Rosberg stood silently behind Aroche as they observed the drunken man departing the imperial chamber. Upon reaching them, the man bowed deeply. “My lord.”

“You did well. What did His Majesty offer you in return?” Aroche asked. The man replied that he had been granted a physician and assistance in overcoming his addiction.

Aroche gave a curt nod and gestured with a single motion. One of Count Rosberg’s men stepped forward. “This man will handle your compensation. In addition, you will receive five hundred gold coins for returning His Majesty’s wedding ring.”

The man nearly fell to his knees, but Rosberg’s subordinate restrained him.

“Go. It is late. Rest,” Aroche said.

The man bowed several times in silence before departing with the escort.

Aroche turned then and began walking away from the imperial chamber. Without slowing his pace, he addressed Rosberg.

“This matter concerning Her Majesty must not be spoken of,” he said, his voice flat. “Ensure it never leaves this palace.”

“Yes, sir,” Rosberg answered.

As they continued, they passed a young man with long blond hair—Alexei Rosberg, the Count’s nephew.

At the time of Her Majesty’s collapse, he had been nearby. It was he who alerted the palace guards and lent aid to His Majesty. Yet in doing so, he had drawn the public’s attention to the incident, allowing knowledge of the Empress’s condition to spread.

But that same chain of consequence enabled the drunken man to return the ring directly to the palace.

Aroche’s gaze cut toward the young man. Alexei instinctively recoiled under its weight.

“Because of you, His Majesty’s sentimental item was recovered. I will see to it you are rewarded. What is it you desire?” Aroche asked, his tone devoid of warmth.

Alexei dropped to his knees without warning. Unlike the drunkard before him, no one moved to stop him. “Sir,” he said firmly, “please grant me an audience with His Majesty. I wish to offer my apology directly for the incident last night.”

Aroche’s expression remained completely unmoved at the sight. “His Majesty is in worse temper today than he was yesterday,” he said flatly. “Do you still intend to face him?”

Alexei, well aware that even those of high rank feared Burn more than death itself, let that fear show—but did not retreat. “...I do, sir.”

Aroche turned and began to walk away. But as he moved, he left his words behind him. “Wait at dawn. His Majesty often wakes before the sun does.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Alexei responded, bowing his head with sincerity. He would ensure that the name Alexei Rosberg would not be wasted.

“When he appears, you had better already be kneeling. His Majesty departs for Inkia tomorrow. Do not delay him,” Aroche said as he walked away.

The words, though seemingly spoken in passing, echoed down the hallway with clear intent—heard by all. Beneath his bowed head, no one could see the faint furrow in Alexei’s brow.

To be made to kneel on occasion was tolerable. But this—So, it had come to this, had it? That in order to regain Burn’s favor, he must kneel before the man even arrived?

Aroche Leodegrance—Burn’s unwavering and efficient loyalist.

Fine. It made no difference. In time, Apex Two would kneel before them regardless.

This much could be endured. There was still opportunity. He would get close to Burn—close enough. And when the purpose of his descent into this place reached its end, everything would fall into place.

How unexpected it was, that the innermost circle surrounding Apex Two was made up of the unwell—his closest companion, his Empress. And whispers claimed that he himself carried a lingering affliction.

Alicei straightened slowly and turned away.

As expected—A pitiful man.

So, the next morning—before dawn—kneeling before the imperial hall, Alicei beheld the Empress walking down the corridor. Radiant, as always.

Huh.

He had, of course, heard of this realm’s healing magic—potions, rituals, other such marvels. Injuries could be reversed. Illnesses soothed. Yet this—

Yesterday, he saw her sprawled on stone, organs failing, life slipping away. No visible cause. It reeked of a deeper condition. And now? On her feet. Composed. As if the night before had never happened.

He had already sent reports to Mahkato, every useful detail he could gather on Burn’s inner circle. But now, seeing her like this—

The Emperor walked beside her. Wordless. Unbothered. They passed him where he knelt, head lowered. He was preparing to speak, but Burn spoke first.

“Tell Mahkato to come to my wedding in a month.”

…

Wha—

For a beat, Alicei could not speak. He lifted his head slightly, just enough to glimpse the pair already moving past him. As if he were nothing more than a delivery boy. Not a spy. Not a strong high ranking officer from the Alliance.

When?

When had Burn learned the truth? Was it in that carriage—when he had Burn’s hand at his throat? Or after? Or... was it from the start? From the moment he slit the real Alexei Rosberg’s throat and slipped into his name?

Had Burn traveled to Camlann not for whatever he was doing these two days, but for him?

Still kneeling, breath shallow with rising dread, Alicei watched a pair of leather shoes step before him.

Aroche Leodegrance.

“You heard His Majesty,” Aroche said flatly. “Return to your post.” Then, with that same practiced distance—“Stand. I will see you off.”

Alicei rose slowly. Beneath the humble posture he’d adopted these past days, he remained a powerful man in his own right. Not someone to be cast aside. His scowl deepened. “What is the meaning of this?”

“What else?” Aroche replied coolly. “Because of you, His Majesty’s wedding ring was recovered. I did say you would be rewarded.”

With his life. For now.

Alicei found himself struck dumb. The sheer audacity of it—was this a game?

Aroche turned his back to him. Dismissive. Measured. “I will see you off. Count Rosberg is in mourning. His nephew, after all.”

Alicei stood frozen in the quiet grandeur of the hallway. It all felt surreal—some elaborate farce. His infiltration laid bare, his purpose unraveled. And yet, they let him go.

Not only had they unmasked him—but they’d choreographed his downfall so elegantly, he hadn’t even noticed.

And now? A polite escort to the door?

How? When? None of them had spoken between themselves about it. Not once. Was it unspoken? Were they reading each other’s thoughts?

A mind-reading spell? Collective telepathy? Surely not. Burn Pendragon was recorded as a Force Mage, not a Vision Mage. And those with telepathy were rare—seventh to tenth circle mind spell elites.

No—perhaps it was worse. They’d each, independently, deduced he was a spy.

So this was the caliber of the Emperor’s inner circle.

“For the death of Alexei Rosberg,” Aroche said suddenly, turning to look at him, “Count Rosberg has reserved the matter for himself. He will deal with it—once we win this war, and you are ours as war captive.”

Aroche sneered. “Now go. Don’t delay His Majesty.”

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Alright folks, there you go, another 10 chapters. From here on out, it'll be regular updates. Monday, Thursday and Saturday. Monday to help your Monday feels better, Thursday to help you get through your last days of weekdays over, and Saturday so you can have something to look forward for weekends. Two chapters each updates.

Oh, right, I post mass updates on 4th of July not because it's American's Independence day. It's because for some God forsaken reasons, I was born at 4th of July in case you forgot. Enjoy! :'v

(If you celebrate 4th of July for any reasons, good for you. Maybe don't forget old Sugar while you're at it.)