"We’ll retire to our assigned quarters within your estate," Roman added, gesturing politely before taking the opposite corridor.
They vanished in silence—shadows with swords, trusted protectors in a world full of daggers.
Fenric continued down the hall, finally arriving at the familiar double doors of his private wing. As he stepped into the front parlor, the scent of lotus-scented incense greeted him—a calming aroma ant to ease one’s spirit.
"Your Highness, welco back," ca the soft voice of the new head maid, a calm and composed woman in her mid-thirties nad Theris. She bowed deeply, then rose, holding a small silver tray in her hands.
"Your evening dicine," she said, eyes downcast in practiced deference. "Prescribed by the palace alchemists for maintaining constitution. Instructions state it is to be taken with warm water after dusk."
She extended the tray toward him.
Fenric blinked slowly. On the tray was a small vial of shimring liquid—a cloudy blue hue, faintly sweet-slling, subtle. The kind of dicine that wouldn’t raise suspicion in anyone except those who knew what to look for.
He took the vial, his hand steady... but his eyes sharp.
This again.
The sa vial he’d been given since childhood.
The sa hidden poison—crafted over seventeen years to kill him slowly, undetectably. A death sentence dressed as dicine.
Fenric took the vial in hand.
The maid stood quietly nearby, eyes respectful, waiting. Her presence was gentle, professional, and—most importantly—watchful. Just enough to report back if he refused it. If he even hesitated.
Fenric brought the vial to his lips.
And drank.
The maid smiled, satisfied. "Shall I draw your bath now, Your Highness? Or would you prefer dinner first?"
"Dinner," Fenric said smoothly, wiping the corner of his mouth with a silk kerchief.
The maid bowed, expression serene. "Very well. I’ll inform the kitchen." And with that, she left.
The mont the door clicked shut behind her, Fenric’s calm facade cracked just a hair as he leaned back in his chair and muttered, "Honestly, this charade is exhausting."
He looked down at his palm, where his Fairy Ring—disguised now as an elegant tattoo on his ring finger—glimred faintly.
Inside it, not a drop of that poison was missing.
He had never swallowed it.
"Now that I have Cured, there is no need to drink that Posion anymoe" he mumbled as he rebered, despite knowing it was posion he had to drink it.
He had discovered a critical detail—if the poison was stopped abruptly, his body, conditioned over years, would collapse in rejection and death would follow within days.
But if he continued to ingest the poison, his body would deteriorate over three months—and still die slowly.
So, to buy those precious three months, Fenric played along.
He let them think he was still under the Empress’s leash, still quietly drinking the venom they’d dosed him with since birth.
But today... everything changed.
Today, the Fairy Ring bonded with him completely. Today, the poison was truly rendered powerless—its residuals burned out by the harmonized magic of Spirit and Dragon blood.
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robe.
"Now that I’m cured, I don’t need you anymore."
His gaze swept across the room—at the door where the maid had just exited. The one who smiled a little too easily. The one who worked too efficiently.
She wasn’t just any maid.
She was Drake’s mother’s agent.
So were the cooks. The butlers. The stablehands. The stewards. Every servant in this estate had been planted by the Dark Empress.
And Fenric had let them stay.
Because they brought him his "dicine."
He sighed. "If I had kicked them out too early... I’d have died before even curing myself."
But now?
Now he had options.
"Tomorrow," Fenric muttered, eyes narrowing, "I’ll go to the Slave Market."
In Eldoris, slavery wasn’t born of conquest or cruelty—it was law-bound penance.
Those who committed cris—thievery, corruption, desertion, treason of the second class—were stripped of their citizen rights and reclassified as "atonent products." Branded, sealed with obedience sigils, and sold into service. A second life, purchased in coin.
Only the most irredeemable—murderers, defilers, and high traitors—t imdiate execution.
Fenric exhaled slowly, gaze sweeping over the estate.
"After buying the slaves," he continued, voice flat, "I’ll replace every maid, every butler, every cook in this mansion."
His tone wasn’t laced with malice. It was simply... operational.
This was procurent strategy.
He’d tolerated the spies of the Dark Empress long enough. Letting her think he was weak. Poisoned. Dependent.
But now? The board had changed.
Not only did he have money saved up from the last 17 years, but the Emperor had also redirected Drake’s yearly allowance to him. Since Drake was imprisoned in his own mansion for the next ten years, all that money now went to Fenric. On top of that, he also received inco from his duties as the Royal Librarian—at least until Mavis returned, which wouldn’t be for another five years—and from his position as Headmaster of the Imperial Academy.
Right now, he could be said to be the richest prince in the entire Empire.
The next day arrived quietly. Two Imperial Knights ca to his estate as usual, reporting in for their duty. Fenric t them in the entrance hall, already dressed and prepared for the day.
"I’m heading out for a while," he said casually, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. "You’ll be escorting ."
Roman, the Fourth Royal Knight, nodded with his usual calm expression. "Understood, Your Highness."
Before leaving, Fenric glanced at Myria and asked, "How’s Elaine doing?"
Myria offered a faint smile. "She’s learning well under my guidance. Quick to adapt. Quiet, but observant."
Fenric nodded thoughtfully. "Good. Then bring her to later—I’d like to speak with her."
"As you wish," Myria replied with a graceful bow.
As Fenric stepped out of the estate’s grand archway, the butler was already waiting at the foot of the steps, standing beside the royal carriage.
The carriage itself was sleek and reinforced, painted in deep obsidian and silver trim—the official color sche granted to royals of the Vareldis line. Four magical beasts, horse-like but clearly far beyond ordinary steeds, stood harnessed and ready. Their scales shimred faintly beneath their fur, and their eyes glowed with pale violet energy. These were Duskhorn Chargers, bred for both speed and intimidation—beasts only granted to high-ranking nobles or royalty.
"Your carriage is ready, Your Highness," the butler said, bowing slightly.
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