Just when the dust had begun to settle, when it seemed the worst was finally behind them, the city was rocked by yet another shockwave—one far more personal and damning.
Rubika's five-year-old son was found dead.
And the killer?
Zarek.
The moment the truth surfaced, panic gripped the Silversword estate. Whispers of the event spread like wildfire, slithering through back alleys and noble courts alike. The family spared no effort in suppressing the news—pulling strings, bribing officials, silencing mouths with gold and fear—but the damage had already been done. The stain had seeped too deep.
From that day onward, Zarek began to change.
The boy who once brimmed with unrestrained fire now carried a storm beneath his skin—chaotic, unpredictable, and dangerously close to violent. Trouble clung to him like a shadow. He fought, shouted, lashed out. Especially when someone so much as whispered Alena's name with disdain.
He couldn't take it. Wouldn't.
And worst of all—there was no one to stop him.
No mother to calm his fury. No father to anchor his grief. Only silence and distance, widening by the day.
It was only Klassen who could appease the little devil but he was out the family estates most of the tiem, leaving the little Zarek alone.
Even when Alena's name was finally cleared and her innocence made public, the seed of doubt had already grown too thick, too twisted in Khass's mind. Justified or not, that suspicion had bloomed into something cruel—and now, it bore fruit.
Klassen's gaze sharpened as he addressed his son again, the weight of his voice leaving no room for evasion.
"Khass," he said, his tone edged with a solemn chill. "What do you mean by kicking him out? Explain everything—clearly."
There was no warmth in his eyes anymore, only a muted frost that made the air feel heavier.
Khass met his father's stare with a measured breath, already expecting this confrontation, he knew he had to age these question when he decided to kick Zark out. Yet even now, he couldn't understand it. No matter what Zarek did—no matter how far the boy strayed—Klassen always found a way to laugh it off, to dote on him like he was still that mischievous little kid running through the halls.
Why?
Why was he always so quick to forgive? Why can't he understand? Why can't be a little serious?
As Khass began to explain, Klassen listened without a single change in expression. Not a blink, not a sigh. He stood motionless—an ancient statue carved from storms and silence. But slowly, as Khass detailed each event, the old man's face shifted. Not in anger. Not in pain.
In something far worse.
Indifference.
By the time Khass finished, Klassen's features had turned to granite—cold, hard, and unreadable.
"So you kicked my grandson out," he said at last, voice like still water before a coming flood, "just for this mere reason?"
Khass flared at the casual dismissal, his voice rising despite himself. "Beating up an empire noble in broad daylight is not just 'this.' And that noble wasn't some nameless brat—he's a close associate of the crown!"
He clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing. "That trash deserved to be thrown out after everything he's done."
"He was needed to be taught a lesson, otherwisw he might slap the emperor someday."
For a moment, silence.
Then Klassen shook his head slowly, like a mountain shifting under its own weight.
"Khass," he said, almost sadly, "my son... you disappoint me."
His tone didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"When will you understand? If my grandson can't even survive a little trouble, if he breaks under mere pressure, then what was the point of all my years of cultivation? Of building this family's strength? What have I been protecting?"
He stepped forward, his presence suddenly overwhelming, the air around him thickening like a stormfront pressing against the walls.
"Or do you think the Silversword family is afraid of a little trouble?"
His eyes, sharp and glinting like twin blades, locked with Khass's.
"So what if he slapped a noble? Did he slap the Emperor? The prince? The princess? No? Then why are we bending our knees like dogs?"
Khass's composure shattered.
"Father!" he snapped, fists trembling. "The world doesn't work like that anymore. Not everything can be solved with fists and force. This isn't the age of conquest—we have politics to consider. Relationships! Alliances!"
"The world isn't that simple."
He stood there, shaking, lips drawn into a tight line of frustration.
And then—laughter.
Loud. Boisterous. Laced with the fury of a wounded lion.
Klassen laughed, not in amusement, but in derision. In disbelief. The sound echoed through the chamber like rolling thunder.
Then, his expression darkened, voice dropping into something far more lethal.
"So now," he said, cold and unflinching, "you're wise enough to teach me how the world works?"
The fury vanished from his face, replaced by something older. Something far more dangerous—certainty.
"Listen to me, Khass. This cowardice, this obsession with appearances—this is what will bring ruin to the Silversword name."
"Worrying about other's.."
"I don't care what Zarek has done."
The weight of the words hung in the air like a blade over Khass's throat.
"I want him back."
He took a step forward, the pressure intensifying with every inch. "You know what? I'll go myself. Just tell me where he is."
"I will go my self to pick him up."