Count Rodhe was sweating.
He dabbed his forehead with a lace handkerchief, his eyes darting nervously toward the battered carriage.
'He's here,' Rodhe thought, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. 'The assassins failed their mission. If the Duke is here, sound and alive, it means the Night Vipers are dead. Does he know? Does he have any proof?'
He swallowed a lump of fear. Right now, if he wanted to preserve his small life, he had to play the part of being the loyal vassal.
The carriage came to a halt at the foot of the stairs. The horses snorted, their breath misting in the chill morning air.
Sir Lucas dismounted first. He didn't announce the Duke. He simply walked to the carriage door, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, and pulled the handle.
"Welcome! Welcome, Your Grace!" Count Rodhe bustled forward, his voice pitched a little too high. He spread his arms wide, a gesture of fabricated hospitality. "We were worried! We heard reports of bandits in the canyon! Thank the Gods you are safe! I have prepared the finest—"
The door opened.
Duke Kaelus stepped out.
The Count's words died in his throat.
Kaelus looked... immaculate. Despite the battle, despite the carnage in the canyon, not a hair on his head was out of place.
His midnight-blue coat was buttoned to the chin. His boots were black and shiny. But his eyes, those violet eyes, swept over the Count with the indifference of a man looking at a stain on a rug.
He didn't acknowledge the greeting. He didn't nod. He didn't even look at the bowing servants.
Instead, he turned his back on the Count.
A ripple of shock went through the onlookers. To turn one's back on a host was a grave insult. But Kaelus von Nacht did not care for etiquette when he was in a den of vipers.
He reached back into the darkened interior of the carriage.
"Come," he said softly. The tone was low, intimate, and so out of character for the cold warlord that even Sir Lucas blinked.
From the shadows, a pair of small, pale arms reached out.
The crowd gasped.
The Duke leaned in and effortlessly lifted a small bundle into his arms.
It was a child.
A tiny girl with messy dark hair, burying her face into the crook of his neck as if the sunlight itself was offensive to her.
He didn't hand her to a nursemaid. He didn't pass her to a knight.
He held her.
He held her with one arm supporting her weight and the other hand pressed firmly against the back of her head, shielding her face from the prying eyes of the Count and the townspeople.
was a protective, possessive stance that said, 'Look at her, and you lose your eyes.'
Seraphina was trembling.
"Cold," she whispered against his collar, her voice muffled. "It's so cold here."
Kaelus frowned slightly. The morning air was crisp, but not freezing.
Yet, the child in his arms was shivering violently, her small fingers clutching the lapel of his coat so hard her knuckles were white.
"It is just the wind," Kaelus murmured, adjusting his hold to wrap his coat around her more tightly.
"No," Seraphina whimpered as she hid her face in his chest. "Not the wind. The fog. The gray fog. It's everywhere."
Kaelus looked up at the estate.
To his eyes, it was a gaudy display of wealth. White marble columns, manicured hedges, gold-leafed window frames. The sun was shining on the slate roof.
But Seraphina saw none of that.
To Seraphina, Count Rodhe's estate was a mausoleum of sins.
The moment the carriage had passed the gates, the "fog" had hit her.
It wasn't the weather. It was a thick, viscous miasma of spiritual residue.
It was denser than the orphanage. Denser even than the battlefield.
The battlefield in the canyon had been sharp and loud, fresh death, angry and screaming.
But this place? This place was old, rotting death.
Seraphina squeezed her eyes shut, but she could still sense it.
Hundreds of translucent, skeletal hands reached out from the manicured hedges, grasping at the air.
The marble columns of the mansion weren't white; they were covered in a pulsating gray moss of despair.
Standing on the balcony, looking down at them, were not servants, but the silent, weeping ghosts of women in tattered dresses, their necks bent at unnatural angles. And the Count...
She risked a tiny peek over the Duke's shoulder.
Count Rodhe was standing there, smiling nervously.
But behind him, clinging to his back like a parasitic twin, was a grotesque, shadowy creature with no eyes, whispering into his ear.
The sheer density of the negative energy made Seraphina's stomach churn.
It felt like she had walked into a room filled with carbon monoxide. Her head spun, and bile rose in her throat again.
"I'm gonna be sick," she gagged.
Kaelus felt her convulse. He immediately tightened his grip, pressing her closer to his chest.
For Seraphina, his body was the only safe harbor. His aura, that terrifying, blood-soaked killing intent that scared normal people, acted like a repellent.
The gray fog sizzled and burned when it touched him. The grasping hands of the garden ghosts recoiled from his boots.
He was a walking dead zone to some people.
And right now, he was her oxygen tank.
"Make them stop looking," Seraphina pleaded, hiding her face again.
Kaelus turned around, facing the Count.
Rodhe was staring, mouth agape. "Y-Your Grace? Is that... a child?"
"We require rooms," Kaelus said, his voice cutting through the morning air like a frostbite. "Immediately."
"O-of course!" Rodhe stammered, recovering slightly. "The East Wing is prepared for you! But... who is this little—"
"Quiet," Kaelus ordered.
He didn't shout. He didn't have to. The single word carried enough weight to silence the entire courtyard.
"She is unwell," Kaelus stated. "And your chatter is making it worse."
Rodhe turned pale purple. "I... I apologize."