Chapter 22: Ruby and Celius / Bistier, The One Who Watches
?The twilight in Morgathia possessed a unique, haunting coloration—a shade of deep violet that seemed to bleed across the frigid horizon, staining the endless snow with a profound melancholy. It was during this hour, when the shadows began to stretch their long, skeletal fingers between the marble columns of the manor, that Ruby’s grey routine finally gained a flicker of color.
?Ruby’s afternoons were typically defined by the oppressive stillness of the great halls. Although her mother, Muriel, desperately tried to be a constant presence, the duties of the high nobility were non-negotiable obligations under Marth’s unyielding gaze. To the Duke, everything had to be millimetrically perfect to project his absolute authority. Marth was one of the pillars of the Empire, a man whose very name evoked respect and bone-chilling fear in equal measure.
?Years ago, he had faced the legendary Ice Lady of Eritineos in single combat. Although he was ultimately defeated, Marth did not fall without a harrowing fight; he left deep, jagged marks on the warrior woman—scorch marks from his solar mana that required months of specialized healing to close. That feat alone, the act of wounding a literal force of nature like her, had cemented his reputation as a titan among men.
?This relentless pursuit of perfection extended to his public image. Muriel was required to be almost constantly at his side, functioning as a silent symbol of strength and marital stability before his shifting tides of allies and rivals. While the Duke's "display window" was meticulously maintained for the world to see, Ruby was often left to her own devices, a small ghost wandering a fortress of ice.
?However, when the sun began its final descent, the rhythmic sound of quick, energetic footsteps would announce a change in the atmosphere: Celius had arrived.
?Taking advantage of his vacation from the Imperial Institute, the eldest brother would dash to find his little sister the moment his official duties were concluded. In those fleeting hours, Celius and Ruby transformed the stern inner courtyard into their own private kingdom. They played tag, hide-and-seek, and countless other games that made the echoes of childish laughter climb the cold, indifferent stone walls—a sound that seemed almost alien in such a place.
?Nearby, framed by one of the arched windows of the security wing, Captain Bistier watched the scene.
?Bistier was a man molded entirely by duty, his soul tempered in the forge of unblinking obedience. He had just been released from his grueling shift, but he allowed himself a rare moment of stillness before retiring to his quarters. Watching the genuine smile on Celius’s face and the fragile innocence of Ruby was his only true moment of peace. For a high-ranking executioner who lived his life between the flash of blades and the harmony of screams, that sight was a rare, vital reminder that something pure still managed to draw breath within those oppressive walls.
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?But the peace of a veteran soldier is always a state of active vigilance.
?As his eyes followed the children’s movements, Bistier’s tactical peripheral vision caught something further away. The sun was nearly gone, and the shadows were blooming in the courtyard, casting long, distorted silhouettes across the stone floor. On the other side of the high wall that enclosed the private garden lay the path to the deeper dungeons. There, the Captain spotted a group of three soldiers. They were moving with a suspicious, rehearsed fluidity, clutching wicker baskets hidden beneath their heavy winter cloaks.
?In that instant, the bloody image of Baron Zour, collapsed and cooling in the snow, rushed back with total force. Bistier was not a man to put stock in the desperate words of a slave, but what his own eyes were witnessing now brought a bitter, undeniable certainty: there was, indeed, a breach of loyalty. Traitors were operating within his own jurisdiction, right under his nose.
?The heavy plate armor and the closed visors made their individual identities impossible to recognize from that distance. In the Vermilion army, every man was uniformed to appear as a single, indistinguishable mass of cold steel. Identifying the specific individuals responsible for this act of unauthorized mercy would be neither a quick nor a simple task.
?Bistier stepped back from the window, his mind turning as cold as the granite beneath his boots. He felt no rush. Like a veteran hunter tracking a wounded beast, he knew that the error had already been detected, and that haste only served to alert the prey. He would not cause an immediate scandal; he would not storm into the barracks with a bared sword. Not yet.
?Bistier’s plan was built on the foundation of patience and tactical opportunity. He would spend the coming days, weeks, or even months mapping the patterns. He would silently cross-reference the duty rosters with the times the supplies were diverted, narrowing down the list of suspects with surgical precision.
?He would wait for the exact moment when Duke Marth was at the height of his good humor. He would wait for a morning when the master woke up reinvigorated, perhaps after savoring a fine breakfast of roasted chicken breast over the kitchen’s glowing embers. Only when the Duke was satisfied and the atmosphere was propitious would Bistier present his full, documented report.
?He would not offer mere gossip or hearsay; he would deliver irrefutable proof. He would deliver the heads of those who dared to harbor pity in a house built upon an iron discipline of fear. To Bistier, the motivation behind the rebellion mattered not at all—be it kindness or conspiracy. What mattered was that loyalty to the Duke had been violated, and he would eradicate that weakness the moment the board was set.
?While Ruby and Celius played on, oblivious to the gathering storm, the Captain’s blade was already being whetted for the harvest that would surely come in the months ahead.
