CHAPTER 63: CHAPTER 62 - PRETTY LIKE A GUILLOTINE

The handsome man stroked the egg’s shell with his long, cold fingers, as if calming the unborn creature nestled within.

"You’re getting restless again," he murmured, his voice deep and calm, barely more than a whisper.

His eyes wandered to the small window of the carriage, gazing toward the distant skyline of Dorthlam—its stone towers and fluttering royal banners visible in the early night breeze.

"Be still."

The egg quivered ever so slightly—barely perceptible—but he noticed immediately. He rested his chin on his raised knee, closed his eyes slowly, and exhaled.

"Hah..." A long, languid sigh escaped his lips, heavy with boredom. He glanced at the crimson egg nestled in his arms, then cast his gaze toward the dark sky beyond the window.

"Why must I do such troublesome work...?" he muttered, speaking either to the wind or perhaps to himself.

He closed his eyes, hoping to drift off to sleep with the soft rocking of the carriage.

But then...

The carriage came to a sudden stop.

"...My lord," the driver’s nervous voice called from the front, "We... we’re surrounded."

The man opened his eyes slowly. They were a soft gold—but his gaze burned with the quiet threat of fire, knowing full well it could consume everything.

Without hurry, he stepped down from the carriage.

Outside, a group of armed men had encircled them. There were nine in total, all looking like common highwaymen—clothes tattered, hair unkempt, their weapons dull but still deadly. One of them sneered upon seeing the man disembark.

"Ohoho... so this is our passenger?" he muttered, spitting on the ground. "Looks like a noble... or maybe a royal concubine. Either way... too pretty to let go."

The others laughed crudely. A heavyset man who seemed to be their leader stepped forward, squinting as he studied the man’s face.

"Look at him. Smooth skin, tall build... and those golden eyes. Ah, he’d fetch a fortune in the underground auctions."

"Damn right," said another, chuckling lewdly. "Master Borrell in the East loves pretty men like this. One night with him, and he might just keep him as a pet."

The laughter grew louder. One whistled. Another licked his lips and added, "It’d be a shame to kill him. Let’s strip him down, tie him up, and send him as a gift. But first... let’s have a taste tonight."

Their laughter echoed through the forest.

But the man they mocked didn’t flinch. Didn’t react with anger or fear.

He simply gazed at them for a moment, then slowly brought a finger to his temple, as if scratching his head... and sighed.

"Fools," he muttered.

Suddenly, the bandits fell silent.

Something touched them.

Something invisible—but crushing. Like a giant worm had crawled into their ears and burrowed into their brains. A voice—alien, sonorous, ancient, and not of this world—resonated directly within their skulls:

**"Kneel."**

Their bodies dropped to the ground like puppets with severed strings. They could not resist. Their muscles strained against their own will, but it was useless.

**"Choke yourselves..."**

Their mouths gaped.

They wanted to scream. To beg. To cry. But their bodies no longer obeyed them.

**"...Until your necks snap."**

And so they did.

With terrifying force, their hands clutched their own throats. Veins bulged. Nails dug into flesh. Fingers clamped like iron shackles. The sound of bones cracking and tendons tearing filled the cold night air.

One by one, their faces turned blue.

Eyes bulged. Saliva dripped. Their bodies shook violently... until—crack. Necks snapped. They collapsed.

Yet even in death, their hands did not stop.

Even after their hearts ceased, fingers continued to dig, twist, crush—tearing through flesh and sinew until heads were nearly severed from the body. The stench of fresh blood and death filled the road.

In the midst of it all, the man stood still. His expression was as indifferent as one stepping on ants.

Blood slowly seeped across the dirt, creeping toward the tips of his boots. He did not move.

Calmly, he turned back, climbed into the carriage again, and leaned against the cushion as before. The coachman remained frozen in fear, but the man simply said, casually:

"Keep going."

The carriage rolled forward once more.

And just before he closed his eyes again, the man whispered in his mind, in the tone of a bored god:

"Before I return home, I’ll take some time to relax in Dorthlam... Let’s hope I don’t run into anything troublesome."

.

.

.

Soft morning light filtered through the gaps in heavy gray velvet curtains, casting faint patterns across the engraved stone floor. The air remained cool, but the scent of burning wood oil and dried flowers from the fireplace brought a gentle warmth.

Riven sat at the edge of the bed, leaning forward slightly, his right hand wrapped around the small, warm fingers of his little sister. He hadn’t moved since dawn, watching Mira’s sleeping face as though afraid to miss a single moment. In the corner, Ashtoria sat in an armchair, wrapped in a dark dressing gown that accentuated her silver hair flowing gently down her shoulders.

Both remained silent.

Night had passed, but neither of them had truly slept.

And then, after the long hush filled only by the ticking of an old clock and the faint wind behind the windows...

Her eyelids stirred.

.

Mira’s thin lashes fluttered before slowly opening, revealing a pair of warm brown eyes clouded with confusion. She blinked several times, as if making sure the morning light wasn’t just a dream.

"...Hnnnggh..." she mumbled softly, drawing a long breath.

Her small body stretched lazily, arms raising overhead in an inelegant motion—like a kitten waking from a long nap. Her hair was a mess, some strands sticking to her cheeks, her eyes half-lidded as she sat up slowly.

She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "...Why’re you looking at me like that?"

Her voice was raspy and adorable, like a child waking up too late and unready for the day. Her gaze shifted from Riven to Ashtoria, then around the unfamiliar room with growing confusion.

"...This room..." she whispered, then looked back at her brother. "Why am I sleeping here? I... I remember light and water... and... wind... and then... why—"

GRRRROOOAAARRKKK.

A monstrous growl erupted from Mira’s stomach.

Loud. Long. Terrifying.

It echoed through the room like the roar of a small beast awoken by hunger. The dramatic, almost magical atmosphere from seconds before shattered in an instant.

Mira froze.

Her cheeks flared red. She clutched her belly with both hands and sank beneath the blanket, trying to hide her face.

Riven—who had been ready to explain everything—paused, then let out a low chuckle. A warm laugh filled with relief and affection.

.

.

.

After several plates of toasted bread, three bowls of hot soup, and a full pot of honeyed tea, Mira leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. Her cheeks still carried a faint blush from embarrassment, but her eyes sparkled brightly—her tiny body now fully recharged by food and laughter.

Riven could only smile as he watched her. Even Ashtoria, though she remained quiet, looked more at ease than usual. She sat elegantly, leaning slightly against Riven, arms crossed, her gaze occasionally shifting between the man beside her and the girl across the table.

Not long after, a soft knock echoed at the door.

Lyrienne entered with composed steps, dressed in a gown of deep blue and gray. Her blonde hair was tied low today, and her signature folding fan was neatly tucked at her waist.

"Your Grace, the talent assessment equipment has been prepared," she announced politely, bowing with refined grace. "If you’re ready, we can begin the test."

Ashtoria rose first, giving a slight nod. "Very well. Lead the way."

Lyrienne turned with practiced efficiency, and the four of them: Riven, Mira, Ashtoria, and Lyrienne—began their walk down the long corridors of House Valderacht.