[Emerald Castle, Private Study]
The Prince's carriage disappeared through the gates, its gilded crest catching the dying light one last time. Limon looked up at the sky, finally exhaling. The storm had stopped as abruptly as it had arrived. He turned on his heel and marched into his private study, a rhythmic staccato echoing against the marble floor.
"Gilion," Limon said, moving behind his desk.
Clutching a stack of documents to his chest, Gilion stepped forward and offered a slight bow. A man in his late thirties, he possessed unremarkable brown hair and azure eyes.
"Speak." Sinking into the leather chair, Limon rubbed his temples. "What is the update on the Rosewick Incident?"
Gilion approached to place a single sheet of paper atop the clutter. "We followed the financial trail as ordered, Lord Limon. The purchase orders for the raw Bavarium... they lead to the West."
Mid-motion, Limon's hand froze. "The West?"
"Yes, my Lord. Specifically, trade routes passing through the Iron Pass. But..."
"But?" Limon glanced up.
"The track was lost in the middle," Gilion admitted, his voice low. "Interrogations of the intermediaries yielded little; three different merchants claim the origin of the Bavarium was not a sanctioned mine, but the Black Market."
Limon slammed his palm against the desk.
"What? Did you check properly? Bavarium is a controlled substance! One does not buy crates of it from a street peddler!"
"Three times, Lord. The paperwork was forged. Expertly so." Gilion leaned in. "Tracking a Black Market purchase via legal means is impossible; the audit trail ends. Should we involve the Royal Inquisitors? They have the authority to—"
"No. Absolutely not."
A sharp, derisive breath escaped Limon. Throat dry, he gulped. "This is a test of the Prince's capability. With every eye in the capital fixed on us, we cannot risk it..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat before snapping them open. "Besides... Inquisitors are blunt instruments. They would tear the market apart and find nothing but rubble."
He grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill.
His hand moved, and the nib scratched aggressively against the paper.
"Send this to Count Haylos," Limon ordered, lowering his voice. "Tell my father to use the family's separate network to track the seller."
Gilion noted the Haylos addressee in the letter. "Even if the Count finds the seller, the evidence from an unsanctioned network is inadmissible. The defense would challenge our methods."
Limon sighed.
"I know," came the whispered reply. "But we are blind. I cannot fight a battle in the dark."
For a long moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire.
"For some reason..." Limon stared up at the flickering ceiling shadows. "I feel like it's not as it seems."
He sat up straight.
"For now, knowing the truth is more important than proving it." Fingers tapped a hard rhythm against the mahogany. "Allocate more people. Double the detail on the financial team. I want every copper accounted for. No matter what happens, we need to figure this out before the court hearing."
His voice turned steel-hard. "And keep an eye on both towers—what they are doing, who they are meeting... everything. I want every detail about their recent activities. Go."
"Understood, Lord." With a deep bow, Gilion turned, slipping out the door.
---
[Central Palace Underground Dungeon—Cell 204]
The air smelled of rot and rust, damp and cold enough to ache joints. Through the gloom, Logan watched guards haul away a heavy sack—another dead body. They moved quickly, murmuring about the imperial funeral while flaring their nostrils against the stench.
Logan exhaled a low, trembling sigh. Soon, it might be his body in that sack.
Despite his endless denials, no one believed him. Ever since Tower Master Hadrian had fallen ill, the Arcanum had changed. The older Fellows had been quick to sever ties, eager to find a scapegoat for the incident. They had abandoned him the moment suspicion touched him.
Logan curled on a slick stone bench, arms wrapped around his knees, shoulders hunched. His blue robes hung in shreds, stained with filth. Long, heavy chains snaked across the floor from the iron cuffs around his wrists.
The dripping water was his only clock. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall his laboratory, the smell of clean parchment and dry herbs, but all he could smell was mold.
He gazed at his shoulder, where the embroidery he once wore with pride—a cauldron engulfed in flame, ringed by a blue circle—barely survived the grime and wear. Fraying thread stained and unraveled in the dark.
He listened to the distant drip of water and the scurrying of rats, until the faint echo of approaching footsteps reached him.
Not the heavy, dragging tread of jailers.
Controlled.
Logan's chest stilled mid-breath.
He lifted his head despite himself.
Torchlight flickered over the damp walls. The glow first caught polished boots, then the outline of a figure standing just beyond the bars.
When the visitor stepped into view, the air left Logan's lungs.
He had only heard the name spoken by nobles who lowered their voices in respect, by courtiers who calculated every word of praise, or by servants who whispered with ambition. And now, standing before his cell, was Alden Alger de Leonhelm.
The Crown Prince of the Leonhelm Empire, the youngest Swordsmaster in recorded history, and the man who had just lost his mother.
'It was him. It had to be.'
No one else in the empire, perhaps no one else on earth, possessed such ink-dark eyes and hair. Courtiers spoke of him in hushed tones—those lucky enough to catch a glimpse of him during palace visits would return with stories that sounded too perfect to be real.
And in this moment, standing in this underground dungeon, the Crown Prince seemed out of place. Clean boots on filth-covered stone. Pristine clothing untouched by the grime that coated everything else.
Even more surprisingly, Alden's face showed nothing. No wrinkling of the nose, no tightness around the eyes. As calm as if he stood in a garden.
A prison guard unlocked the cell with a heavy clang, startling Logan. Alden entered alone, nodding to the guards and Captain Lut. The veteran captain bowed, returning to the corridor. The prison guards followed, leaving them in silence.
Up close, the Prince's appearance was striking—flawless skin, dark hair falling in neat waves. Logan shook his head sharply, fingers digging into his palms.
'Now is not the time. This might be my only chance to prove innocence. I must convince the Crown Prince now.'
Logan scrambled to his feet, the chains rattling loudly against the stone. He ignored how his bruised limbs protested, muscles cramping from weeks of cold confinement. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched his knees, his whole body shivering—from cold, from fear, from nervousness.
"Your Highness, I... I am innocent. Please, you must believe me..."
Alden's eyes lifted to meet his.
That look alone silenced him.
Logan's plea died before it could form.
Only then did Alden speak.
"Your name," he said quietly, his voice a low baritone.
"Logan, Your Highness. Logan Valecrest, youngest disciple of Tower Master Hadrian of the Alchemists' Conclave."
A prickle of unease crawled up Logan's neck as he realized the Prince's gaze was moving—starting at his face, traveling down to his torn robes, to his bare feet on the cold stone, then back up again. Slow and methodical. Taking in every detail.
Then without breaking eye contact, Alden continued.
"Tell me about the Bavarium, Disciple Logan."
Logan's hands twisted together, knuckles turning white. He forced himself to focus on forming words.
"We... we purchased it in large quantities, Your Highness. It's true. But not for weapons, never for weapons. We refine it, purify it, and sell it to other towers for their research. It's legitimate trade, I swear it on my life."
"How much did you purchase?" Alden asked again, his long fingers working at the edge of his dark leather gloves, adjusting them with precise movements.
"Three... three hundred pounds over the past six months." Logan's voice faltered, then pushed forward. "We sold to the other four major towers and many other small ones."
"Is that so?" Alden began to circle the small cell. His boots clicked rhythmically against the damp stone.
Logan turned, his body pivoting to keep the Prince in view. He couldn't avert his eyes.
"And yet you were at Rosewick Market the day of the explosion," Alden said. His tone was light, almost conversational.
The tone was soft, but the accusation was heavy. Logan's stomach knotted.
"I... yes, Your Highness. But only to prepare for the Veyra Celebration." His voice cracked on the words. "My sister lives in Rosewick. She makes candles to sell at the festival, and I visit her every year. I had nothing to do with the explosion. I was buying wax for her—and candied fruits for her children—when it happened. The blast threw me twenty feet. I still have burns on my arms... look."
He pushed up his sleeves, the iron cuffs sliding down his forearms to reveal red welts. He thrust them forward, hands unsteady.
Alden regarded the burns. His expression didn't shift—no wince, no sympathy. Just observation. "Who did you sell the Bavarium to? Within one month of the incident. List them all."
Logan swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and began listing names as quickly as he could remember them. "Green Spire, twenty pounds. Celestial Observatory, thirty. Verdant Sanctum, seventeen. Silver Star..."
Alden's head tilted—barely visible, just a fraction of movement.
"... fifty pounds. Rosewick Institute thirteen pounds. The rest went to smaller facilities. Everything is documented, Your Highness. Every transaction, every weight, every date."
"Silver Star," Alden repeated softly.
"Yes, Your Highness. Silver Star placed the order three months ago and it was delivered around two weeks before the festival. Tower Master Geralt himself signed for the delivery due to the purchase limit rule."
Alden stood motionless for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned toward the door.
Logan lurched forward, reaching out, until the chains pulled taut with a sharp clank. His fingers clawed the empty air inches from the Prince's sleeve. "Please, I'm innocent. My master is innocent. We've done nothing wrong. You must believe me..."
His voice cracked on the last word.
Alden paused at the threshold. Then turned his head, torchlight casting half his face in shadow.
"Believe you?" Alden repeated softly. "No. That is the wrong statement." His voice dropped. "Instead..." He stepped closer. "Tell me, Disciple Logan. Why should I save you?"
Logan's mind went blank, thoughts scattering, leaving only panic.
"I… I… what do you want, Your Highness? I can give you gold. Or support from our tower. Or sole patronship. Anything you ask..."
"What I want..." Alden's mouth curved upward at one corner.
He took a single step closer, closing the distance until Logan could catch the scent—cold air clinging to fabric, something like cedar, and underneath it all something sharp and clean.
"...is you, Logan Valecrest."
For a heartbeat, the world stopped. Logan blinked, blood rushing to his ears.
'Did I mishear?' His pulse hammered against his eardrums. 'No... does His Highness have... that orientation?'
The Prince stood too close now.
Before Logan could form the question, voice or even coherent thought, Alden continued, his voice sharp and clear.
"Make a deal with me, Disciple Logan. If you do..." The dim torchlight caught in Alden's eyes, and for a second, something flickered there—amusement perhaps, or something colder. "I will save you."
Logan's pulse stuttered. It took every shred of focus he possessed not to let his thoughts spiral into dangerous territory he didn't dare acknowledge. "A… a deal? What kind?"
Alden's expression didn't shift. He let the silence stretch until Logan could hear his own heartbeat.
"Does it matter?" he said at last, voice low and calm. "You shall be mine."
A shiver raked through Logan from head to toe.
"So tell me, Logan Valecrest," Alden asked. "Do you agree?"
Logan lowered his head.
'What am I even worth?' he thought, trying to reason through the confusion. 'If by doing this I can save my master… it is too small a price. No matter what the Prince asks of me… even if it's to warm his bed…'
His conviction hardened. He lifted his gaze to meet those dark, captivating eyes.
"I agree, Your Highness," Logan whispered, his voice wavering but clear. "Save my master… and our tower… and I will be your slave…" He swallowed hard. "However you desire."
Alden's smile widened just a faction. "Alright," he said, his voice straightforward. "I'll hold onto it. Sign here." He commanded as he reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of parchment. "With your blood."
One of its edges was already stained with dried blood.
Logan's eyes widened, his pupils dilating. 'With blood? Why? What kind of deal requires...'
He couldn't continue his thought as Alden's hand moved, drawing a dark blade from its sheath.
'A devil,' Logan thought, his knees shaking, unable to stop his body from reacting. 'A devil offering a contract stained in blood.'
Every instinct urged him to refuse, but an unusual, desperate desire to accept coiled within him. He raised his arm towards the Prince, his eyes tightly closed, bracing for the pain.
He waited. One second. Then two.
But then his eyes snapped open, confused by the lack of pain.
He gaped at the single, crimson bead swelling on the tip of his index finger. The cut was so fine he hadn't even felt it. A heavy drop fell onto the parchment, staining the fibers. In an instant, the paper drank the blood, leaving nothing but a faint shadow.
When Logan dared to lift his head, Alden's expression had shifted. The sharpness was gone, smoothed into a serene calm as he watched the blood vanish.
Logan's heart thudded against his ribs, the sound loud enough to ring in his ears. The light catching the angle of Alden's jaw, the slight curve of his lips—it stole the air from his lungs.
"In a week, you will be free."
Alden folded the parchment, tucking it securely into the inner pocket of his coat. "Come to my chambers immediately upon your release, Logan. From this moment on, your life belongs to me."
With a swirl of his dark coat, the Prince turned, his gloved hand reaching for the iron latch.
"Wait! Your Highness!"
The cry tore from Logan's throat before he could stop it.
At the prison door, Alden halted. He did not turn immediately. Instead, he stood motionless, hand hovering over the cold metal, head tilted as if weighing the interruption. A heavy, expectant silence descended upon the cell.
Slowly, the Prince glanced back over his shoulder. "Yes, Logan?" The question was cool, sharp. "Is there something else?"
Rigidity seized Logan's frame, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
'He expects resistance,' the thought flashed through Logan's panic. 'He expects me to recoil at the thought of... being his.'
To survive this, hesitation was not an option. Logan forced his lungs to draw air.
'If I am to do this, I must not show fear. I must show him I am a willing participant.'
"I..." The syllable squeaked out. Logan cleared his throat, forcing volume into his voice, and shouted much louder than intended. "I have heard the stories! About you!"
Alden turned fully now, one eyebrow arching high. He said nothing, merely waiting.
Heat crawled up Logan's neck to the tips of his ears, but he forced the words out in a desperate rush. "And... and the truth is, you are... exceedingly handsome! It is... it is no hardship! It is my greatest honor to be yours!"
Silence. Alden blinked. The terrifying intensity vanished, replaced by a simple, blank stare.
He scrutinized the parchment in his hand, scanning the conditions beneath their bloodstained signatures. When his gaze returned to Logan, a faint crease appeared between his brows before vanishing instantly.
"I see," Alden said, his voice flat.
He surveyed Logan, a strange glint entering his eyes.
"Enthusiasm," he murmured, turning back to the door. "That is... acceptable."
The heavy iron door groaned open as the guards bowed deeply to his retreating back. Then, with a sweep of his coat, he was gone. The lock clicked shut with a sound like a gunshot, leaving Logan alone in the consuming dark.
For a full minute, the prisoner did not move. He stared at the empty space where the devil had stood, chest heaving.
Then, his knees gave out.
Logan collapsed onto the cold stone floor, chains pooling around him as he buried his face in his hands. A low, strangled noise escaped his throat, echoing off the damp walls.
"I did it," he whispered into his palms, his voice weak. "I actually said it."
He looked up at the ceiling. In the darkness, the phantom scent of sulfur and old parchment drifted by, accompanied by the image of Tower Master Hadrian wagging a stern finger.
_"When you are cornered, boy,"_ Hadrian had said, _"and you are forced to eat a toad to survive... you do not nibble at it. You swallow it whole, you smile, and you tell the cook it tastes like chicken. Hesitation only gets you beaten."_
Logan clenched his bleeding finger, feeling no pain.
"I told the Crown Prince he was handsome," he breathed. A ragged, high-pitched sound clawed its way out of his chest—half-laugh, half-sob. "I just told the devil I liked his face."
He closed his eyes. As the cold air filled his lungs, he realized the most important thing.
He was still breathing.