“The Demon Lord, is it?” Duke Padparadscha muttered.
“Prince Lance Inkor…” Marquis Mossflower echoed, sinking into a chair with the heavy realization that, yes, this was actually happening.
Bianca, however, didn’t bother with theatrics. Instead, she gave Morgan a long, knowing look.
“Corruption… So that’s why you kept us out before,” she said, tone laced with understanding—and just a touch of accusation.
COUGH!
“Your Highness?” Yvain’s grip on Blair tightened as he felt her shift in his arms. A small sound, a weak breath—hope, maybe?
COUGH! COUGH—
No. Blood.
Thick, dark, and far too much of it. Blair’s body lurched violently, her small fra wracked with spasms as she vomited it up, staining her skin, her clothes, everything.
For a long, terrible second, no one moved.
Then Morgan—without a word, without a single wasted motion—raised her hand. A surge of power, golden and absolute, shot from her palm and wrapped around Blair, its warmth cutting through the cold horror of the mont.
Yvain froze. The three other adults stiffened.
Bianca, anwhile, turned to Morgan, eyes sharp as a blade.
“You… Actually, who are you, Mada Sator?” she asked, her tone making it clear that this was not a rhetorical question.
Morgan exhaled, the weariness in her sigh speaking volus.
“That’s not important right now,” she said, waving off the scrutiny like one would an insistent housefly. Instead, her gaze settled back on Blair, watching with clear relief as the girl’s eyes finally fluttered open.
“Your Highness!” Yvain sighed in relief as he embraced Blair, the young princess broke into tears, clutching him desperately. “It’s fine now. You’re safe. You are free…”
The adults, however, couldn’t dwell with this little victory, and without missing a beat, Morgan turned to Bianca.
“Now, let’s not waste ti,” she said, voice as smooth as it was sharp. “Tell what you know about Lance Inkor. And while we’re at it—Bianca Lumine, I’d love to hear about the unfortunate demise of Luminus’ Pope and, of course, the Democratic Teachers’ exciting new venture into corruption trafficking, particularly their involvent in poisoning Elven royalty.”
Morgan’s expression remained unreadable, but the pointed edge in her tone made one thing abundantly clear—she was done playing nice.
Marquis Mossflower began, slowly and carefully, as if he were picking his way through a minefield.
“He ca out of nowhere. Well—not really out of nowhere, but close enough,” he admitted, rubbing his temple. “We knew he existed. His background was solid. His mother, Princess Willow Barbarella, had enough royal blood to make a decent footnote in history. A distant descendant of a Wintersin Emperor. But that should’ve ant nothing.”
His frustration was palpable. He went on, explaining how none of them had ever seriously considered that King Rafaye Inkor would acknowledge an illegitimate son, let alone one like him, soone who was the living proof of Rafaye’s unfair rise to the throne. And yet, sohow, that had happened.
Worse still, the Pri Minister—a man who despised illegitimate heirs with every fiber of his being like his father, the forr Pri Minister—had backed this sudden newcor as a candidate for the throne.
“This,” Mossflower sighed, his fingers drumming against his knee, “more than anything else, is the inconsistency that bothers . And trust , as soone who has worked under the Pri Minister’s faction for years, I’ve seen plenty.”
He leaned forward, exhaling sharply. “Why would the King acknowledge him if he’s from the Pri Minister’s faction? And why would the Pri Minister support him if he’s illegitimate?”
Across from him, Duke Markus Padparadscha let out a sharp, humorless chuckle.
“Ah, so that’s why you, the Pri Minister’s right-hand man, are suddenly keeping your distance from him?” he said, voice laced with biting amusent.
“Yes, my Lord. That is exactly why.” Mossflower’s expression was grim. “Because it feels like—no, it is—a farce. The so-called ‘factions’ of this kingdom are nothing more than decorative labels. In the end, they all seem to be serving the sa power lurking in the background.”
Then, with a sardonic shake of his head, he added, “And of course, let’s not forget the cherry on top—Celia Angemoux murdering the forr Pri Minister, all so this random Lance Inkor could conveniently waltz his way into the current Pri Minister’s faction.”
Mossflower sat back, his words settling like a heavy weight over the room.
Politics had always been a ga, but this? This wasn’t a ga. This was a script, and they had all been playing their parts without realizing who was truly pulling the strings.
“Not to ntion,” Duke Markus Padparadscha drawled, his voice edged with wry amusent, “that Lance Inkor’s entrance into Inkia’s political landscape was far too smooth for soone who had never been in the picture before.”
Lance Inkor’s background was too outstanding. Not only having the blood of a Wintersin Emperor AND Inkia King’s illegitimate son, he also erged as the owner of the continent’s most exclusive gentlen’s club and a close associate of the Loneborn rchant Group? Okay, fine.
But even by the most exorbitant standards, Lance’s rise felt suspiciously effortless—like he wasn’t just buying his way into power, but walking in as if the throne had already been gift-wrapped for him.
His gaze flickered toward Bianca. “And as for the Democratic Teachers, the death of Luminus’ Pope, and Luminus as the base origin of the Loneborn rchant Group… Bianca, I think it’s about ti you told her everything.”
The weight of the request hung between them, and after a long silence, Princess Bianca Lumine sighed in resignation.
She had no particular love for the woman sitting in front of her. In fact, she had every reason to be suspicious.
This so-called “Mada Sator” had materialized from obscurity—allegedly spending the past three years on the brink of death—only to erge as the wife of a rchant so wealthy he could rival entire kingdoms. If that weren’t enough, her son was the most talented student Bianca had ever seen in all her years teaching at Saint Lucia Academy.
And yet, what unsettled Bianca the most wasn’t the woman’s wealth, nor her son’s brilliance. It was her power.
Bunny Fay di Sator—this rchant’s wife—had holy power stronger than a Lumine.
Stronger than her. A direct descendant of Apostle Rouf.
The sheer impossibility of it chafed.
Bianca’s sharp gaze narrowed. “Are you a saint, Mada Sator?” Her voice was as cold as it was cutting. “Because if you are, then that would be fascinating, considering every saint must be registered and acknowledged by the Holy Kingdom of Luminus. And I, Bianca Lumine, have personally t every single one of them.”
Her lips curled into sothing resembling a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yet sohow, I have never heard of you.”
Across from her, Morgan exhaled slowly, as if she had been bracing for this mont.
“No,” she murmured, her tone almost weary. “You have t every living saint—”
She paused, and in that mont, the air itself seed to shift.
“—except one.”
Before Bianca could react, she saw it.
The transformation was subtle at first—a shimr of light flickering at the edges of Bunny Fay’s form. But then, in a single breath, her cascading black hair bled into its original molten gold, a divine radiance suffusing her presence.
She no longer looked like a tired woman with a hole in her chest.
She looked immortal.
She looked sacred.
Bianca's breath caught as the truth ca crashing down with the weight of an ancient legend.
“I am Saint Lucia,” Morgan whispered.
“The Original Saint.”
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