"Your Majesty, may I enter?"
Cornelius' voice came from behind the heavy wooden door, measured and precise, like a blade sheathed in velvet.
From within the chamber, King Roswell responded without hesitation.
"You may."
Roswell appeared no older than thirty-five. His oval face was clean-shaven and composed, as if sculpted from calm itself. Cyan hair was pulled neatly back, revealing sharp features and eyes of the same cool hue — steady, calculating, authoritative. He wore a tailored royal coat of deep navy and gold, a high-collared mantle draped across his shoulders like the night sky embracing a king. A jeweled clasp bearing the kingdom's crest rested at his chest, catching the lamplight in quiet brilliance.
Everything about him spoke of discipline — of a man who had learned to rule not only a kingdom, but himself.
creak
The door opened with restrained dignity, and Cornelius stepped inside, bowing lightly before beginning his report.
"The Princess of Crimvane has come to speak with Your Majesty."
"Princess of Crimvane?" Roswell repeated, brows lifting slightly — not in fear, but genuine surprise.
"She has ordered me to call her princess instead."
"…"
"And…" Cornelius paused — a rare crack in his otherwise seamless composure.
"Mmmm?" Roswell tilted his head.
"…She has come with a man who she said to be her partner."
Roswell lifted a hand to his jaw, thumb brushing against his chin as he sank into thought.
Though it had not been frequent, he and Vionette had met before — when he had still been a prince. In those memories, she was distant. Polished. Almost mechanical. A doll wound by expectation, expressionless and obedient.
He could not recall her ever giving attention to anyone. Not like that.
"What is his name?" Roswell asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
"He called himself Noa."
"…Noa?"
Roswell rose from his seat and walked toward the tall windows. Moonlight poured through the glass, stretching across the marble floor like spilled silver.
Is he from another region?
He searched his memory — noble houses, foreign courts, mercenary commanders, underground factions. Every path ended in fog.
A strange feeling crept along his spine.
It was the kind of feeling warriors recognized instinctively — the sensation of a snake coiling nearby, unseen but close enough to strike. An unease that had no name, only presence.
"Let's go meet them. Then we'll get all of our answers," Roswell decided at last. Direct confrontation had always yielded clearer truths than speculation.
And then—
"Don't let our other guests meet them."
"Of course, Your Majesty." Cornelius bowed again, understanding more than was spoken.
…
As Roswell walked toward the Royal Garden — escorted by Cornelius — his measured steps echoed softly against polished stone. The night air greeted him cool and fragrant with roses.
From a distance, he saw them.
Two figures seated beneath the marble pavilion.
They were opposites.
Vionette's clothing had changed. Gone was the simple, long, monochrome attire he remembered. In its place was something lighter. Cheerful. Vibrant. It flowed when she moved, alive with color — as if she had shed an old skin.
And beside her—
Who is that? I've never seen him. He doesn't have any aura either.
Roswell slowed his steps, caution threading through his composure.
He approached them with a king's mask firmly in place.
"Hope you liked our snacks," he said warmly, wearing an easy-going smile crafted through years of diplomacy. He sat down across from them, posture relaxed, though his eyes missed nothing.
Vionette looked at him and smiled — not the hollow courtesy he remembered, but something warmer, almost playful.
"Those were good. I even wanted to take one of your maids home."
"Yes! Appreciate it," Noa added without missing a beat.
Noa did not understand politics. Nor did he particularly care to master the delicate dance of royal conversation. Even if he did, he would not have performed it sincerely — because this was not some theatrical kingly roleplay, despite what Roswell might believe.
When he had asked Vionette how to behave, she had simply waved her hand and said:
"Just go with the flow."
Hearing the two speak so casually, Roswell noticed something subtle — something off.
"Sorry for the unannounced visit," Vionette apologized.
Why did she apologize?
Because it was the correct move.
For now.
"Please, do not concern yourself with it," Roswell replied smoothly. "May I ask who this young man would be?"
For the first time, he looked directly into Noa's eyes.
There was no light in them.
Only a deep black sclera and purple irises resting at their center like stars swallowed by an eclipse.
Noa sat calmly, teacup lifted with steady hands. His face remained composed — almost blank — yet something beneath it felt heavy. Dense. Like standing near a cliff edge without realizing it.
Roswell felt a chill colder than the night wind.
Noa placed one hand over his chest and gave a small, respectful bow.
"I'm Noa Ravel. Pressure to meet you, King Roswell."
gosh! That was perfect, right?
He mentally replayed the scene, proudly recalling every noble introduction he had ever read in novels.
"Please, it's my pleasure," Roswell corrected gently, wearing humility like armor. He could not press too hard for answers — not yet. It was safer to let information surface naturally.
What the hell? This guy acts even better than me.
Vionette stared at Noa in disbelief. He was performing nobility better than she was — an actual princess.
Roswell shifted his gaze back to Vionette.
"May I know what reason you've come here for?"
"Well, we just happen to be passing by and wanted to talk."
Her tone was casual — but beneath it lay something else.
This was the first reason.
Planting a seed.
"And—"
nngh
She lifted the porcelain cup to her lips. The faint sound was barely audible, yet something in the garden shifted. The air tightened. The silk curtains stirred as if reacting to an unseen tremor.
"—to discuss about making a treaty with your country."
She placed the cup back onto the table with deliberate care.
That was the second reason.
Roswell did not look confused. There was, after all, a certain event unfolding in the north-central region.
Crimvane is making their move too? This is troublesome.
But what unsettled him more was Vionette herself.
Her clothing. Her posture. Her speech. The robotic obedience he once knew was gone.
What is going on here? First, she is carefree — unlike her old mechanical behavior. Second, she is unusually sharp.
"You understand what I meant, right?"
Pulled from his thoughts, Roswell nodded calmly.
"Of course."
What are they talking about? Noa wondered quietly. I'll ask Vionette later.
Roswell closed his eyes briefly.
"But I want a few days to make a decision."
"Take your time and send us a message through a messenger."
She was anticipating a delay?
Roswell studied her unchanged expression.
"It's getting late," Noa interjected casually.
The interruption was impolite.
Intentional.
Vionette glanced at him and smirked.
"Alright then, we will be leaving, Roswell. Please make your decision wisely."
Both of them stood. Cornelius stepped forward to escort them out.
And then—
"Ohhh~ It's that cursed kingdom's little queen."
The voice slithered in from the left.
Everyone turned.
A man in his mid-twenties stood there — tall, powerfully built, his broad frame filling a crimson-and-gold royal coat with effortless dominance. Red hair was swept back neatly, revealing sharp features and eyes heavy with natural arrogance.
Confidence radiated from him — the kind born from strength, privilege, and rarely hearing the word no.
Behind him stood knights clad in polished steel trimmed in red. Capes bearing the royal crest draped across their backs. Silent. Loyal. Dangerous.
This was the third prince of Aurelyth Kingdom.
Prince Cassion Aurelyth.
"Oh great. You were here too?" Vionette replied flatly, annoyance flashing across her face.
Who the hell is he? Noa observed calmly.
Let's see… big muscles, red hair, arrogant tone. Yep. Muscle-head confirmed.
"Why? You're here to destroy this kingdom too?" Cassion tilted his head back slightly, as if speaking down to everyone present.
"Like your kingdom is in a good state because of you," Vionette snapped, visibly irritated.
Oh no! I told them not to let them meet each other.
Roswell hurried forward.
"Prince Cassion, calm yourself. This is my territory," he declared firmly.
Cassion widened one eye lazily.
"Relax. I'm calm. I'm just speaking casually to my friend."
The smirk on his lips was sharp and venomous.
"Looks like even those around you can see your brain size," Vionette fired back.
"What did you say, you bitch?" Cassion snarled.
Red aura ignited around his fist, flaring like wildfire. He lifted his arm, stepping forward with clear intent.
Coming here with only one escort is an idiotic decision.
None moved. Only a handful could withstand his blow — and even then, the garden would be destroyed. The guards hesitated.
Vionette raised her arm as if to shield her face.
From the outside, she looked startled.
Seeing the event, Noa straightened his left arm fully vertically, aligning it perfectly with his straight body. Palm forward, fingers pressed tight. His arm began to glow with a dark purple light. But this time, it was not aura. It was—
As Noa was about to strike, he glanced at Vionette, standing by his side. Her face was hidden behind her arm, a shield of feigned fear. But that was only for show.
As he looked closer, he caught sight of her expression. Her pink-smooth lips curved ever so slightly, a spark of amusement dancing in her crimson-red eyes. It was as if she had been waiting, deliberately, for the blow.
Noa's gaze followed her movement, noting the way the corners of her eyes crinkled subtly in delight. There was mischief there, a fire hidden beneath polished calm. He mirrored her energy almost instinctively, a faint curve of a smile appearing on his lips.
The seed! This is the seed!
His mind raced, the long-awaited moment unfolding exactly as it should.
Vionette, sensing the tension in both her partner and the approaching threat, allowed herself a small, almost imperceptible breath. She leaned back slightly, letting her gaze meet Cassion's—not with anger, but with amusement, with control.
"Stop, Cassion! Don't bully the weak. Besides, your father won't be happy."
A woman stood beside him — long black dress flowing elegantly to the ground, pale skin contrasting sharply with the dark fabric. Brown hair rested smoothly over her shoulders. Red eyes observed calmly — composed, calculating.
Alena.
Cassion hesitated.
If word reached his father, punishment would follow.
Alena is right. Another time.
He halted.
No.
He was halted.
Pain exploded across his chest.
"Huh?"
He looked down slowly.
A fist was embedded against him.
Time stretched, each second weighted, drawn out.
The ground beneath him seemed to whisper warnings he had ignored. His arrogance faltered, his body stunned by the precision and restraint of the blow. Pain flared, yes, but more than that—a realization: he had underestimated the quiet force beside the princess.
He looked at the man before him, eyes meeting those deep violet orbs, and saw something he had not anticipated: no rage, no excess, only the cold, unyielding calm of someone who had prepared for every contingency—even the arrogance of a prince.
Noa smiled — eerily similar to Vionette's.
"I'll meet you later," Noa said, the words held a heavy unspoken promise.
phuhh!
Blood spilled from Cassion's mouth.
He did not fly back. The garden remained intact.
Yet the weight of the punch felt like a collapsing mountain.
Seeing Vionette's expression, Noa deliberately withdrew the darker energy and delivered a second punch — controlled. Measured. Enough to leave him alive.
THUD!
Cassion collapsed to his knees, the world spinning around him. "Lord Cassion!" a knight shouted.
"Cassian!"
"Your majesty!" voices rang in unison, the garden alive with the tension now slowly dissipating.
Cassion dropped to his knees, consciousness fading.
And like that—
The seed had been planted and a new puppet entered the show.