Alfred had torn through the rebels like a man possessed, sparing none—save two. He'd left them alive, barely, as if mercy was a cruel joke. The pair were bound together with thick rope, blood dripping from cracked lips and bruised skin. They stared up at him in horror, like he was something ancient and unholy.
"W-what… what are you?" one of them stammered.
Alfred didn't bother to answer. A slow, amused smirk curled across his face as he turned away, his boots squelching against the blood-soaked ground. With mechanical precision, he began gathering the dismembered limbs—vampire and werewolf and a few unlucky humans caught in between.
In the center of the clearing, Lord Rhaegal stood in front of a man who didn't look afraid at all. His face was calm, but there was something twisted, his face unreadable, but disappointment shadowing his eyes.
"Why betray your king?" Rhaegal asked quietly.
The man—Oldric—let out a low, bitter laugh. It wasn't humor. It was rot.
"'Betray my king,' you say?" he echoed mockingly. "Tell me, what has he ever done? Other than set the world ablaze from his golden throne? I hate him. And I want him dead."
"He is your brother," Rhaegal said, voice steady. "Lord Oldric."
Oldric's gaze turned steely. "I let go of those blood ties long ago," he said. "Now, there's only hate."
He looked Rhaegal dead in the eyes, his expression hardened by time and bitterness.
"I feel no remorse. And you'll come to understand why… when the time comes."
Rhaegal held his gaze with an eerie calm, his own emotions locked behind a wall of practiced indifference. Whatever history existed between Oldric and the king was not his concern.
He pulled out a pair of enchanted handcuffs and snapped them around Oldric's wrists.
"Lord Oldric Valenhart," he said, voice cool, "you are under arrest for disrupting order, inciting rebellion, and the murder of innocents."
Oldric sneered, his lip curling in disdain. "A loyal hound to the end," he spat.
Rhaegal didn't flinch. He shoved Oldric to his feet and began dragging him back toward the bamboo house. The moment they entered, Alfred looked up. His eyes widened briefly, then he let out a sigh—half-surprise, half-resignation.
"That was… unexpected, my lord," he said.
"Have you sent word?" Rhaegal asked without slowing.
"Yes, my lord. Mac Hayles and the others should arrive shortly."
"Good. Send word to His Majesty as well. He needs to be informed."
"Right away," Alfred replied, vanishing into the shadows to carry out the order.
Rhaegal remained near the cluster of rebels. The realization that the king's own brother had orchestrated this uprising sat uneasily in his gut. The kingdom had its flaws—Rhaegal was no fool—but rebellion that harmed the innocent? That was a step too far.
He stepped closer to the restrained man. "I have a question for Your Highness," he said, tone measured.
Oldric tilted his head lazily. "Oh? By all means, Lord Rhaegal. Ask away."
"You've sacrificed many," Rhaegal said. "But what made the last one different?"
The air stilled.
The question was spoken plainly, almost quietly—but it landed with the weight of iron. Some of the nearby rebels tensed, instinctively glancing toward Oldric.
Oldric blinked, then chuckled softly.
"Different?" he repeated, tasting the word. "They all mattered. Each death… a brick in the road we're paving."
"But some bricks," Rhaegal murmured, "are carved. Rare. Chosen."
Oldric's chuckle came again, but it was thinner now. "You give me too much credit. The final offering was… symbolic. That's all."
"Symbolism doesn't require blood rituals and shackles," Rhaegal said.
Oldric smiled faintly, his gaze gleaming like steel. "Revolutions are not clean things. They demand spectacle. Sacrifice. The right story to spark a fire."
Rhaegal inhaled slowly. "Then tell me. Why that one?"
Oldric's expression faltered. Just slightly. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes—a memory perhaps. A regret.
He shrugged it off with a brittle smile. "You're a clever man. Surely, you've already pieced it together."
"I'd rather hear it from you."
Oldric stood, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "Then I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."
Silence stretched between them.
Rhaegal didn't press. He didn't need to. The damage was already done—and the question had landed. He turned away, murmuring, "Pity. I was hoping we'd stop hiding behind riddles."
Oldric offered a theatrical bow. "Where's the fun in that?"
Just then, Mac Hayles and his team entered the bamboo hall. Oldric's smile returned.
"Well, well. More of Aldric's little soldiers," he drawled, amused.
The officers paused at the sight of him.
"My lord," Hayles asked Rhaegal cautiously, "is that…?"
Rhaegal gave a nod.
Hayles let out a soft whistle. "Didn't see that one coming."
The officers quickly spread out—some gathering evidence, others cleaning up the mess. By the time the sun began to rise, the rebels were restrained and ready for transport. Lord Oldric was loaded into a separate carriage, guarded on all sides.
Rhaegal climbed into his own, seated beside Alfred. The caravan rolled out, wheels crunching over blood and dust.
Hours later, they arrived at the Bureau's stone building nestled at the edge of the city. Rhaegal stepped down and personally escorted Oldric to a private cell. Whatever his crimes, he was still the king's blood.
After securing him inside, Rhaegal turned to leave when Oldric spoke, voice low.
"The king… isn't who you think he is."
Rhaegal paused, brows lifting. "What do you mean?"
"Aldric has once—"
"Rhaegal."
A deep, commanding voice rang out, cutting through the cell like a blade.
Rhaegal turned and immediately bowed. "Your Majesty."
King Aldric stood just outside the cell door, his golden eyes fixed on the prisoner within. "You chose the wrong path, Oldric," he said, stepping inside.
Oldric sneered. "I'm fine as long as our paths don't cross again."
The king's gaze didn't shift. He turned to Rhaegal. "What's the situation?"
"He stands accused of high treason, murder, and inciting rebellion. Mac Hayles has already filed the case. He'll be tried by the Council in two days."
Aldric gave a curt nod. "Well done, Rhaegal." He clapped a firm hand on Rhaegal's shoulder. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like a word with my brother… in private."
Rhaegal bowed and exited the cell, the door closing behind him with a dull thud.
On the walk to his office, something tugged at Rhaegal's mind—a shadow of doubt he couldn't quite shake. He had known the king for over a century. Never once had his loyalty faltered. And yet… Oldric's words lingered like smoke in his lungs.
He shook the thoughts away. Perhaps it was just Oldric's poison, sinking in.
Inside the office, Alfred and Mac Hayles waited.
"This is the case file, my lord," Hayles said, placing a thick folder on Rhaegal's desk.
Rhaegal opened it and skimmed through. "Good. I'll write the report and send it to Duke Cassian for review."
Hayles bowed and turned to leave.
"Ensure the prisoners are fed," Rhaegal called after him.
"Yes, my lord."
Once Hayles had gone, Alfred stepped closer.
"My lord… were you able to find any answers about Malin?"
Rhaegal's jaw tensed slightly. "Not exactly. But Oldric knows something. I'm sure of it."
Alfred frowned. "He won't speak easily. He's cunning."
"There's no rush," Rhaegal said quietly, dipping his quill into ink. "He'll talk eventually."
He bent over the paper, the scratch of the quill echoing in the room. The scent of iron and ash still clung to his cloak.