The living room lights cast a soft golden glow across polished floors and sleek, modern furniture—a sharp contrast to the forest gloom and bloodshed of the past few days.
Down the hall, the bathroom door clicked shut.
A moment later, Aldric stepped out, a towel slung lazily over his shoulder, damp strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead. He had changed into fresh clothes he had "borrowed" from the house—dark trousers and a fitted black shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.
He looked far more put together now.
Almost respectable.
He strolled into the living room where Lyriana sat upright on the couch, posture perfectly straight, hands folded neatly in her lap as she stared at the television with cool composure.
Aldric arched a brow.
"And here I thought you were too dignified for this sort of thing."
He circled the couch and dropped down beside her with easy familiarity.
"You were lecturing me earlier," he added lightly, "but you're watching too."
He extended his hand casually.
"Controller."
Lyriana turned her head slowly and gave him a look—cool, unimpressed, and faintly disapproving—but she placed the controller into his palm without argument.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"You should take a bath too," he said, already flipping through channels. "And lose the maid dress. You look like you're playing house."
Lyriana rose smoothly to her feet.
"I will not dignify that with a response."
She turned to leave.
Aldric lifted the bottle he had grabbed earlier and took a long, careless sip—
Then suddenly froze.
His body went still.
His eyes sharpened.
The bottle lowered slowly from his lips.
He swallowed.
"…Damn."
Lyriana paused mid-step.
The television screen shifted abruptly to a formal broadcast. The Imperial crest filled the display—bright, imposing, unmistakable.
A royal adviser stood behind a polished podium, several hovering magic crystals circling him as they recorded the transmission. His voice echoed clearly through the room, amplified with practiced authority.
"—After the fall of the Demon King, a new threat has emerged. The child of the late Demon King has survived."
The screen flickered.
An image materialized.
A young boy.
Ebony skin.
White hair.
Crimson eyes.
A cold, unreadable expression.
Beneath the image, bold letters blazed across the screen.
WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE
BOUNTY: 100,000 GOLD
Lyriana's eyes widened—just slightly—but the shift in her expression was unmistakable.
Aldric leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze locked onto the screen.
"…Well," he muttered under his breath, jaw clenched tight, "that escalated fast."
The adviser continued, his tone unwavering.
"The Empire calls upon all kingdoms and mercenary factions. The Demon King's son must not be allowed to rise. Any individual who assists in his capture or elimination will be rewarded accordingly. This is a matter of continental security."
The warm hum of the television filled the living room, but the atmosphere had shifted. The air felt heavier. Tighter.
Aldric's hand tightened around the bottle.
Glass cracked.
Then shattered.
Red liquid spilled down his fingers and splashed onto the polished floor as fragments bit into his skin.
"Damn Empire bastards," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Not only did they lie about killing the King… they put a bounty on the kid." His eyes darkened. "Bastards."
Lyriana's mind raced, thoughts sharpening into swift calculation.
"His Highness needs to be informed."
She moved instantly—her figure blurring—and appeared in the hallway just as a door opened.
Draven stepped out.
He was fully dressed now, water droplets still clinging to the ends of his damp white hair, trailing faintly down the side of his neck. His expression was calm, composed—almost indifferent.
"Your Highness!" Lyriana called, her tone sharp with urgency. "You need to see what's on the television."
Draven's crimson gaze settled on her, steady and unblinking. A flicker of curiosity passed through his eyes.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked evenly.
"It's… about you, Your Highness," she said, stepping closer. "The Empire has placed a bounty on your head."
At that exact moment, the maid appeared at the doorway—silent, composed, her dark eyes immediately assessing the tension in the air before settling on Draven.
Draven's gaze shifted between them, faint annoyance crossing his features.
"A bounty?" he repeated flatly. "Explain."
Lyriana glanced toward the living room where Aldric still stood, shards of glass glinting faintly around his boots. She inclined her head, then gestured toward the television.
"They're broadcasting your image across the continent," she said, her voice tight with restrained fury. "Alive or dead. Every kingdom. Every mercenary guild. Every soldier. Anyone can come for you now."
From the living room, the adviser's voice continued to echo, reiterating the reward.
Draven turned his head slightly, the red glow of the television reflecting in his eyes. He didn't move, didn't react outwardly—but something in the room shifted.
The bounty wasn't just a proclamation.
It was a declaration.
A warning.
An invitation to war.
The maid stepped closer and gently placed a hand on Draven's arm. Her voice was calm but firm.
"My lord… they've made you a target."
Silence followed.
The faint sound of water dripping from Draven's hair tapped softly against the wooden floor.
He inhaled slowly.
The room seemed to hold its breath with him.
Then his expression hardened—not with fear, not with anger—but with cold, deliberate resolve.