Chloe Nova was a woman of flawless, intimidating beauty. Her lustrous silver hair cascaded down her back like a spring waterfall, framing brilliant blue eyes that held an elegant, magnetic power. Her skin was as smooth and pristine as fine porcelain, catching the light of the chandeliers in the Drawing Room.
She wore her nobility with a distinct, tomboyish edge: a dark navy, long-sleeved blouse with dramatic ruffled cuffs layered under a sharp, black pinstriped waistcoat. Paired with tailored black trousers and dark navy heels, she looked less like a traditional matriarch and more like a high-ranking commander who happened to possess a tall, voluptuous, mature physique.
"It's good to see you again, Emilia," Chloe said, a genuine, gentle smile softening her sharp features as she looked at her oldest friend.
"And you, Chloe," Emilia replied, the usual steel in her voice replaced by warmth. "How has your health been faring lately?"
"I've been well," Chloe answered, her voice graceful and relaxed. She turned her attention to Amon, who met her gaze with a mask of perfect, calm composure. "And this must be your youngest, Amon," she remarked, her smile widening.
"The pleasure is mine, Duchess Nova," Amon said, rising from his seat to offer a bow that was the epitome of aristocratic perfection.
"Oh, please, there's no need for such formality here..." Chloe looked slightly caught off guard by the sheer weight of his etiquette, gesturing for him to sit back down with a touch of awkwardness.
"He's a terribly well-mannered child, Chloe," Emilia chuckled, clearly enjoying the sight of her friend being flustered by a teenager's politeness.
"I can see that," Chloe replied, quickly regaining her professional poise. "I assume you've arrived with my son and Khalia for the briefing?"
"I'm here for the pleasure of your company and for the matter regarding Gia," Emilia explained. She glanced toward the hallway, her expression turning curious. "Speaking of... where are your daughters?"
"They'll be here in a moment," Chloe reassured her. "The second they heard Velzoyr had arrived with guests, they bolted to their rooms to get ready. You know how the Nova women are—we refuse to be seen unless we look our absolute best for an everlasting impression."
"Duchess, I have a question," Khalia spoke up, curiosity etching her beautiful, sharp features. "Wouldn't it be more prudent to make our move now and transport Gia to the Holy Kingdom immediately? Why is it mandatory that she attend Sophia Von Crown's birthday banquet?"
"Moving the Saintess under the cover of night is a tactical nightmare," Khalia added silently to herself. "The darkness grants the assassins an edge we simply don't need to give them."
"It was at my daughter's personal request," Chloe answered with a bittersweet smile. "She wanted to celebrate her junior's birthday—and, perhaps, experience a party for one last time. She understands that once she crosses the border into the Holy Empire, it will be nearly impossible for her to return home without a target on her back. She wants a memory to take with her."
"Besides," Emilia chimed in, her voice resonant with a cold, unshakeable confidence. "A joint force of Prosecutors and Heralds will be acting as her shield. We are talking about a unit comprised of several SS-Rank specialists and one SSS-Rank powerhouse. Do you truly believe a force of that magnitude can be bested by a pack of bottom-feeders?"
"No, Duchess Crown," Khalia replied, her expression shifting back to one of calculated professionalism. "I never intended to imply that. I was merely being cautious. The Aimus are indeed bottom-feeders, but they are bottom-feeders with a bag of endless, dirty tricks. I felt it was my duty to play the devil's advocate."
RandomGuy69: "Mamma Nova is so fine. I'm actually barking." |
VillainEnjoyer: "Down bad. Chill." |
CatnipIsDelicious: "He's not wrong. Even the maid with the tray was a 10. This stream is pure fan service." |
DraconicSoul: "The streamer is the only mid-tier in the room. Guess that's what happens when you wear a blindfold." |
ForestHuntress: "Mid? He's handsome as hell. Not Velzoyr level, but still!" |
FangirlingIsMyPassion: "Oooh, someone's caught feelings~" |
Amon tracked the scrolling chat from the corner of his eye. Imaginary arrows of rejection pierced his chest with every "mid" and "plain." His ego crumbled. "I'm going to be irrelevant," he thought. "If they think I'm plain now, they'll forget I exist once they see the others—especially my father."
As Amon wallowed in his mental theatrics, Velzoyr entered, flanked by Gia and Jeanne Nova.
Gia Nova possessed a sharp, graceful beauty. Her jet-black wolf cut was tipped with silver, framing golden eyes that held a faint, holy light. Like her mother, her skin was flawless as porcelain, glowing under the drawing room's chandeliers. She wore a white, high-collared tunic with balloon sleeves and a heavy skirt embroidered in gold and navy. The floral motifs and white heels gave her the air of a high-ranking noble.
Jeanne Nova, by contrast, carried a playful edge. Her black hair was tossed into a messy ponytail with loose bangs framing a pair of cunning, sapphire eyes. She opted for a modern, sharper look: a collared blue shirt under an oversized black coat, cinched with a dark tie. A dark pleated skirt and dark knee-high leather boots rounded out the outfit, perfectly highlighting her lithe, alluring silhouette.
"It is an honour to meet you, Grand Duchess Crown," Gia said, dipping into a perfect, fluid bow. Her voice was like silk—gentle, poised, and carrying the practised weight of nobility. Beside her, Jeanne mirrored the gesture with practised ease, though she remained silent, her playful eyes scanning the room.
Emilia's smile softened as she regarded them. "My, my. You've both grown into such fine young ladies. Especially you, Gia—I still remember you as a little girl, a whirlwind of energy."
"Your kind words are a gift, Duchess," Gia replied, lifting her head to meet Emilia's gaze with a radiant smile. The sisters took their places beside Chloe, their movements synchronised and elegant, while Velzoyr settled in next to Khalia.
From his seat, Amon watched the exchange, his expression a mask of calm even as his mind raced. "Good grief," he thought, his internal monologue dripping with a mix of awe and exasperation. "Is 'breathtaking' just the baseline requirement for everyone in this world?"
"And who might you be?" Jeanne asked, her sharp gaze snapping to Amon. She had caught him watching, her tilted head suggesting a mix of curiosity and a challenge.
"Ah, my apologies." Amon let a faint, effortless smile touch his lips. He leaned back slightly, projecting a casual, steady confidence that belied his earlier internal crisis. "Amon Von Crown. I'm a Prosecutor."
"A prosecutor?" Gia's head snapped toward him, her poise momentarily breaking into genuine surprise. "Exactly how old are you?"
"Eighteen," Amon replied, his tone steady and unshakeable.
Gia's expression softened, a light chuckle escaping her lips. "I suppose that makes sense. You are Duchess Crown's son, after all."
"The same age as me and already a Prosecutor?" Jeanne leaned forward, a playful, sharp smile dancing on her face. "You're an interesting one, aren't you?"
"He is," Velzoyr interjected from the side. "He sat for his Trials of Worthiness this morning. Not only did he pass with flying colours—he was appointed to the office on the spot."
Chloe beamed at Amon, then turned to Emilia, who was practically radiating satisfaction. "What an extraordinary child. You've raised him well, Emilia."
"Naturally," Emilia replied, the pride of a mother written across every feature of her face. "But you've done just as well, Chloe. Your eldest is a Prosecutor and a Finance Minister, your middle child is a Saintess, and I have no doubt your youngest will be just as capable."
"Duchess Nova, may I?" Amon turned to her, a small, expectant smile playing on his lips. "I'd like to speak with Miss Jeanne for a moment."
"Ooh, charmed already, junior?" Khalia interjected, her grin dripping with smugness.
"Senior, your sense of humour is truly terrible," Amon shot back. His tone was casual, yet carried a sharp edge of disrespect. "I simply wish to speak with someone who actually understands the nuance of my words."
Khalia shrugged, her teasing aura unfazed. "Alright, alright. No need to get so defensive."
"Amon, just so we're clear," Velzoyr's voice dropped, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, protective weight. "I won't have my little sister dating someone like you."
"Minister, you might want to watch that tone," Amon turned his grin toward Velzoyr. It was a small, dangerous expression. "I wouldn't speak that way to someone who holds certain... 'precious' memories regarding you and my colleague."
Velzoyr went rigid. The silence was immediate as he realised he'd lost his leverage. Internally, he began plotting a way to flip the script, but for now, he was trapped.
"My, you three are on wonderful terms," Chloe chuckled, clearly enjoying the sparky banter between the prosecutors. "You're excused, Amon. Jeanne, go ahead."
. . .
"So, why the sudden interest in me, Amon?" Jeanne asked. Her voice was like honey, smooth and thick with playfulness.
"Plenty of reasons," Amon chuckled, leaning back against the balcony railing. He looked relaxed, almost casual. "But mostly, it's about you."
"Me?" Jeanne tilted her head, her confusion perfectly performed. "And what about me could be so interesting?"
"Your position as the Cult Leader of the Donzequel Occult Society." Amon didn't lower his voice; he didn't need to. His tone remained conversational, even as a small, sharp smile cut across his face. "Leading a cult at eighteen? Truly impressive, Jeanne."
Jeanne let out a bright, amused laugh. "You certainly know how to tell a joke, Amon."
"September third, 2149," Amon said, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, clinical cadence. "Count Martinez struck a backroom deal with an unnamed organisation. Political loyalty in exchange for a seat among the Marquesses. One year later, he crushed Countess Romanoff and took the title."
Amon began to circle her, his steps slow and deliberate. "Curiously, he hasn't missed a single one of your birthday parties since. His territory lies under the Leone Duchy, not the Nova's. He skipped Princess Costoria's sixteenth—a major political snub—yet he's never missed one of yours. Quite the dedicated family friend, wouldn't you say?"
Jeanne watched him, her playful smile never wavering. "Speculation, Amon. You're building a house of cards. Even if that deal happened, who would believe you? Where is your proof?"
"Oh, trust me," Amon laughed, the sound genuine and cold. "I've spent some time digging through the Empire's top-secret intelligence database. The things they have on file would make anyone's skin crawl. They have eyes on everyone—even the Crown family. A man like Martinez never stood a chance of staying hidden."
He stopped in front of her, his smile widening. "But an organisation that stays off the Imperial radar? A group so enigmatic that they can manufacture a Marquess in twelve months? Now that is intriguing."
"It truly is," Jeanne agreed, her voice steady. "But how does any of that lead back to me? I am merely a daughter of the House of Nova."
"The intelligence database shows nothing connecting you to the organisation," Amon admitted. He reached up and pulled away his blindfold, revealing eyes the colour of fresh blood with skull-shaped irises. "But it did note a pattern. You are a frequent visitor to the Wonderia Library, specifically the section on ancient mythology. You have a particular fondness for the myth of Persephone."
Jeanne's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Persephone is fascinating. The queen, who was abducted, was a damsel in distress forced into the underworld. Her story is a beautiful blend of tragedy and acceptance. I find it... well-written." She stepped closer, peering at his bared gaze. "And your eyes—they're stunning. They look exactly like the depictions of Hades I've seen in the old texts."
"I'm glad they don't frighten you," Amon chuckled, though his expression quickly sharpened. "But let's return to the point."
"Persephone is an icon for those seeking a better afterlife. But as history proves, Greek myths are just stories. It's natural to be fascinated by them, but your interest is far more personal." Amon's voice took on the weight of a judge delivering a verdict.
"You love the myth because of the man who gave it to you. Duke Thomas Nova. My mother told me about him—a good man taken far too soon. He used to read those stories to you when you were a child, didn't he?"
Jeanne's playful mask tightened at the mention of her father, her posture stiffening. "What exactly are you getting at, Amon?"
"Persephone is worshipped to ensure the peace of the dead. You worship her for your father's sake, hoping he finds rest. You built the Donzequel Occult Society on that very foundation. 'Donzequel' is a derivation of 'Damsel'—the damsel in distress from your favourite tragedy." Amon leaned in, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "Shall I continue, or are you ready to drop the act, Miss Cult Leader?
"I know her secret from the original novel," Amon internally explained. "But the logic I just laid out? That was all me. The book never explained her motivations, only that she did it for her father. I had to weave that together with the intelligence files to build this entire thing up."
Jeanne stared at him, her expression a blank, unreadable mask. Then, she broke. A melodic, contagious laugh escaped her, echoing with genuine amusement.
"I never thought I'd meet someone with a mind to rival my own," she said, finally composing herself.
"I forgot one final point," Amon added, his voice regaining its casual edge. "The organisation's symbol in the files was a daffodil. In the myths, that was the last flower Persephone touched before the earth opened up."
"If anyone else heard your deduction, they'd call you mad," Jeanne said, her voice smooth and graceful once more. "But then again, the greatest minds are always called mad before they're called geniuses." Her gaze sharpened, glinting with a playful, cunning edge. "Now, tell me. Why did you really approach me?"
"Your sister's safety," Amon answered simply. "There's a traitor in the fold—someone leaked the Saintess's identity and her escort mission plans to the Aimus. I need you to flush them out and handle any... unexpected variables."
Jeanne tilted her head. "Given you're a Prosecutor who just dismantled my secret identity, aren't you overqualified for that? Or do you just want to use my 'little cult' as a lightning rod while you pull the strings from the shadows?"
Amon's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I'm glad you're quick. If I expose the traitor, I become a top priority on the Aimus hit list. That would be... inconvenient."
"Coming from the boy who levelled an Aimus stronghold at eight years old, that sounds remarkably hypocritical," Jeanne chuckled. "But I understand. You want a peaceful academy life, just like I do. A secret identity is a wonderful shield."
"I'm surprised you didn't call me out," Amon admitted, watching her. "When I said I was doing this for your sister, I expected a rebuttal. I didn't expect you to just go along with it."
"I know you struggle with your words, Amon." Jeanne stepped closer, her movements fluid as she reached out to tilt his chin up. "I've been listening closely, trying to get a read on you. You're fascinating."
She leaned in, her eyes searching his with playful intrigue. "You can't quite convey your true feelings, so you wear this mask—the confident, perfect genius. Your excellence isn't just talent, Amon. It's born from the fear of failure you tasted when you were eight."
Amon remained silent, his composure fraying at the edges. It was unsettling. She had dismantled his psyche with the same surgical precision he had used on her secret identity. She saw through his veneer to the core: a boy haunted by the guilt of not saving those innocent lives when he was eight.
"You're... terrifying," he muttered, finally breaking eye contact.
"I appreciate the compliment," Jeanne said. She released his chin, her grin widening with a sense of triumph. "And you needn't worry about my sister. Her safety is—and always has been—my top priority."
. . .
Amon pulled his sleek red sports car into the Crown Estate lot, the engine's purr fading into the evening air. He stepped out, rounded the hood, and opened the passenger door. Gia Nova emerged, her hand resting naturally in his.
She was dressed in a cream-colored blouse adorned with embroidered sunflowers and ruffled shoulders, tucked into a high-waisted, dark olive skirt. The tiered fabric and lace-trimmed petticoat gave her a classic, regal silhouette, while matching ribbon suspenders tied in bows at her shoulders. Under the glow of the estate's magi-tech street lamps, the dark olive accents of her collar and cuffs caught the light, making the sunflower pendant at her waist shimmer. Against the deepening sky, she looked like a fragment of captured sunshine.
Amon, however, remained in his attire from the Trials of Worthiness—a stark, functional contrast to the evening's opulence.
"You really should have dressed for the occasion, Amon," Gia said with a soft smile, her fingers still laced with his as they approached the mansion's entrance.
"I prefer to travel light," Amon remarked casually. "Even at a party."
The halls were a sea of high society—conglomerate giants and titled nobles. They moved through the crowd, exchanging practised greetings until they reached the Banquet Hall. This was the heart of the event, where the Heralds and Prosecutors were stationed. Amon's priority was clear: get Gia into the centre of that protective circle.
The hall itself was a masterpiece of lavish decoration and tables overflowing with delicacies, a setting befitting a princess of the Crown Duchy.
"There's Khalia," Amon said, gesturing toward his senior. "Go to her. I need to sweep the estate for anything suspicious."
Gia's expression softened with concern. "You should relax, Amon. Don't carry the world on your shoulders tonight. Enjoy your sister's birthday—there are plenty of people here to protect me."
"I am one of those people, Gia," Amon replied, his gaze steady and calm. "It's my duty."
Gia sighed, realising that trying to talk him out of his vigil was useless. She let go of his hand and slipped away to join Khalia.
"Now then, let's start my guard duty," Amon thought, turning away from them and starting his walk around the Banquet Hall.