The gardens still smelled of iron.

  Not fresh blood alone, but something sharper — scorched mana lingering in the air like invisible ash. Rows of flower beds had been upheaved, several trees still had lingering flames crawling across their branches , thin fractures spreading outward like veins. The mana lamps in the air burned lower than usual, their flames unsteady, as if even fire felt uneasy on the grounds tonight.

  Argus stood at the center of it all, unmoving, his body still not his own.

  His mother reached him before Dravien fully registered that she had crossed the distance.

  “Argus.”

  Her voice was not loud. It did not need to be. It trembled in a way he had never heard before. Was this the emotion of a human mother?

  Her hands gripped his arms, not gently, not harshly — but with the urgency of someone confirming that what stood before her was real. Her eyes scanned his face, then his shoulders, then lower, searching for wounds he did not have.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, her voice tightening despite her attempt to remain composed.

  Dravien, still in control of the body, regarded her expression with detached curiosity. He felt the tremor in her hands, noticed the uneven rhythm of her breathing, observed the dilation of her pupils. Humans reacted strongly to threat. Stronger still when the threat touched what they believed was theirs.

  “I am unharmed,” he replied evenly. She had just seen her son slaughter the assassins mercilessly and yet she still inquired about his condition.

  The answer from Dravien came smoothly as if he was talking about the weather.

  “Lord Dravien, please do try and act like a human, in front of my family or I fear I will have none.” Argus’s voice hurriedly, Dravien ignored him.

  She paused, her eyes boring into his as if she would find the truth within them.

  “You’re unharmed?” she repeated, as if testing whether the words would change upon being spoken again.

  “Yes. Their coordination was lacking. They weren’t that strong, you have no need to worry about me”

  Her grip stiffened.

  “Coordination?” she echoed.

  “They approached in predictable sequence. And it was only the fact that they caught us off guard that they managed to cause so much destruction here.” While he spoke he glanced back at the mansion, the Pillars at the rear end were completely destroyed barely holding the wait of the quarters.

  Her expression meanwhile shifter with surprise and confusion.

  “Argus,” she said carefully, “these were assassins.” Ah…of course she was perplexed upon the display of strength. He had casually destroyed assassins who had ten times his power.

  “Yes.” He replied simply, not knowing what else to say

  “You’re speaking about them as if you’re reviewing a training exercise.”

  Dravien tilted his head slightly, not understanding the distinction she was trying to make.

  “They attempted to kill us,” he answered. “The appropriate response was elimination.”

  Behind her, his older brother stared openly now. “That’s not how you talk,” he muttered under his breath.

  Dravien’s gaze shifted to him. “How should I speak?” He thought he was speaking like a human, he was certainly speaking the same language, so what did Vaeron mean by that?

  His brother faltered, clearly unsettled by the question. “Like… like yourself.”

  Dravien considered that for a moment. Argus had been silent throughout the entire exchange, and even though he could read the boy’s mind, he chose not to.

  He wanted to give the body back to him to deal with these questions from his family but doing that would be neglecting to deal with the consequence of his actions. And he couldn’t do that could he?

  Argus’ mother stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Tell me what happened.”

  “They entered through the garden wall,” Dravien explained the assassin’s infiltration. He had sensed they as soon as they entered the mansion but chose to first see their approach.

  “The outer wards were dismantled prior to their approach. They moved with professional efficiency, taking out our handful of guards.”

  Her breath caught at that.

  “The wards were dismantled?” she repeated faintly. “Those wards were layered by a royal mage.” Really? He hadn’t found them that impressive.

  “They were bypassed. Improperly. It triggered backlash. Two of them were injured before I engaged, the wind elemental and the Blood elemental who were fighting you.”

  The more he spoke, the more something in her expression hardened — not in anger, but in realization.

  “You engaged,” she repeated slowly. “Argus, six assassins’ broke into this manor. Seven trained killers. And you killed them like a season veteran.”

  “Yes, though I attacked one from the back while he was engaged with Vaeron. And you and the elf maid did plenty of work before I came.”

  Argus’s voice came again; urgency layered in every word. “Lord Dravien, the maid’s name is Lyssa, I always address her as Aunt Lyssa.” Oh, Dravien realized.

  The Garden went silent.

  She stared at him now, not searching for wounds anymore.

  She was searching for something else.

  “Look at me,” she said softly.

  Dravien looked at her without hesitation, meeting her eyes dead on.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  That was a mistake, he realized too late.

  “I always hesitated slightly when confronted directly. There was always emotion flickering behind my gaze — frustration, uncertainty, impatience. I doubt there is any emotion in your eyes” Argus’s voice came.

  These eyes were steady and still. Ancient in a way she could not explain.

  “You’re not speaking like yourself,” she whispered.

  Inside the shared mindscape, Argus surged upward. Dravien let him take control.

  The guilt had been building, thick and suffocating. He had watched through his own eyes as blades moved with inhuman precision. He had felt the fear of men who realized too late that they had miscalculated. He had felt Dravien’s cold assessment of each life ended.

  And now he saw his mother’s fear. She was not afraid of any of the dead assassin’s. No, she was afraid of him and for him.

  Control shifted abruptly, as Argus felt Lord Dravien let him take over.

  Argus inhaled sharply as if surfacing from deep water. His pulse slammed against his ribs, grounding him instantly in the present moment.

  “Mother,” he said, and this time the word carried weight.

  Her shoulders visibly loosened.

  “There you are,” she breathed, sharp relief flickered in her eyes as if she could tell by that one word alone that it was her son who was talking.

  He swallowed, suddenly aware of how rigid his body had been. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For speaking like that.”

  He forced himself to meet her eyes, even though part of him wanted to look away. “It happened quickly. They came through the garden. I reacted.”

  His brother stepped forward. “You reacted by killing six of them.”

  Argus’ jaw tightened.

  “They weren’t amateurs,” his brother continued. “They moved like soldiers.”

  “They were,” Argus admitted quietly. “They were trained.”

  “And you?” his mother asked, her voice steadying through sheer will. “When did you become someone who can handle seven trained assassins alone?”

  There it was. The question he could not answer.

  He could not tell her that memories not his own guided his hands. That centuries of battle experience lurked beneath his skin. That something older than kingdoms had awakened within him and found the encounter… trivial. How could he? He found it hard to believe it himself.

  “They underestimated me, and you guys helped” he said instead.

  “That doesn’t explain it,” she replied.

  “No,” he agreed softly. “It doesn’t.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Outside, somewhere in the gardens, the wind shifted through broken hedges.

  “Did they say who sent them?” she asked.

  Argus hesitated.

  “They didn’t have the chance.”

  Her eyes searched his face again. “You killed them all?”

  “Yes.” He answered hesitantly.

  She closed her eyes briefly. Not in judgment. In grief for something she could not yet name.

  “They would have killed us,” Argus said quietly. “They weren’t here to threaten. They were here to finish something.” He didn’t think she was sorry for the dead assassin’s but he still felt obliged to say something, anything that eased her.

  “I know,” she replied.

  That was what hurt most. She understood necessity but that didn’t mean that she accepted his actions.

  Her acceptance of necessity didn’t make it easier to acknowledge that her son had killed six people in less than half an hour.

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Mom, I didn’t enjoy it, It had to be done.”

  Her gaze returned to his, softer this time. “I don’t think you did.”

  His brother looked toward the cracked marble floor near the entrance. “This wasn’t random,” he muttered. “These assassins were sent by someone, this was an organized attack.”

  Argus nodded faintly.

  “We will report this,” his mother said, though her eyes remained fixed on her son. “The capital must know.”

  “Yes,” Argus agreed.

  She reached out and pulled him into an embrace.

  For a brief second he stiffened — not because he rejected it, but because something inside him was not accustomed to it. Dravien observed the sensation from the recesses of their shared consciousness, intrigued by the simple exchange of warmth.

  Argus slowly wrapped his arms around her in return.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  Her voice trembled against his shoulder. “For a moment… your eyes weren’t.”

  His breath caught.

  “You were scared,” he said gently, trying to dismiss the accusation.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I was.”

  And beneath that admission lay something deeper.

  She had not been afraid of dying.

  She had been afraid of losing her son to something she did not understand.

  The world felt wrong to Commander Vilangos.

  It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, like the edges of reality had been rubbed too hard and frayed. Commander Vilangos frowned, leaning slightly forward in the saddle of his warhorse as he surveyed the distance.

  Smoke curled from the direction of the Royal Castle, black and thick, curling upward with a strange rhythm, almost deliberate. The familiar scent of burning wood mixed with a faint, acrid tang of residual mana, and it made him tighten his grip on the reins.

  He had come today to overthrow the Ordania royal palace, to fulfill the mission that had been festering in his mind for years, fueled by both the humiliation of his father’s unjust execution and the cruelty of the king who had ruled over the land without wisdom or mercy. Every decision he had made, every move, had been calculated toward this singular goal. And yet… something was off.

  He frowned, shaking his head slightly. If this were truly the castle, shouldn’t the defenders be pressing back? Shouldn’t there be resistance? His soldiers should have sent word, summoned reinforcements, asked for guidance. He had ordered everything meticulously, and yet the silence was… too complete. A ripple of unease crawled along his spine.

  “Perhaps,” he muttered under his breath, voice low, rough like gravel, “My soldiers have invaded the castle silently, without activating the wards or alerting the guards.”

  But still it felt too odd.

  The mental buzz that had been building in the back of his mind — a faint irritation at first — now sharpened into a persistent thrum. Like a cord pulled too tight, vibrating relentlessly against his skull. It was there and yet it wasn’t, he could never focus on it. It was just there in his conscience.

  A deep, sharp intuition, something primal and inhuman, whispered that the silence was not chance. That whatever had happened in the manor had unfolded far beyond the understanding of ordinary men — even the extraordinary assassins or scouts he had trusted implicitly. He blinked, forcing his thoughts back to familiar ground. He had planned for every contingency, every possibility, every failure of his subordinates. And yet he could not find a trace of the seven people who had been sent ahead. Only one remained, the only one that was told to not engage in battle.

  A bitter laugh escaped him, low and humorless. “So it is a massacre,” he murmured, the words tasting of iron and smoke in his mouth. “They underestimated… not me, not even the Ordania defenses. They underestimated the true force protecting that place.”

  He rode faster, the horse’s hooves drumming a relentless beat against the shattered earth leading to the estate. Every instinct screamed caution, every sensation heightened. The residual mana hanging in the air before him was suffocating, far denser than any ordinary battle. It pressed against him in waves, crushing, heavy, like the aura of an ancient beast had been released directly into the world.

  He dismounted at the edge of the garden, the mangled remains of the hedges and stone pathways underfoot crunching as he stepped forward. His eyes swept over the devastation: broken trees, shattered masonry, scorched earth, the faint crimson traces of blood magic barely fading from the air. His stomach tightened.

  The bodies of his subordinates were the first to strike him. He approached carefully, examining each one. There were no mistakes. No hesitation. No mercy. Even the strongest among them had been ended with surgical precision. Each death radiated a clarity of purpose that was almost painful to observe.

  Vilangos felt it in his chest, a sharp spike of guilt laced with admiration. These men — his companions, trained and loyal — had been erased so completely that it was impossible to imagine them alive again.

  His eyes narrowed as he detected something deeper. The mana residuals were concentrated, refined, controlled in a way that should have been impossible for any ordinary wielder. It pulsed faintly, but the pressure it exerted on him, the oppressive weight of it, was enough to make his knees weaken if he allowed himself to dwell on it.

  He moved toward the remnants of a shattered fountain, surveying the courtyard with careful, measured steps. That energy… it was not just raw power. It was intentional.

  He walked through the manor and emerge on the other side. Then he saw the figure standing at the far end of the garden. The source of all that energy.

  A calm presence amid chaos. Blood drying across sleeves, shoulders squared, eyes glinting faintly in the dying light. He felt it immediately: this was not just an opponent. This was something else entirely. Something that could not be quantified by rank, experience, or skill.

  The monster smiled at him red glinting in his eyes, while Commander Vilangos met his gaze head on. The final obstacle he must overcome, the final challenge.