury in her eyes betraying the depths of her frustration. She was furious—not just at the Count, but at her husband for doing nothing to stop him. Even though she must know there was nothing to be done.

"You cannot be serious," the prince snapped, his voice tinged with disbelief. "To simply exclude citizens of this empire just because you were forced to—"

"And why not?" The Count’s interruption was calm, effortless.

The prince faltered. "What?"

"Why can I not manage my own land as I see fit?" The Count's tone was level, yet there was an edge beneath it—a challenge wrapped in a statement.

Jayson recovered quickly, his confidence returning in the form of a scoff. "Ha! Really? We are a kingdom of rules. You simply cannot do whatever you please."

"You are correct." The Count took a measured step forward.

"Of course, I am."

"Then you won’t mind me killing this thing as well."

The words landed like a thunderclap.

The Count moved swiftly, his cane latching onto Angelica’s wrist with a decisive snap. He pulled her forward, twisting his grip to send her stumbling toward the staircase.

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"Lenord." The name was all he needed, the knight responded instantly. Though out of uniform, his skill had not dulled. With calculated precision, he intercepted the girl, his grip firm yet effortless. Two more men stepped in, their movements smooth, practiced. Without ceremony, they began dragging her toward the exit.

"Wait!"

Jayson's voice cracked.

Ravina’s eyes widened, unsure. Did the prince actually like the girl?

The Count turned his gaze back to him. "Why?" His voice was quiet, but it carried, weighted with something undeniable. "Why would I allow a commoner to insult my family name—and live?"

"She is the Crown Princess and a Saint!" Jayson’s words held less strength now, but desperation pushed them out. He gestured sharply, signaling the guards.

The palace guards hesitated. Their hands twitched near their weapons, but they did not draw them. Their eyes darted between the Count’s knights and their prince. The guards were not afraid of a fight. They had their weapons. They had their duty. They were sworn to the royal family. But even so, a skilled man was a skilled man. And these men, weaponless though they were, were more than capable.

More than that, the guards did not act because they understood the weight of the moment. If they stepped forward now, if they engaged, they would not be fighting for the prince. They would be fighting against the Count.

And they answered to the king.

A king who had not yet spoken.

“I haven't heard anything about this.” The count said coldly.

Jayson’s hands curled into fists, "I just announced it!" he shouted.

The Count exhaled, as if truly bored with the conversation. "As far as I am aware," the Count continued, unmoved, "you are not yet married, and your betrothed is Duke Pelta’s daughter—not this wanton woman."

“How dare-” again he was interrupted, the prince grinding his teeth.

"And a Saint can only be declared after The Omen. Since no such event has taken place, it would be too early to jest about her status."

The Prince’s lips twitched, his own words silencing him. His hands clenched at his sides, but he could offer no counter.

Ravina took a step forward. "Co-father," she faltered, stumbling over the word as she addressed the Count, unsure of how to refer to him.

His head turned smoothly, his gaze calculating as he regarded her. "Yes?"

His tone still carried venom, but—was it softer? Or was she just imagining it? Hoping for it? Either way, what she was about to ask would go against him, to a point. Still, it wasn’t truly Angelica’s fault—she was only a pawn.

Still, this wasn’t truly Angelica’s fault. She was only a pawn.

And if she wasn’t? If she had orchestrated this entire event from the very beginning?

Then Ravina was more than happy to play the fool—because she never wanted to be like the Count. Someone who could casually end hundreds of lives without a second thought.

"The commoner was a pawn and nothing more," she said carefully. "It was not her words that insulted the Ravenshield name, but the Crown Prince himself—using her to denounce it."

It was a stretch, and she knew it. She was using the same maneuvering as the prince—words meant to sway, bolstered by those around her. But she had neither man’s power, nor a single ally. So all she could do was ask. Hoping the plea from her would at least stay a blade.

The Count’s gaze flicked toward Jayson. "And why should the Crown Prince have believed she was bullied—if not for the woman’s lies?"

Jayson’s jaw tightened. He could not answer. Defending Angelica would mean admitting to the entire hall that he was a liar—a man who twisted truth to serve his whims. It would be a confession, a mark that no noble could wash away. Something worse than a death sentence.

So Ravina pressed forward, answering where the prince could not. "We do not know what exactly was said. And it was the Prince’s words that were hostile—not hers."

The Count sighed. Then, shaking his head, he waved a dismissive hand.

"Fine."

Ravina did not expect it to work. Yet, when it did—when the order was retracted, when Angelica was spared—relief came like a rush of air to drowning lungs. The Prince sagged in relief as well, but it was all short-lived.

"Cut out her tongue," the Count ordered, as effortlessly as one might request wine. "And beat her within an inch of her life. Then, perhaps, I can forgive her."

Silence crashed over the hall like a suffocating wave.

There was no hesitation, no pause for morality. He had spoken—and so it would be.

The Prince, for all his pomp and grandeur, was useless. His voice had carried power before, but now? Now, he stood frozen. He would not, could not, stop this.

Ravina’s chest tightened. She could only be consoled by the fact that she would not be killed. She did not feel victorious, she felt numb.