It was a week later when Blake and his companions finally made their way back to the Duskwood.
Though events at the Zach Clan had taken an unexpected turn, wrapping up loose ends proved far easier than anticipated. The core leadership of the Traditionalist faction had perished entirely in the explosion, while the Reformists had emerged virtually unscathed. Overnight, the balance of power between the two factions shifted dramatically. The Reformists began advancing steadily, and with the Traditionalists lacking essential leadership, they were soon routed and soundly defeated.
It was then that Keller shed his former pretense, stepping out from the shadows to become the object of fierce competition between the two sides. Through shrewd maneuvering, he quickly secured the full support of the Reformists. Seeing the tide had turned irrevocably, the Traditionalists had no choice but to concede defeat. After all, these nobles all had their own fortunes to protect; their support for the Traditionalists had stemmed from blood ties to the old patriarch. But with the old patriarch's bloodline now completely severed, there was no longer any reason to cling to their cause. Besides, Keller—though only of half-blood—was hardly an unacceptable alternative. Thus, they wasted no time switching allegiances, scrambling to curry favor with the clan's soon-to-be new leader.
As for the earlier conflict, Keller provided an official explanation: the honorable and noble Lord Blake had indeed returned young Master Zach safely to the Zach Clan. However, just as he was presenting the boy to the assembled nobles, the once-loyal Council Elder had suddenly turned traitor, attempting to murder the child and silence Lord Blake to cover his tracks. A fierce battle had ensued between the two, and the other nobles had perished in the crossfire—only he, by some stroke of "luck," had managed to escape with his life.
Naturally, no one cared about the veracity of this tale. After all, everyone just needed a plausible excuse. With the old Council Elder and the core Traditionalist nobles dead, the survivors had no interest in delving into the truth of the story. Their sole obsession was their own power, status, and wealth.
As for the poor old Council Elder—dead men tell no tales, especially when they don't even have a grave to call their own.
The days that followed were filled with endless banquets, negotiations, and inter-noble intrigue. Blake, of course, had no interest in such affairs. Ophelia, having endured more than her fair share of similar scheming back in the royal palace, was equally unenthusiastic about participating or enjoying herself. After a brief discussion, they bid Keller farewell and set off for home.
Keller was genuinely reluctant to see them leave. Though he hadn't troubled them during their stay, he had subtly leveraged their influence to bolster his own position. With his footing still precarious, if they departed now, outsiders might mistakenly assume a rift had formed between them—a vulnerability his enemies would surely exploit, which was the last thing Keller wanted.
Fortunately, the solution was simplicity itself. At the farewell banquet, Keller, on behalf of the Zach Clan, signed a deal with Blake: the Zach Clan would build a lumberyard within the Duskwood. While the deal itself was insignificant, it sent a clear message to all observers about the boundary between the two powers. It was now abundantly clear that Keller had aligned himself with Blake, and his position was no longer in jeopardy.
Castor and the other attendants returned with Blake. However, they did not head straight back to Duskwood Castle. Upon entering the town, Castor took his men and departed—clearly, the former garrison captain intended to prove his loyalty to Blake through decisive action. He needed to gather his remaining subordinates, explain his decision to align with Blake, and if successful, these soldiers—once loyal to the Byrd family—would become Blake's personal retainers.
"Welcome back, both of you."
As Blake and Ophelia stepped down from the carriage, they were greeted by Charlotte's warm smile and Irene's bright, innocent grin. Irene, in particular, was overjoyed—she was Ophelia's personal maid, whose sole duty was to attend to the former princess. She had originally wanted to accompany Ophelia on her journey, but Ophelia had refused, concerned about the long, arduous trip and the inherent dangers of the mission, which were far too much for a young girl to endure. The separation had left Irene listless and bored; without Ophelia around, she'd had little to do, a state of affairs that hardly befitted a maid. Thus, seeing her mistress return now, the girl bubbled with excitement, flitting around Ophelia like a little bird, chasing away the faint melancholy that had lingered in the former princess's heart.
"It seems your journey was fraught with troubles, Master?"
Blake was watching Ophelia chat and laugh with Irene when a soft, gentle voice sounded beside his ear. He turned to find Charlotte regarding him with her usual lovely, captivating smile.
"Just a few minor inconveniences—nothing compared to the trials we've faced before," Blake replied, shrugging off his coat and handing it to her. Charlotte took the coat with a smile.
"And what of the *vermin* that snuck into our castle?"
"They've all been cleaned out," Blake said flatly.
Charlotte cast a sidelong glance at Ophelia, then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "However, the ringleader is still alive. What would you have me do with him?"
"He's still breathing?"
Blake raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise, staring at the young woman before him in disbelief. Though her outward appearance bore no resemblance to the soul that inhabited her body, Blake's memories told him this former captain of the Special Operations Unit was hardly a woman known for her mercy.
"Any man who falls into the hands of the 'Black Cat' captain has my deepest sympathy… Where is he now?"
"Follow me, please."
Charlotte's smile never wavered at Blake's half-teasing, half-serious remark. She simply dipped into a slight curtsy and gestured for him to follow. Blake shrugged and fell into step behind his maid, heading toward the depths of the corridor.
**The Dungeon**
Lester was strung up against the cold stone wall by heavy iron chains, his body covered in wounds, a far cry from the proud, confident man he had once been. He was the sole survivor of all those who had infiltrated Duskwood Castle—and this was not by luck. Charlotte had deliberately spared his life to extract information; otherwise, he would have met the same fate as the others, vanishing silently into the darkness without a trace.
But now, to anyone who laid eyes on him, death would have seemed a merciful release for this poor wretch.
Half of his face had been melted away, his body crisscrossed with cuts and gashes from which blood still seeped. Large swathes of skin had been torn off, leaving only raw muscle exposed. A putrid stench hung thick in the air of the dungeon, a sickening smell that turned one's stomach.
"It seems we've come to the end of our little game," Charlotte said, her voice laced with regret as she unlocked the cell door with a creak. She sighed, casting a pitying glance at Lester. "Master, I do hope you'll find me more interesting toys next time."
"Perhaps you should consider a change of hobbies, Charlotte," Blake said, pressing a handkerchief to his nose to block out the stench as he surveyed the pitiful man before him. His tone was ambiguous, whether it was sarcasm or genuine advice, it was impossible to tell. "Instead of playing with these… things, why not take up something more befitting a young lady? Embroidery, baking, reading—wouldn't those be far more pleasant pastimes?"
"Different strokes for different folks, Master," the young maid replied, showing not the slightest hint of remorse. "This… brings me great joy. I take immense pleasure in it, do I not? You once told me that staying true to one's desires is the path to true fulfillment…"
"Depending on the time and place, I sometimes think I really should learn to hold my tongue," Blake retorted dryly, taking a step back from the cell. "In any case, dispose of this thing. Selling him to the garden as fertilizer would be an excellent use for his remains."
"As you command, Master," Charlotte nodded slightly, her delicate features twisting into a look of mild perplexity. "Unfortunately, I haven't yet decided on the most… fitting method to end this gentleman's life. Might I trouble you for a suggestion?"
"If you're asking for my opinion…"
Blake paused, thinking for a moment, then leaned down and whispered something in Charlotte's ear, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. As she listened, Charlotte's face lit up with a brilliant, almost ecstatic smile.
"What a wonderfully exquisite suggestion, Master. I shall put it into practice at once… Would you care to watch?"
"As much as I'm tempted, I think it best a man like me avoids witnessing scenes that might leave permanent scars on his psyche," Blake shrugged, turning on his heel to leave. "I'll leave this in your capable hands, then."
"I understand, Master. Though I hesitate to say this…"
Blake paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Yes?"
"Precisely because of your endless stream of ingenious ideas, I find myself utterly unable to give up this delightful pastime of mine," Charlotte said, her voice sweet as honey.
"Then make it quick," Blake said, walking toward the exit. "Ophelia and I are starving. I trust you've prepared a suitably lavish lunch for us?"
"Rest assured, Master. Everything is ready and waiting," Charlotte replied with a bow.
Blake's footsteps faded into the distance, and only then did Charlotte turn back to Lester, her smile still fixed firmly on her face. Lester forced his eyes open, gritting his teeth against the searing pain as he stared up at the young woman before him. When he had first seen Charlotte, he had been shocked—how could the young lady who was supposed to have died of a terminal illness be here, in this place? But now, pain and torment had eroded his will completely. He had no energy left to ponder such questions; his only desire was for a swift end, for death to claim him at last.
"I've had such a wonderful time these past few days, sir," Charlotte purred, stepping forward to grasp the iron chains binding Lester. She adjusted them, lowering his body until he hung spread-eagled in the air, then moved around to stand behind him.
"Alas, all good things must come to an end. I do hope you'll cherish this final memory," she said, her voice dripping with sickening sweetness.
She reached out and picked up a pair of blacksmith's tongs from beside the burning brazier, using them to grip a thick iron rod that glowed a fiery red.
"Don't worry—it will only hurt terribly at first," she cooed.
Before Lester could fully comprehend the deadly implication of her words, the scalding-hot, massive metal rod was rammed brutally between his legs.
A soul-rending scream of agony tore from his lips, mingling with the crackle of burning flesh—the final, horrifying melody of Lester's life.