The ring on Julius' finger caught the light—just for a second—as he twirled Natalia beneath the chandelier's glow. Lancelot's gaze narrowed. There it was again.
A symbol etched into the band.
Black wings on a crescent moon.
His breath caught. He knew that symbol. He created it.
But why was it here? Why now?
His eyes followed Julius, who offered Natalia a charming smile. She returned it, oblivious. The ballroom shimmered with opulence—music swelling, silk brushing marble, champagne bubbling in crystal flutes. Laughter. Applause. False security.
Yet amidst it all… that ring gleamed like a whispered threat.
Vespera.
The name echoed in his head like a blade drawn in the dark.
They were supposed to stay hidden—ghosts in royal corridors. An underground faction, deadly and precise. Masters of assassination, infiltration, and silence. The kind of silence that came after a throat was slit.
But they had no role in this part of the story. Not yet.
His heartbeat quickened. A warning throbbed beneath his skin.
`Then that means… they're here.`
Lancelot stepped away from the polished pillars, letting the shadows swallow him. He scanned the hall, mind racing.
`Why would Vespera be here? Why now? Why with Julius? This doesn't make sense at all..`
Julius twirled Natalia again. The crowd applauded.
`They're all so oblivious…`
"Calm down," Lancelot whispered. "Think."
But no matter how he traced the threads, they all led to the same point—a future that should not be here yet.
Absurd. Impossible.
This wasn't how it went.
Natalia Viktoria Petrova—the villainess of 'Worn And Torn Paladin', tragic soul, eventual martyr—was never supposed to suffer this early. Her descent, her grief, her madness… it all began after Elena's death, days from now.
Although it was not overly described, he remembered writing it. Every line. Every beat.
`Elena's death was supposed to occur a few days after the coronation not on the coronation. It shouldn't be possible.`
But the ink had been smeared. The story was bleeding into something else.
`Unless someone's interfering with the storyline..`
Lancelot slowly backed off towards the entrance. His mind storming with confusion.
`Tch. I should have expected this. This isn't just a story anymore. Unexpected variables are sure to happen.`
He exhaled, breath fogging in the cold night air as he stepped outside to examine the outer walls. Subtle enchantments shimmered, harmless. Decorative. Not enough.
"Is there any problem, Sir Lancelot?" asked a guard behind him.
"Just patrolling. I have a bad feeling," he replied, keeping his voice level.
The guard chuckled. "You're famous for those instincts, sir. But tonight's different. We've got the place locked down. Even a member of the Royal Family can't enter without proper clearance."
Fools. They didn't know what they were up against.
Vespera's success rate was 91%. That wasn't a number. It was a death sentence.
"And we have Sir Garrick here too. Who'd be foolish enough to attack while he's here," the guard added with a grin. "Even if something happens—he'll handle it. Hah!"
Lancelot froze.
Garrick?
That couldn't be right.
If Garrick Solvain, the Empire's Sword, was truly here, then Vespera would've been insane to act tonight. Unless—
Unless they knew Garrick wouldn't interfere.
Or couldn't.
His boots hit the marble hard as he sprinted inside. He searched the crowd—looked near the altar, the banquet tables, the staircases. No silver armor. No glowing blade. No presence that felt like a divine wall.
The west wing—empty.
The side corridors—nothing.
The balcony—no sign.
He's gone.
No trace. No sign. Not even a whisper.
It was as if Garrick had vanished from the world.
`What the hell is going on…?`
Then it hit him.
That sensation crawling along his spine. The one that made the air feel heavier. Lancelot's skill—Absolute Danger Detection—flared. A sixth sense awakened only in moments of genuine peril. His eyes darted around.
The ballroom glowed with golden chandeliers. Musician played. Laughter filled the air.
`These marks...mana?`
He turned, slowly. Faint marks glowed beneath his vision—thin strings in the air, almost invisible. Mana trails. Not cast. Not passive. Traced.
His eyes followed the strongest one.
There.
Elena.
She sat at a corner table, sipping tea with a gentle smile. Oblivious. Alone.
A glowing sigil pulsed near her chest. It flared.
`No.`
His body—no, Lancelot's body moved before thought could catch it. A pure instinct, sharp and trained.
He sprinted. Between tables. Past guards. Over the dance floor, and weaving past the startled dancers.
"Elena—!"
His voice broke through the music.
"EVERYONE! GET DOWN!!"
Then—
BOOM.
The floor trembled. A wall cracked. Flames bloomed across the far side of the ballroom. Screams tore through the melody. People fell. Panic erupted.
Lancelot kept going. The explosion had come from the altar, but it was a feint.
Julius moved forward as if shielding Natalia but his face betrayed his satisfaction. It was all going according to his plan.
The real blast—centered near Elena's table.
Damn it all.
The table shattered, fragments slicing the air. Fire curled up the drapes. The roof above splintered, a massive crack cutting through the stone. Moonlight poured in, revealing a glowing dome—a barrier—now isolating the entire ballroom.
Chaos reigned.
The nobles screamed. Knights scrambled.
But no one died. No real injuries. Only shock.
It was all planned.
Except for her.
"Elena!" Natalia screamed from across the hall, her voice breaking.
She ran forward, eyes wide with fear, only to be stopped by Julius and the knights. Not the cold stare of a villainess. No. This was the gaze of a friend, a protector, a girl too young to lose someone again.
The dust cleared slowly.
And there—amidst the ruin, blood, and flame—
Stood Lancelot.
His cape burned. His body torn, bleeding. One arm broken. But in the other—
Elena.
Unscathed.