Location: The Palace Hotel, Room 402 - Morning

  Pale morning sunlight seeped through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains that weren't fully closed, illuminating fine dust motes dancing in the air.

  Ellios stood before the mirror, buttoning his shirt with methodical movements. One by one, the buttons covered his pale skin, now decorated with several faint red marks—traces of ownership from a long night.

  He straightened his suit collar, then glanced toward the bed.

  There, amidst the chaos of silk sheets and rose petals now wilted and crushed, Louis Ferdinand still slept. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His sleeping face looked peaceful, almost like an angel painted on a cathedral ceiling.

  But Ellios knew, that was merely an optical illusion.

  He picked up his tie, looping it around his neck while staring at the figure on the bed with a cold, analytical gaze.

  "Louis Ferdinand," Ellios murmured soundlessly.

  Outsiders might only see him as a handsome, wealthy youth. But Ellios knew where that blood came from. He was the son of Marquis Hernan Ferdinand—the watchdog guarding the southwest gate of Carta’s domain.

  Ellios’ mind drifted to the geographical map stored in his brain.

  There, on that harsh border, stood the Porto Royale Fortress. A fortress arrogantly overlooking the vast, frozen beauty of Lake Crystalfell, simultaneously serving as the dividing wall against their savage neighbors: The United States of Nigras.

  The land of black soil. A harsh land where the law of the jungle prevailed.

  Growing up with the view of Nigras’ black earth across the lake was no trivial matter. Louis wasn't raised merely on tea parties and dance lessons.

  Ellios tightened his tie knot. His eyes swept over Louis’ exposed arm on the blanket. There was muscle tissue formed not by luxury gym workouts, but by the swing of real weapons.

  Dual education.

  Ellios respected that. Louis was a noble who could debate philosophy and statecraft in the morning wearing silk, then lead a cavalry charge through bloody mud in the afternoon clad in armor. He was educated academically as the Marquis' heir, yet forged practically on the border battlefield as a killer.

  The brain of a scholar, the instinct of a border wolf.

  Ellios took out his pocket watch, checking the time. Still too early for the world to wake, but just in time for shadows to leave.

  He walked closer to the bed, staring at Louis’ face once more. He didn't bend to kiss him. No parting touch. Their relationship wasn't a cheap romance; it was a transaction of needs. Ellios needed escape, Louis needed release.

  "You are a dangerous man, Louis," Ellios whispered, acknowledging the fact with a thin smirk.

  Precisely because Louis was dangerous, Ellios felt comfortable. He had no interest in sheep. He could only sleep soundly in the cage of another predator.

  Soundlessly, Ellios turned. His steps were as light as cotton, not waking the Prince of the Southwest.

  He opened the door, stepping out of the warmth of the room smelling of roses and musk, back into the cold, quiet hotel corridor, ready to don his mask once more before the world.

  Location: Ironseat Main Zone (Carta Palace) - Royal Garden

  Ellios stepped out from the shadows of the lodging corridor into the heart of Carta’s power.

  People called this place Ironseat. A name sounding cold, hard, and merciless, as hard as the iron throne at its center. Yet, this morning Ironseat was trying to deceive the eye.

  Ellios walked along the white stone path in the Royal Garden.

  The view here was a paradox. Amidst a ruthless political fortress, thousands of flowers bloomed ignorantly. The scent of lavender and jasmine wafted, fighting the smell of cold metal that usually enveloped the palace.

  He paused.

  A butterfly with metallic blue wings flitted past his nose. Its wings flapped slowly, fragile, yet beautiful. The small creature landed on the tip of a fern frond wet with dew, unaware it was in a nest of vipers.

  "Fool," Ellios thought, the corner of his lip lifting thinly. "You are too fragile for a place this hard."

  He was about to step again, enjoying the morning breeze caressing his face, when suddenly the atmosphere in the garden shifted.

  The air felt heavier. Birdsong seemed to dim. Even the blue butterfly flew away hurriedly, as if sensing an approaching threat.

  Ellios raised his gaze.

  The view of beautiful flowers was locked, then erased instantly by the presence of a single figure standing at the end of the path, near the fountain.

  A woman.

  She stood tall, backing the morning sun so her silhouette appeared haloed in golden light, yet her aura was as cold as ice.

  Reine Blackmere.

  The woman was in her golden age, early thirties. It was the age where a girl’s beauty had vanished, replaced by the lethal charisma of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

  Her jet-black hair was pinned up neatly without a single strand daring to stray, revealing her long, pale, firm neck. She wore a formal state gown of midnight blue—the color of the deep night—with a high collar cut that was polite yet oppressive, wrapping her slender yet full figure. No excessive jewelry. Only a silver brooch shaped like the ministry emblem on her chest.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Her face was the definition of cold aristocracy. High cheekbones, dark red lips that rarely smiled, and perfectly maintained skin.

  However, what seized Ellios’ attention most were her eyes.

  When Ellios looked at her, she was already looking at him.

  That gaze wasn't the look of a woman seeing a handsome young man. It was the gaze of an eagle scanning prey from a cliff height. Sharp. Piercing. Full of calculation.

  Reine Blackmere’s eyes seemed capable of skinning Ellios layer by layer—past his expensive clothes, past his pale skin, straight into his dark soul.

  Ellios stopped walking. He didn't bow. He returned the gaze.

  "The Prime Minister," Ellios thought, feeling cold adrenaline crawl down his spine.

  Reine didn't move. She just stood there, letting the silence and her gaze speak louder than any king’s decree. Before Reine, the beauty of the flower garden and butterflies felt like children’s toys.

  This was the true beauty of Ironseat. Gorgeous, but ready to tear you apart.

  Ellios’ eyes lowered slightly from the woman’s face, locking onto a single object glinting on her chest.

  A silver brooch forged with terrifying detail. An eagle’s head.

  It wasn't just jewelry. It was a stamp of power. The sigil of House Blackmere.

  Ellios held his breath unconsciously. House Blackmere... their roots gripped the foundation of Ironseat too tightly. So tightly they managed to seat a woman in the Prime Minister’s chair—a position usually fought over by bloodthirsty old generals.

  Hmph, Ellios thought cynically, his brain spinning fast. Is this reasonable? Is it normal to let one family hold control this sharp? Making a woman the head of government in the middle of a political wolf den... Blackmere is truly baring their fangs.

  Footsteps approached.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The sound of Reine’s heels striking the stone path sounded rhythmic, slow yet full of authority. She wasn't walking; she was invading Ellios’ personal space.

  Reine stopped exactly three steps in front of him. A distance close enough to kill, yet far enough to maintain dignity. Her perfume wafted—the scent of expensive, cold agarwood, without a hint of sweet floral notes.

  The woman’s dark red lips moved slowly.

  "Ellios," she called. Her voice was low, smooth as silk, yet possessed the sharpness of a razor.

  "It has been more than seven days you've wandered Ironseat," Reine continued, her eyes unblinking for a second. "Is it so comfortable leaving your nest on Mount Rhagas unguarded?"

  Ellios was just about to open his mouth to launch a diplomatic retort, but Reine cut him off with her next sentence. A sentence that froze Ellios’ blood for a moment.

  "What are you actually doing here, Young Master Randar?" Reine tilted her head slightly, her eagle gaze piercing straight to Ellios’ retina.

  "Are you trying to negotiate with someone..."

  She gave a torturous pause.

  "...Or are you just channeling your desires to someone from the Southwest?"

  Thump.

  Ellios’ heart beat once harder, slamming against his ribs.

  Damn it, he swore inwardly.

  Southwest. She referred to Louis Ferdinand. She knew.

  Ellios felt a cold sensation crawl up his nape. Reine didn't ask; she stated a fact. She knew exactly where Ellios slept last night. She knew who warmed his bed.

  These eagle eyes...

  Ellios cursed silently. The reputation of House Blackmere wasn't a mere fairy tale. They possessed the number one spy network in all of Carta. No wall was thick enough, no blanket tight enough to hide secrets from their sight.

  Shit... Calm down, Ellios. Don't give her the satisfaction.

  Ellios marshaled all his self-control. Facial muscles wanting to tense from shock, he forced to remain relaxed. He held his breath so it wouldn't hitch. He didn't let his pupils dilate.

  He maintained his porcelain mask—a flat face with a slight polite, empty smile—as if Reine had just asked about the weather today, and not stripped his privacy naked in the middle of the palace garden.

  Silence for a moment. Only the sound of the splashing fountain filled that dangerous pause.

  Slowly, very slowly, the corner of Ellios’ lip lifted.

  It wasn't a nervous smile. It was the masterpiece smile he had practiced in front of the mirror for years. The smile of a harmless, sweet, and charming diplomat.

  Shoulder muscles that had tensed, he lowered fluidly. He took one step back, then bowed respectfully with a hand on his chest—a gesture so theatrical and polite it almost looked mocking.

  "Your Excellency Prime Minister..." Ellios greeted, his voice flowing softly, as if he hadn't just been accused of sleeping with the enemy under the covers.

  "Rumor says the eyes of House Blackmere can see a needle fall in a haystack from a mile away," he continued, straightening up and looking at Reine with a gleam of false admiration. "Turns out the rumor was too simple. Your sharpness is truly... terrifying yet mesmerizing."

  Ellios chuckled softly, a crisp sound that sounded familiar.

  "Seven days? Ah, I didn't even realize time passed so quickly. Mount Rhagas is too cold and lonely, Madam. Sometimes even a fox needs the warmth of civilization, no?"

  Ellios stepped slightly to the side, pretending to admire the roses near Reine’s feet, but his goal was to shift focus from the interrogation.

  "And honestly," Ellios looked at Reine again, this time scanning the woman from toe to head with a look of polite yet bold appreciation.

  "How can I rush home when Ironseat serves a view this beautiful every morning?"

  He pointed at Reine’s gown with an open hand gesture.

  "That midnight blue gown... magnificent. The cut is sharp, the color deep. In the hands of an ordinary tailor, that color would look gloomy. But on your body..." Ellios shook his head slowly, as if at a loss for words in amazement. "...you make the morning sun in this garden look insecure, Madam Reine. You look like the Queen of Night inspecting her daytime conquest."

  Eat that, Ellios thought cynically behind his sweet smile. Swallow this empty flattery. Let your massive ego be full and forget about who I let under my covers.

  He stared into those eagle eyes without fear, covering his anxiety with a thick layer of sugar-coated pleasantries.

  "Is it natural if a village boy like me is mesmerized and forgets the way home upon seeing the elegance of Carta’s leader?" he asked rhetorically, his tone lowering, full of respect. "I think that is a forgivable sin, isn't it?"

  Reine didn't blush. She didn't look away shyly like a common noble girl who had just received sky-high praise.

  Instead, the corner of her dark red lips curved up. Not a sweet smile, but a thin smirk full of victory. She enjoyed Ellios’ wordplay not for its content, but for the quality of the lie.

  "Beautiful pleasantries," she whispered, her voice like velvet dragging over gravel.

  She took one more step, erasing the distance between them until the scent of agarwood completely dominated Ellios’ sense of smell.

  "Even the way you speak surpasses your father's tongue, Godric Randar," Reine said softly, her eyes staring intently into Ellios’ eyes, as if reading a speech script hidden behind the youth’s retina.

  "That Old Fox would be proud..." She tilted her head slightly. "...His little fox has grown and is very talented."

  Little fox?

  Ellios felt his jaw harden. He hated that nickname. A belittling name, a name placing him as a pet before a larger predator.

  However, before Ellios could respond, the woman’s hand moved.

  Reine’s hand rose slowly. The movement was graceful, yet possessed absolute authority.

  Ellios wanted to retreat. His entire body’s instinct screamed to dodge. But his feet were nailed to the ground by that eagle gaze. He must not move. Retreat meant fear. Retreat meant defeat.

  So, he froze.

  Reine’s slender, cold fingers touched Ellios’ jaw.

  The touch was feather-light, yet the effect was like an electric shock.

  Her fingertip traced his gaunt jawline, rising slowly past his pale cheek. Reine’s skin was smooth, very well maintained, but incredibly cold. Like being touched by a living ice statue.

  "A pretty face," Reine murmured, her finger now stopping right under Ellios’ left eye, rubbing his cheekbone gently. "And eyes full of secrets."

  Ellios held his breath. He could feel his own heartbeat pounding in his neck, hoping Reine didn't feel it. This wasn't ordinary flirtation. This was how an eagle inspected the quality of prey's meat before deciding to tear it apart or carry it away.

  This woman was toying with him.

  "Tell me, Little Fox," Reine whispered, her face now so close Ellios could see his own reflection in her black pupils. "What makes you think you can hide 'vermin' from the Southwest under your blanket, without my knowledge?"

  Reine’s finger pressed slightly harder on Ellios’ cheek, her sharp manicured nail digging slightly into the skin, giving a faint but real pain.

  "Is he... satisfying?"