“Would soone like to explain to what the fuck is going on?” Lazarus Lumine’s voice echoed through the chamber, his glare cutting across the room like a blade. His ministers flinched under the weight of his fury.
“Why, exactly, do we have representatives from the Elven Kingdom and the Dwarven Kingdom suddenly knocking on our door?”
Lazarus didn’t need to be reminded of the last ti these ancient, mythical powers deigned to acknowledge the existence of the human world. That had ended with half a nation reduced to ashes by the Infinite Witch, while the other half was conveniently absorbed into its neighbor’s territory.
So, naturally, the question remained: Which one of these idiots had pissed off the ancestors this ti?
“We just clawed our way out of a nationwide debt, and now we have to deal with this?” He gestured vaguely, as if physically trying to swat away the incoming disaster. “Who, exactly, thought it was a good idea to provoke them? Speak.”
The ministers exchanged nervous glances. Eventually, one of them stepped forward, cleared his throat, and tried to look less like he wanted to flee. “Your Majesty, we… genuinely have no idea. We can’t even begin to guess what prompted them to reach out. It ca out of nowhere.”
Right. Because that was exactly what he needed to hear right now.
Lazarus exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. As if Soulnaught swallowing Edensor and Elysian earlier this year wasn’t enough, now the mythical community had decided to make a move. Not to ntion the Outsiders—because, clearly, the universe wasn’t done shitting on his peace of mind.
“Fine,” he bit out. “What do the Great Forest and Storm Anvil want? Do we have any leads? Any hints? Or am I expected to perform divine prophecy on command?”
The ministers shook their heads, looking increasingly useless by the second. But then, another voice hesitantly broke the silence.
“Your Majesty… we’ve received word that the Mythical Community recently held a Great Assembly.”
Lazarus narrowed his eyes. “And when, exactly, were you planning on telling this?”
The minister in question had the audacity to look uncomfortable. “I only just received the information myself before this eting, Sir.”
Lazarus exhaled through his nose, already dreading whatever nonsense was about to follow.
Apparently, the ill Centaur Chief, Adroros Borion, had recently purchased an alarming quantity of mana potions from Luminus’ wandering rchants. And, because so rchants were naturally nosy little rats, they had managed to weasel out the reason:
The dying old horse was planning to travel.
To the Great Assembly.
For reasons unknown.
And just like that, every alarm in Lazarus’ brain started screaming.
The sharp screech of wood against marble filled the chamber as he abruptly stood from his throne, knocking the ornate chair backward with a resounding THUMP. The sound startled the ministers, but not as much as the way all color drained from their king’s face.
“Your Majesty?!”
“Sir, is sothing wrong?!”
“Is it that serious?!”
Lazarus ignored them, his expression shifting rapidly from outright horror to cold calculation.
“When do they arrive?” he asked, his voice now calm.
“This afternoon, Sir,” a minister replied, still visibly rattled. “It seems like they’re in a rush.”
Oh, fantastic. Because nothing scread “good news” like an ancient council of mythical creatures scrambling to et with humans.
Lazarus exhaled slowly, composing himself. “I will receive them personally.”
The ministers stiffened.
“All of you,” he continued, his authority cutting through the room like a blade, “are dismissed for today. Leave the palace.”
No one dared to argue. They filed out with quiet urgency, leaving Lazarus alone in the chamber.
The mont the door shut behind them, Lazarus closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Just how bad was this going to get?
“…Is it what I think it is?” he muttered under his breath. His fingers curled slightly, his eyes flickering with unease. The Pope’s death. The nationwide debt. The disappearances of common folk—too many to be re coincidence. The Sator rchant Group's sudden activity. The Loneborn rchant Group sinking its claws ever deeper into Luminus’ economy.
Piece by piece, the puzzle was taking shape.
And he did not like where it was leading.
Lazarus let out a slow, asured breath before signaling for a nearby servant.
“Fetch my daughters and my sons,” he ordered, his voice quiet but firm. “Tell them to find imdiately.”
It had been buried for too long.
Now, there was no avoiding it.
***
“Huh? L–Lord Gawain Agravaine? Why…?”
Marissa flinched as her father casually inford her that Gawain Agravaine was waiting for her in the sunroom.
Marquis Lombardi rely shrugged. “How would I know why the fifth-ranked knight of the Round Table wants to et you? Did you do sothing stupid again?”
“Dad!” Marissa huffed.
Yes, fine. She had done sothing incredibly stupid before. But that didn’t an she was the kind of person who made catastrophic mistakes every three months. And no, her father wasn’t trying to sha her—this was just how they were. A father and daughter who mocked each other without hesitation.
Which, incidentally, was the only reason she still had a shred of dignity left in high society after that incident at the victory celebration.
Ah, yes. The ti she stole the Emperor’s precious locket—an Empress-gifted locket, no less.
Of course, her mistake ran far deeper than that.
Would subtly implying she was the woman the Emperor was pursuing because of a painting have been scandalous enough? Would mocking the Empress and snatching her veil in public have been bad enough? Would having the Emperor himself witness all of it have been disastrous enough?
No.
What was truly disastrous was that the locket she had stolen wasn’t just any sentintal trinket. It was a protective charm from Morgan Le Fay, designed to keep the Emperor alive despite his Soulnaught Syndro.
Marissa had nearly killed the Emperor over a fit of petty jealousy.
If not for the Round Table actively suppressing the incident, her father wouldn’t have been able to protect her.
And look—yes, it was petty jealousy, okay?
The Emperor was terrifying, but who wouldn’t delude themselves into thinking they had a shot at glory? Who wouldn’t want to believe, even for a mont, that they could be his woman?
And for the record, the Empress hadn’t even been angry when Marissa mocked her, or when she stole her veil, or when she acted like a bitch.
No.
The Empress only beca furious when Marissa endangered the Emperor’s life.
She was an incredibly generous woman in the end.
But now, of all people, the Emperor’s mad dog was here?
That Gawain Agravaine?
Marissa moved quickly, making herself as presentable as possible.
This man—though a Marquis, just like her father—was far more important than her father could ever hope to be.
In Soulnaught’s high society, even among nobles of the sa rank, there were vast gaps in power and influence. Agravaine March had always been strong—not on the level of the Leodegrance Duchy, of course—but certainly formidable.
Back then, they could only dream of standing as equals to the Leodegrance.
Now?
One war changed everything.
And that was precisely why Lombardi March would never amount to anything in the face of the Agravaine.
If they held even a fraction of Agravaine’s influence, Marissa wouldn’t have needed to play politics to secure her position as the Emperor’s curated noblewoman in the first place.
She arrived at the sunroom.
Standing with his back to her was Gawain Agravaine.
A man who had once been gravely wounded in the rebellion of the First Prince.
A man who had lost half his Force Mastery potential in that battle.
A man who had also lost two of his brothers.
He turned slightly at the sound of her approaching footsteps, his Force subtly brushing over her presence as she curtsied gracefully.
“Lord Agravaine…”
“Marissa Lombardi.” His voice was even. “Why are you here alone? Where are your chaperones? Your father?”
Marissa blinked. Huh?
“Your father didn’t tell you I’m here to propose?”
“…?”
Ah.
Marissa could almost hear her father cackling across the mansion—“SECURE THE BAG, DAUGHTER! DON’T HESITATE! KEKEKEKEKEKEK—”
She blinked up at Gawain, all wide-eyed innocence. “Uh… Forgive , my Lord… there must be so kind of misunderstanding…”
And then, without hesitation, she stepped closer and gently tugged at his sleeve.
Gawain flinched.
Marissa smiled sweetly. “Father must’ve thought it was sothing duty-related… But how lucky I am, to be alone with you like this, my Lord…”
Lombardis were opportunists.
But what she didn’t know…
Gawain was already pumping his fist against his heart, his inner voice screaming—“Scored myself a smoking hot wife! Long live Caliburn Pendragon!”
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