While Rynvaris fought simply to earn the right to stand, the world beyond her sickbed had already begun to decide how she would fall.
Her defiance did not remain contained within fragile breaths and trembling limbs. It rippled outward through the palace like a stone cast into still water—disturbing routines, drawing eyes, awakening both curiosity and quiet malice in equal measure.
Far from her bed of illness, smiles were forming that had nothing to do with mercy. Decisions were being made in rooms she had never entered, written not in blood, but in something colder—calculations, law, and intent.
The game had moved on.
And without ever realizing it, Rynvaris had been placed upon the board.
---
The heavy door creaked open.
A woman wrapped in a black cloak slipped into the private chamber of Eighth Prince Draven Elowen. The air inside was thick with incense, underscored by a sharper scent of iron—the lingering trace of discipline and punishment.
At the far table sat Twelfth Princess Arwyn Elowen.
Calm. Composed.
Only the faint drumming of her fingers against the polished wood betrayed her impatience.
Draven did not rise.
"Well?" he asked coldly. "Speak."
The woman lowered her head at once.
"Your Highness… the Eleventh Princess shows no aptitude for elemental magic. No awakened ability. No abnormal reaction to Miki."
For a single heartbeat, Draven did not breathe.
Then he laughed—a low, unpleasant sound that scraped against the room.
"No talent?"
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing with interest. "So the maid's whelp truly is worthless."
Arwyn's lips curled faintly.
"So even cursed blood cannot elevate filthy birth," she murmured. "How fitting."
Draven's smile widened, though something restless flickered beneath it.
He studied the woman carefully.
"You are certain?" he asked. "If you are wrong… you know the cost."
The woman stiffened.
"I swear it, Your Highness. I tested her personally. Her Miki barely stirred."
Only then did Draven relax. He reached into his coat and tossed a small pouch across the table.
"Your payment."
She caught it and bowed deeply, hands trembling.
"The Eleventh Princess is still outside the First Princess's villa," she added hastily. "Requesting sword instruction. Being ignored."
Arwyn scoffed.
"Of course she is. Desperate—just like her mother."
Her eyes hardened. "She believes shared blood entitles her to the same place."
Draven chuckled.
"The First Princess rejected even the Fourth Prince," he said lazily. "She won't take in dead weight born from a servant's womb."
The woman hesitated. "Then… may I leave, Your Highness?"
Draven's gaze lingered on her a moment too long.
"You may go."
She fled.
Silence returned—thick and oppressive.
Then—
Coo-coo… flap-flap.
A pigeon settled on the window ledge, claws scraping softly against stone.
Draven moved first. He crossed the room and tore the message from its leg, breaking the seal without care.
His expression collapsed.
"…She was accepted."
Arwyn rose so abruptly her chair shrieked against the floor.
"What?"
"She got in," Draven growled. "The First Princess accepted her."
"That's impossible," Arwyn snapped. "Why would she choose her?"
Draven's fingers tightened, crumpling the paper in his fist.
"She forced her," he said. "Threatened her."
Arwyn's eyes widened. "With what?"
Draven's voice dropped, stripped of its earlier amusement.
"She uncovered the First Princess's lover."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Draven began to laugh.
Not softly.
Not kindly.
"Hahaha… hahaha! This is perfect."
Arwyn stared at him. "Brother—have you lost your mind?"
"No," he replied calmly. "I've been handed a blade."
He leaned toward her, eyes gleaming. "You know the law."
She swallowed. "…The duel law."
"A junior may challenge a senior," Draven said quietly. "And the senior must accept."
A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
"You will challenge her."
Arwyn hesitated. "But she's under the First Princess's protection now—"
"And she is still a maid's child with no training," Draven snapped. "You've studied sword and magic for five years. She has nothing."
His gaze hardened.
"You will crush her. In front of everyone."
Arwyn clenched her fists.
"And what does that gain us?"
Draven's eyes burned with satisfaction.
"She will be humiliated. Broken. And the First Princess will be forced to discard her—just as the palace always does."
Slowly, Arwyn smiled.
"Hahaha…"
The empire's law had given them a weapon.
And Rynvaris had just stepped into the crosshairs.
---
Silence lingered only a moment after her departure.
Then Draven spoke.
"Bring her back."
The order was quiet. Absolute.
The guards at the door stiffened, then moved.
Moments later, the woman was dragged back into the chamber, her earlier composure shattered. Confusion flashed across her face as she was forced to her knees before him.
"Y-Your Highness…?" she stammered.
Draven rose at last.
He looked down at her—not with anger, but with mild disappointment.
"You gave me half information," he said calmly.
Her breath hitched. "I—I reported exactly what I found—"
Draven raised a hand.
Silence fell instantly.
"You spoke of talent," he continued, his voice even. "Of magic. Of Miki response."
His eyes hardened.
"But you failed to tell me she had already been accepted by the First Princess."
The woman froze.
"I—I only reported what I was ordered to test—"
Draven stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You withheld the most important fact," he said calmly. "That the Eleventh Princess had already crossed the threshold."
Her hands shook violently. "I didn't know it mattered—"
"That," Draven replied, voice flat and cold, "is why you deserve death."
He did not shout.
He did not hesitate.
Power moved once—clean, precise, unquestionable.
The woman collapsed where she knelt, her body striking the stone floor with a sound that echoed far longer than it should have.
Arwyn inhaled sharply.
For a brief instant, fear flickered across her face—raw, unguarded. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve, nails biting into skin as she stared at the body at Draven's feet.
Then she steadied herself.
Her lips curved upward.
Slowly. Carefully.
A smile formed—tight, controlled, edged with satisfaction.
"…She deserves it," Arwyn said softly.
Draven did not look at her.
He straightened, adjusting his sleeve as though nothing of value had been lost.
"In this palace," he said quietly, "half information is worse than a lie."
He turned toward the door.
"Dispose of it."
The chamber fell silent once more—thicker than before, sealed by fear, blood, and obedience.
By the time the blood was wiped from the floor, the law had already chosen its victim.