Behind them stood the duke's son and heir, Pavel, his face pale and stricken. He had been there when the ssage from the palace arrived. He knew full well what was going on.
"Father…" he murmured.
Duke Rochester faced his son with grim resolve.
"Take your mother and siblings through the hidden passage. The elders of our house are already waiting. Go now."
This was the only way. To preserve the bloodline and the family na, the rest would have to be sacrificed.
After all, wasn't this the nature of every failed rebellion? Succeed, and you beco king. Fail… and death awaits.
Pavel bit his lip in frustration. What a wretched end. None of this would've happened if his father hadn't trusted that bastard. Now, their once-glorious house was on the brink of ruin.
But with his father resigned to death, there was no point in saying any of that.
"…I understand. I'll go."
"I've already said my goodbyes to your mother and siblings. Now go, quickly."
There was nothing more to be said.
Fortunately, Pavel wasn't incompetent. As his son disappeared down the corridor, the duke summoned his most loyal knight.
Vincent erged, tall and stoic—a shadow to the duke, bound by duty and loyalty.
"You called, my lord?"
He gazed at the haggard, half-broken man before him with heavy sorrow. How had things co to this?
For a long mont, the duke said nothing. Then, softly:
"You know what's coming. The royal purge will arrive from the capital soon."
Vincent dropped to one knee, his voice ringing with conviction.
"I will follow you without question. Just give the word."
The duke rested a hand on his shoulder.
"I've always been grateful for you, Vincent. But this ti… I have a final favor to ask."
Vincent looked up sharply.
"No, my lord. I won't allow it! Let be the one—"
But the duke shook his head.
"No. That won't do. If you die in my place, they'll hang your head from the city walls. Is that what you want for your end?"
Vincent struck the stone floor with his bare fist, over and over, until blood sared across the ground. He could not bear this helpless rage.
Rochester extended his hand and gently stopped him.
"Enough. I will die as a knight should. This is the only way to preserve the family's future. You understand that, don't you?"
Tears fell onto the shattered stone floor.
Vincent, after a long, gut-wrenching bout of sobbing, finally accepted the duke's letter with trembling hands. Rising at last, he bowed deeply to the man he had served all his life.
"…Then I'll take my leave."
With those parting words, Vincent turned and walked out, heading for the griffon tethered atop the outer wall.
Watching him go, Duke Rochester thought to himself:
Your wife and children are safe now. That's enough for .
Behind the curtain, a woman stepped forward—his longti lover, Esralda. Once dazzlingly beautiful, she now appeared gaunt and worn, her light having dimd since the loss of their only son, Philip.
With sorrow in her eyes, she walked into the duke's arms.
"…I want to spend my final monts with you."
He gently stroked her back. Unlike his political marriage with his wife, Esralda had been his true love—the woman he had chosen. That was why he had cherished their son Philip so deeply.
Nestled in the warmth of his embrace, she whispered softly, "Strange… I'm happy, just being able to be with you, even like this."
The duke kissed her forehead, now lined with age, and asked gently, "Are you sure? You won't regret this?"
Esralda smiled—a radiant smile that montarily recalled her youthful beauty.
"Never. Not for a second."
At the Rochester training grounds, nobles from across the Northwestern territories had gathered. With smug expressions, they looked around, noting how more of the duke's elite soldiers continued to arrive.
"This is it, isn't it? Our ti has co," one noble declared. "Let's march on the capital and claim what's ours!"
Another, stroking his beard, grinned. "Indeed. I've got my eyes on Count Mikhail's estate."
"I rather like the Marquess of Alfonso's manor myself," said another with a laugh.
"Anywhere would be better than this barren place," soone else chid in.
They were reveling in their fantasies of victory when Duke Rochester appeared—Esralda at his side, draped in a black veil.
The nobles, though surprised by her presence, masked it behind flattering smiles. Everyone knew she was the duke's one true love.
"Ah, there you are, Duke. Is it ti for departure?" one called out.
Rochester scanned the room with a cold, detached expression. Esralda gazed up at the sky—her last look at the world above.
"Yes," the duke replied. "This is where we'll be buried."
Confused glances were exchanged among the nobles.
Buried? What does he an? Is he talking about burying our enemies?
Their confusion didn't last long.
A sudden, violent tremor shook the entire fortress.
Crushing pressure descended from all directions, and the air itself seed to bend beneath it. Flying beasts flapped their wings frantically. Horses reared in panic.
From beneath the arena floor, an ancient seal activated. A massive magic circle revealed itself in glowing outlines—its shifting aura flickering between deep crimson and shadowy black.
Panic erupted.
Screams filled the air as nobles stumbled and fled in all directions.
Just monts ago, they had been basking in triumph—now, their skin split, their bodies tore apart, and their very souls were being shredded. The supernatural force pouring from the magic circle annihilated body and mind alike.
The bright red glow intensified—screams fading one by one—until only silence remained. A heavy, ominous quiet fell over the blood-soaked training ground.
Duke Rochester gave a hollow laugh as the black-red aura closed in on him. He would soon share the sa fate.
Esralda remained in his arms.
Yes. This is right. Let us all die together.
anwhile, Michael had not yet reached the Northwestern stronghold when he was t by an unexpected ssenger.
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