The private chamber at the end of the long, plushly carpeted corridor remains shrouded in a soft, crimson-tinged dimness. Outside the high arched window, the dark night sky of Flora City stretches endlessly, pierced only by the sharp, golden pools of light radiating from the magical street lamps far below.
Inside, the heavy, sweet scent of crushed lotus and night-blooming jasmine hangs thick in the air, drifting across the room in thin, translucent ribbons.
Priscilla Lowe remains close to Aldo, her long, soft arms still draped gently over his broad shoulders, her warm breath brushing against the side of his neck. Her striking sapphire blue and emerald green eyes linger on his stoic face with a quiet, dangerous intensity.
"I also have my own scheme," Priscilla whispers softly into his ear, her voice dripping with velvety sweetness. "Do you wish to listen?"
Aldo stands perfectly still, his body locked in a rigid posture, his bare shoulders gleaming under the warm amber glow of the silver oil lamps. He takes a slow, controlled breath, feeling the heat of her body against his back.
"Yes," Aldo says clearly.
Priscilla's plush lips curve into a slow, brilliant smirk. She leans in slightly, her voice dropping into a grave, heavy cadence as she speaks directly into his ear.
"Sevan Heilop..." Priscilla begins, her voice lingering on the name. "He is a practitioner of dark blood rituals for longevity."
Aldo's eyebrows knit together into a hard V over his dark eyes. He turns his head slightly, looking at her sharp, exquisite jawline with a flicker of weary exasperation.
"You told me that already," Aldo rasps, his voice flat and unbothered, carrying the dry weight of a soldier who hates repeating himself. "Why bring it up again?"
Priscilla stops. The confident, playful smirk vanishes from her face instantly. Her golden head drops by an inch, and her arms slowly slide off his shoulders, releasing him from her embrace.
She falls completely silent.
A heavy, suffocating stillness fills the private chamber. The flickering amber light of the silver wall lamps casts deep, dark shadows across her porcelain face. Her sharp, sensual features cloud over with a sudden, profound sadness—a dark, heavy shadow settling over her striking heterochromatic eyes. Her plush lips press together into a thin, pale line, and her long, spun-gold waves drape over her chest like a heavy shroud.
She turns away from him, taking three slow, soundless steps toward the center of the room. Her sheer, dark crimson silk gown rustles softly against the plush velvet carpet.
"Sevan Heilop's dark blood rituals..." Priscilla says, her voice trembling slightly, losing all of its previous velvety charm, "they do not work with just any blood. They specifically require the blood of Earthlings whose physical vitality has been refined by magic ointment treatments."
She raises her long, slender porcelain arms, looking down at her own unblemished, milk-white skin under the dim lamplight. Her fingers trace the line of her forearm—the smooth, flawless surface where no scar, mark, or callous remains.
"The very treatments..." she whispers, her voice cracking softly, "that I forced upon myself... to erase my labor marks."
Aldo stands in his damp linen towel, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes following her every movement. He listens to her words, his sharp military mind rapidly connecting the tactical dots, dissecting the horrific implications of her statement.
He stares at her unblemished skin, then at her striking face, then at her long golden hair. A sudden, cold shock pulses through his chest, making his jaw freeze mid-breath.
Wait...
Aldo's mind rears back, his internal ledger locking onto the horrifying truth.
She erased her labor marks using hyper-expensive, magic-infused ointments to reclaim her body... but in doing so, she unwittingly refined her physical vitality into a concentrated, pure magical vessel. She didn't just beautify herself...
Aldo takes half a step forward, his dark pupils contracting as he looks at her stiff, trembling shoulders.
"Meaning..." Aldo says slowly, his gravelly voice dropping into a low, ominous register, "you are on the list of those to be sacrificed to him."
Priscilla turns back to face him slowly.
She nods once—a single, heavy, agonizing movement of her chin.
Tears well up rapidly in her brilliant sapphire blue and emerald green eyes, catching the flickering golden light of the lamps until they shimmer like liquid glass. A single clear tear spills over her lower lid, tracing a wet path down her unblemished, porcelain cheek.
"I am one of those in prized 'reserve harvest' list for the king," Priscilla says, referring to herself in the distant third person with a haunting, quiet desperation.
She rushes forward across the plush rug, her sheer silk robes fluttering wildly. She reaches out with both of her hands, her smooth, trembling porcelain fingers grasping Aldo's broad, calloused right hand with frantic, desperate strength.
"Please..." Priscilla begs, her striking heterochromatic eyes wide, watery, and looking directly up into his dark, stoic face. "Help me."
Aldo doesn't pull his hand away. He stands anchored like a stone pillar in the middle of the room.
His dark eyes narrow into tiny, calculating slits as he stares down into her tear-streaked face. His mind doesn't accept the emotional plea at face value; instead, his veteran instincts kick into overdrive, conducting a cold, methodical scrutiny of every single physical signal she is broadcasting.
He searches her eyes—watching for the microscopic twitch of a liar's pupil, the subtle shift in focus, or a rehearsed moisture in the tear ducts. He searches her trembling hands—feeling the tension in her knuckles, the pulse hammering against her pale skin. He scans her rigid shoulders, her breathing chest, her flushed, damp cheeks.
Is this real?
Aldo's mind analyzes rapidly, his internal gears grinding through years of counter-intelligence training.
Or is this another layer of her intricate, manipulative performance? Her eyes are watery, her hands are shaking, her pulse is racing... generally, it is nearly impossible to tell if she is lying. Her body language screams total authenticity, but a woman who designed Flora City's administrative networks is capable of anything.
It seems genuine. The fear radiating from her posture feels raw, cold, and primal.
Yet, Aldo lets out a long, heavy breath through his nose, his jaw setting hard as he steps back an inch, pulling his hand gently but firmly out of her grasp.
"I am a slave soldier," Aldo states flatly, his tone cold, logical, and unyielding. "Commander of the Professional Central Army. And the Professional Central Army is essentially the Royal Army."
He points a calloused finger straight toward her chest, his dark eyes locking onto hers with sharp, uncompromising clarity.
"You intend to use the Royal Army to assassinate the Royal Buyer?" Aldo asks, his voice dropping into a dangerous rasp. "We might both die."
Priscilla's breath hitches. Her hands drop to her sides, then fly up to cover her face. She buries her weeping eyes into her smooth porcelain palms, her body trembling with quiet, ragged sobs that echo softly through the dark chamber.
"How can you let a Fellow Earthling meet such a tragic fate..." Priscilla whispers through her fingers, her voice choked with desperate grief, "...without feeling any remorse?"
Aldo doesn't flinch under the emotional weight of her words. He remains completely unmoved, his broad frame framed by the warm amber light of the oil lamps.
"Is what you said true?" Aldo asks sternly, cutting directly through her weeping. "Show me proof."
Priscilla slowly lowers her hands from her face. She wipes the wet tears from her porcelain cheeks with the back of her wrist, her breathing shallow and uneven. She turns on her heel and glides rapidly toward a massive, carved cedar writing desk resting in the corner of the room.
She pulls open a deep, brass-handled drawer with a sharp, echoing wooden rasp. She reaches inside, her fingers pulling out a single, heavy sheet of thick, aged parchment.
She turns around and steps back toward Aldo, holding the document out with both hands, her posture stiff and trembling.
Aldo takes the sheet of parchment from her fingers.
He holds it up into the golden light of the nearest silver oil lamp, his dark eyes scanning the dense, handwritten script with practiced, methodical scrutiny.
At the bottom right corner of the document rests a heavy, dark red wax seal. Pressed deep into the solid wax is an intricate, razor-sharp imprint—a grand imperial crest featuring an arching crown set above a stylized fortress.
Aldo's breath locks in his chest for a fraction of a second.
The authentic royal seal, Aldo notes internally, his heart giving a single, heavy thud.
It's the exact same seal I verify every week when processing logistics paperwork and requisition forms at the PCA headquarters.
His dark eyes do not stop at the central seal. He tilts the paper toward the lamp, searching for the secondary anti-forgery markings embedded within the heavy parchment fibers. His thumb glides along the left margin, feeling the raised, microscopic impression of the official leaf symbol. He moves his eyes to the upper banner, verifying the delicate, hand-inked laurel branch symbol weaving through the crown's border.
Everything is genuine. The parchment, the ink, the wax, the symbols—it is an official royal harvest order originating directly from the inner court of Palantine.
Aldo stands in silence, the heavy paper resting between his calloused fingers. His jaw twitches slightly.
She's telling the truth about the harvest order,
Aldo thinks, a heavy weight settling into his gut.
She really is on the list. If I ignore this, she dies. If I help her fight it head-on with military force, my company gets annihilated for high treason.
Aldo hesitates. His broad chest rises and falls heavily as he stares at the royal seal.
He looks up from the parchment, his dark eyes fixing onto Priscilla's tear-stained face.
"Show me the magical oil you used," Aldo demands, his voice low and commanding.
Priscilla blinks, wiping another stray tear from her cheek. She turns back to the cedar desk, opens a smaller, upper drawer, and retrieves a tiny, delicate vial cut from dark green crystal. She steps back to Aldo and hands it over.
Aldo takes the crystal vial. He pulls the tiny cork stopper from its neck, bringing the bottle to his nose. He takes a faint, cautious sniff, then pours a single, tiny droplet of the clear, shimmering oil onto the tip of his calloused index finger.
He rolls the liquid between his thumb and finger, holding it up against the amber lamplight. The liquid catches the light, sparkling with microscopic, shimmering flecks of silver, blue, and white.
Aldo's eyes narrow. A sharp, brilliant spark of memory flashes through his mind—recalibrating his tactical options in a split second.
"This oil contains silver, sapphire, and pearl," Aldo says flatly, his gravelly voice filled with absolute, unwavering certainty.
Priscilla looks at him, her watery eyes widening in quiet confusion. "What... what does that mean?"
Aldo looks her straight in the eye, his face hardening into a confident, unshakeable mask.
"If old Sevan sacrifices you to prolong his life," Aldo states clearly, "he will die a horrible death because these three substances react negatively with the blood ritual."
Priscilla gasps softly, her hand flying to her throat. "They... they react negatively?"
Without answering immediately, Aldo turns on his heel and marches over to his discarded, folded military trousers sitting on the velvet daybed. He reaches into the inner breast pocket of his dark wool officer's coat, pulling out a small, weathered leather notebook bound with cord—his personal collection of field notes, supply records, and obscure magical reference sheets gathered during his campaigns.
He flips through the thin, yellowed pages with rapid, practiced thumb-flicks until he reaches a specific page covered in dense, precise military handwriting and copied diagrams.
He tears the page cleanly from the notebook. He steps back to Priscilla and thrusts the paper into her hands along with the green crystal vial.
"Here," Aldo says firmly. "This is a note from an official magic reference book as proof."
Priscilla takes the torn page and the vial, her trembling fingers holding them under the lamplight. She reads the handwritten notes detailing the violent, corrosive chemical interaction between refined silver-pearl compounds and royal blood-binding incantations.
"I think if you show this to that Royal Buyer," Aldo says, his voice ringing with calm, authoritative logic, "he'll understand."
Priscilla looks up from the paper, her striking sapphire and emerald eyes still filled with deep, anxious uncertainty. Her plush lips tremble slightly as she looks at the tiny vial in her hand.
"What if they don't listen?" Priscilla asks, her voice barely a whisper. "What if he doesn't care about the warning and takes me anyway?"
Aldo steps closer, his broad frame towering over her, his dark eyes locking onto hers with cold, iron certainty. He reaches out, pointing his finger directly at the green vial and the torn note in her hands.
"Give this to the Royal High Mage and the PCA if they come," Aldo commands, his tone sharp, clear, and absolute. "Prove to them that the Royal Buyer ignored the warning, so they can imprison him for high treason against the crown."
Priscilla stares at the torn note, then at the green crystal vial, and finally at Aldo's resolute, unwavering face. She takes a long, deep breath, her shoulders rising as a sudden, sharp resolve replaces the trembling fear in her posture.
She nods once, firmly. "I understand."
An hour passes in tense, silent preparation.
Aldo pulls his clean, starched trousers back on, sliding his feet into his oiled, mirror-polished leather boots. He slips his arms into his heavy wool officer's coat, pulling the stiff, sharp collar up around his neck. He steps into the quiet shadows of the private suite's adjoining dressing alcove, standing behind a tall, carved wooden screen, out of sight, but with a clear, unobstructed line of sight through the carved wooden slats into the main chamber.
Heavy, arrogant footsteps echo loudly down the plushly carpeted corridor outside.
The heavy mahogany doors of the suite are slammed open with a violent, booming crash that rattles the glass oil lamps on their wall brackets.
A tall, broad-shouldered man strides arrogantly into the chamber.
He possesses a massive, muscular frame clad in an opulent, high-collared doublet of deep violet velvet, trimmed with gold leaf and mink fur. His broad shoulders and powerful arms speak of a man who trains regularly with heavy weapons, while his rough, calloused hands rest heavily against his gilded sword belt. He has dark brown hair cropped close to his scalp, and sharp, icy green eyes that sweep over the room with absolute, lordly disdain.
This is the Royal Buyer—a high-ranking noble commissioner dispatched directly from the royal court of Palantine to collect the human harvest.
Behind him step two heavily armored royal guards carrying long halberds, their steel breastplates polished to a mirror shine, their faces hidden behind dark visors.
Priscilla stands in the center of the room, her sheer crimson silk gown floating softly around her ankles. Her posture is rigid, erect, and commanding, her head held high, her long golden waves cascading over her shoulders. All traces of her previous weeping have vanished, replaced by an impenetrable, icy pride.
The Royal Buyer stops five feet away from her, his icy green eyes running over her lush, hourglass figure with a cruel, possessive smirk.
"Priscilla Lowe," the Royal Buyer booms, his voice deep, gravelly, and dripping with arrogant authority. "The time has come. The carriage is waiting in the rear courtyard. Gather your belongings and step forward."
Priscilla does not bow. She does not step forward. She stands her ground like an iron statue, her brilliant sapphire blue and emerald green eyes locking onto his face with razor-sharp coldness.
"I am not going anywhere with you," Priscilla states flatly, her voice echoing clearly off the cedar-paneled walls.
The Royal Buyer's cruel smirk instantly vanishes. His icy green eyes narrow into dangerous, threatening slits. His hand drops heavily onto the pommel of his gilded sword.
"You dare refuse an imperial mandate?" the Royal Buyer growls, taking a sharp, heavy step toward her, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. "You are a slave, Earthling! Your body belongs to the crown! You will move your legs, or my guards will drag you out by your golden hair!"
Priscilla raises her right hand with absolute, fluid grace. Between her long porcelain fingers, she holds the small, green crystal vial and Aldo's torn paper note.
"If you lay a single finger upon me," Priscilla snaps, her voice ringing with loud, sharp, unwavering defiance, "you will be committing an act of absolute treason against His Majesty King Sevan Heilop!"