The matter of the strange, extrely lethal toxin and its suspicious origins was a real dilemma.
While there were suspicions that it might have originated from soone with hidden ties to a magical civilization, this very fact made the perpetrator increasingly difficult to track.
Anyone harbouring such a dangerous secret would go to great lengths to cover their tracks—and such a person would not be easily exposed.
For now, the pri suspect was the Grand Duke Eric. But there was no way to prove it. Isolde had no ans of doing so. As for Lance, she couldn’t tell. He seed... half and half.
She glanced at the elf.
He was the one who had insisted on handling the matter personally. Now, she was about to see what exactly he would do.
If it had been her, the first order of business would have been to apply pressure on the Grand Duke Eric.
Whether she would succeed was an entirely different matter, that man was slipperier than an eel.
They were fighting a losing battle here.
Suddenly, Lance shot a glance at the tall, bearded man.
He spoke.
"You say this matter has nothing to do with you, right?"
"I—"
"That this assassin was not sothing you expected to happen?"
Lance cut in, waiting for a response.
After a pause, the Duke nodded cautiously.
"Yes."
"Okay then."
The elf concluded simply.
Just like that? Eric thought, a frown forming. But the thought didn’t last long.
In the next mont, Lance pulled out a small gemstone. It looked like a masterfully crafted erald crystal—small enough to be held in a palm, yet long and rectangular, shaped like a miniature pillar supporting a ceiling.
He spoke, head tilting toward the covered object.
"Why don’t we ask him?"
Then Lance stepped forward and pulled away the tarp. The dismbered head lay there as it had before—untouched, with closed eyes.
Lance placed the crystal beside it, and with a quiet activation of mana, it began to glow.
The elf uttered a low, strange chant.
Monts later, the eyes of the head snapped open, staring directly at them.
"Wha—?"
Isolde was stunned.
Not just her—the entire gathering fell into shocked silence.
What sorcery was this? Necromancy? Since when had the Von Heims ever dabbled in such a dark art?
Isolde’s mind flashed back to Selaphiel’s words when Victor had once visited:
"Lugh is dead. But we can bring him back to life."
She had scoffed at the ti, asking whether anyone would ever believe such a clearly bogus claim.
Selaphiel’s reply had been unsettling. A simple line she hadn’t thought much of then—perhaps because it reeked of overconfidence, a trait Selaphiel was well known for.
"Oh, they’ll believe it alright."
Now, those five words were beginning to take on an entirely different aning.
Lance began his questioning.
"Who are you?"
"My na is Jamie Dren"
"What was your mission?"
The elf pressed.
"Killing Lugh Von Heim."
A collective gasp rang out through the room, mostly fake.
The Grand Duke’s lips quivered—not noticeably, and only for a brief instant—but Isolde had already locked onto him.
Lance continued.
"And who gave you this mission?"
"A man nad Nobody."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Lance could have done this earlier—so why wait until now?
It was deliberate. A ploy to catch them off guard.
Most of those present had prepared extensive contingency plans should anything go awry.
Lance’s approach was different: lull them into a false sense of security, then strike—quickly and decisively.
Such were the thods his kind were trained to employ.
He continued:
"And where is this man you call Nobody from?"
The head’s speech began to slur, its tone growing weaker—like a drunk on the verge of passing out.
Isolde suspected the strange spell animating him wouldn’t last much longer.
There was also the issue of why he was answering the questions so readily.
As an assassin who had taken his own life to protect his secrets, such willingness felt... off. Suspicious.
But with no insight into the magic’s specifics, Isolde could only attribute it to the strange state a soul falls into once detached from its body.
The assassin responded, hesitating only slightly:
"Nobody is from... the Von Heim third branch."
Another round of gasps swept through the room. Again, mostly fake.
All eyes turned to the Grand Duke.
Lance remained expressionless, pushing forward—intent on extracting every last word from the dying spell.
"And the toxin? The one you used to kill your physical body?"
The elf’s phrasing was precise, deliberate.
The head answered:
"I got it from the third branch fam—"
The voice cut off abruptly. The sound faded.
Then, nothing.
The head’s eyes slowly closed, and the crystal beside it cracked, its glow vanishing, turning dull and lifeless.
Lance straightened, his gaze now locked on the Grand Duke.
"You heard him. What do you have to say for yourself?"
For once, the ever-composed Eric seed to falter.
He was silent, clearly searching for the right words—though none of this struggle showed on his face. After a mont, he spoke.
"How can we trust a testimony gained by such... thods?"
Lance’s eyes narrowed, taking on a dangerous gleam.
"Are you trying to belittle my magic?"
Eric quickly added:
"Oh, nothing of the sort. Your magic is quite... wonderful, even."
A pause.
Then, slyly, but with conviction:
"It’s just... just because one man said it doesn’t an it’s true. This is not politics. This is a serious matter—one that concerns my life and integrity."
His voice was calm, low, and smooth—like he was discussing the weather.
"Until concrete evidence is found, accusing would be a completely irrational decision."
Isolde stepped forward.
Pointing at the head, her voice echoed sharply through the chamber:
"His testimony is not proof enough?"
"It’s not."
Eric’s voice remained firm. Unyielding.
Then ca the soft voice of the elf.
"It is proof..."
"...at least to ."
And then, his aura erupted. Violent and overwhelming, crashing over the room like a tidal wave as he prepared to act—
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