CHAPTER 47: MASTER III

At most, Fenric thought he might earn her a favor—maybe a temporary alliance—for saving her and her pretty neck. But this? He hadn’t asked for it. He didn’t want it.

And yet...

"What a worrysome brat," a sudden, snorting voice grumbled from the depths of his mind. "She might be a bit screwed in the head, but she’s strong—too strong. You can feel it, can’t you? That pressure... Like getting tasted by something that doesn’t care if you’re prey or plaything."

"Duserdis..." Fenric sighed, recognizing the rough, dragon-scorched voice of the ancient spirit sleeping in his Mana sea.

Still, the words struck a chord. Fenric leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing.

He didn’t know Mavis’s real game. But something told him... this could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

As long as he survived it.

"...Well," he muttered under his breath, "I guess I’ll just have to live through it."

****

Elsewhere in the heart of the Vareldis Imperial Castle, a different chamber breathed a darker, quieter luxury.

Silken drapes danced gently to the rhythm of the enchanted breeze. Incense burned in crystal bowls shaped like blooming lotuses, casting curls of fragrant smoke into the air. The walls, carved obsidian inlaid with silver filigree, shimmered with warded glyphs too ancient for most nobles to decipher.

In the center of the room sat a woman—long, flowing black hair cascading down her bare back, blue eyes glowing faintly like the heart of a glacier. Her dress—if it could even be called that—was more suggestion than fabric. Cut scandalously low and high, it shimmered with silken threads that changed hue with every movement, like an illusion born of moonlight and blood.

She reclined in a velvet chair, one long leg crossed over the other, swirling a porcelain teacup lazily in her hand. Across from her stood a large standing mirror, but the glass didn’t reflect the room. Instead, it showed flickers of movement—scenes from across the empire. Like windows into other lives.

And behind her... knelt the Emperor of the Vareldis Empire.

Yes, the most powerful man in the realm—the second son, the crowned ruler, draped in ceremonial black-and-gold robes—was massaging her shoulders with slow, reverent motions. Beads of sweat clung to his brow, though the room was not hot.

"My shoulders are still tense, Ramano," she murmured, not looking at him. "Are you losing your touch?"

"No... never," Emperor Ramano Duserkis Vareldis replied softly, kneading her muscles with increasing care. His tone was respectful. Submissive. There was no trace of pride in his voice—only obedience.

This woman was not his concubine. She was not his queen.

She was his master.

Valmiera Belfrost—the one they called The Pale Serpent. One of the Guardian of the Empire. Keeper of one of the Empire’s Treasurey Key. And mother to Mavis Belfrost.

She sipped her tea again, the faintest cold smile curling her lips.

"Imagine my surprise," she said, voice light as silk but barbed like a viper’s fang, "when I learned my eldest daughter was being held in confinement. With not even a whisper sent my way."

Ramano flinched. "It was not meant to offend you, Master. I—"

"Silence," she cut in, not unkindly, but absolutely. "You’ve done enough damage by letting that pitiful noble faction grow bold enough to lay hands on my blood."

She tilted her head, the strands of her hair shimmering like onyx.

"Well... no matter. She’s free now. And the fools responsible are learning what it means to breathe fire through shattered lungs."

Ramano swallowed hard.

"Now then..." Valmiera rose slowly from her chair, the hem of her gown slithering across the marble like liquid shadow. She walked toward the mirror, her reflection finally appearing.

Behind her reflection... was Fenric.

Her eyes gleamed.

Her eyes gleamed, sharp as a blade drawn in moonlight.

"I remember him," Valmiera murmured, her voice colder than the northern ice fields. "The Dark Empress poisoned him the moment he was born. A slow-acting toxin, so insidious she thought no one would ever notice."

She stared into the mirror—into the fading image of Fenric’s reflection—her expression unreadable.

"Tell me, Ramano," she said softly, tilting her head slightly. "What does it feel like... to watch your child get targeted before he was even a week old?"

Behind her, Emperor Ramano’s hands clenched tightly as he bowed his head lower, his voice a low rumble of guilt and pain.

"It is... heart-wrenching."

Valmiera turned to face him fully now, her gaze piercing.

"Then why didn’t you help him?"

He looked up, his tone bitter. "Would your Guardians have allowed it? Would you?"

Valmiera’s smirk was thin. Amused, but void of warmth. "No. We wouldn’t have. If you had tried to shield him, we would have killed him ourselves."

Ramano’s expression froze—stiff with pain, yet unsurprised.

She walked toward him slowly, her presence heavy, her steps soundless.

"The throne of Vareldis is not granted through sympathy or sentiment. It is carved from blood, fate, and calculated sacrifice," she said, reaching out and gently lifting his chin with one finger. Her voice grew even colder, detached, and absolute.

"This Empire is over a million years old. We do not bend for weakness. If it was his fate to die, then he would have died. If it is his fate to rise—he will rise, no matter the chains or poison. That is how the Vareldis bloodline survives."

Ramano said nothing. He simply nodded, eyes hollow, shoulders bowed under the weight of truth too old for tears.

Valmiera continued, her gaze never leaving his.

"We do not raise emperors from love. We raise them from power and precision. Emotion clouds judgment. It rusts the blade. So smother it, Ramano. Bury it."

She turned away and walked back to her chair, her every movement fluid, serpentine.

"We don’t need your heart," she said, sitting down gracefully and sipping her tea once more. "We need your spine."

Ramano simply nodded and resumed his task in silence, kneading her shoulders with practiced, mechanical care. The quiet was oppressive—held together only by the faint clink of fine porcelain as Valmiera lifted her teacup once more.