3rd Person POV
The journey from the Grand Hall to the Post-Auction Office was short but deliberately winding—wide marble corridors lined with softly glowing water-runes and discreet alcoves for private conversations. The Auction House had been designed this way on purpose: enough distance to cool tempers after heated bidding, enough visibility to remind everyone they were still under King-house eyes.
Arasto walked with measured steps, cane tapping a slow, aristocratic cadence against the polished floor. The ebony shaft and silver ferrule caught every passing light like a quiet challenge. Sona remained a half-step behind and to his right—perfect courtly positioning—her expression serene, though her pink eyes still darted occasionally toward the nobles they passed.
They weren't alone in the corridor.
Several other buyers were making the same trek: a Zagan matriarch flanked by two aides carrying sealed scroll-cases, a Belial second son with a velvet-wrapped longsword slung over his shoulder, a Purson envoy trailing a floating containment orb that pulsed with restrained void-energy. All of them cast glances toward Arasto—some brief, some lingering. None approached outright.
Not yet. But the recognition was there. Subtle nods from the Zagan matriarch. A raised eyebrow from the Belial son. A faint, almost imperceptible smile from the Purson envoy.
They had all watched him dismantle Riser Phenex in public—one million at a time, relentless, merciless, without ever raising his voice. A Baron had just publicly humbled a Marquis heir in the heart of King-house territory. That wasn't something easily forgotten. Arasto returned each glance with a small, polite tilt of his masked head—never too eager, never dismissive. The perfect balance of new-money confidence and old-blood restraint.
The first to actually speak was the Belial second son—tall, lean, dark hair swept back, wearing the family's signature crimson-trimmed black coat. He slowed his pace until he fell in step beside Arasto. "Baron Atreides," he said, voice carrying just enough warmth to be polite without being friendly. "Impressive bidding tonight. That succubus will make quite the addition to your peerage."
Arasto inclined his head—cane tapping once in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Lord Belial. She caught my eye. A rare specimen." The Belial son's gaze flicked toward the sealed case in his aide's arms—the void-touched longsword from Lot 15. "I took the liberty of securing this blade earlier. Void-aspect edge. Cuts through mana barriers like paper. Useful for… certain border skirmishes."
Arasto allowed a small, cultured chuckle. "A fine piece. I noticed House Paimon seemed particularly interested before they withdrew. Wise decision—void weapons are temperamental in the wrong hands." The Belial son's smile tightened—just a fraction—before smoothing again. "Indeed. Paimon has… other priorities tonight."
They walked another few paces in companionable silence. Then the Zagan matriarch—older, silver-haired, draped in deep emerald robes—slowed her own group until she drew level on Arasto's other side. "Baron," she said, voice low and smooth. "Your entrance tonight was… memorable. The Phenex boy needed reminding of his place. Many of us appreciated the lesson."
Arasto tilted his head in polite thanks. "I merely bid what I believed the succubus was worth. Lord Riser's enthusiasm simply made the price more… entertaining." The matriarch's lips curved. "Entertaining indeed. Though I suspect your purse is lighter than most expected from a new Baron."
Arasto's chuckle was soft, almost indulgent. "Appearances can be deceiving, my lady. A well-managed fortune can stretch surprisingly far when applied with care." She studied him for a moment—sharp, assessing—then inclined her head. "Perhaps we'll speak again soon, Baron. House Zagan always appreciates… prudent investors."
She drifted ahead, aides falling in behind her. The Purson envoy passed last—younger, sharper, eyes calculating. "Baron Atreides. Your timing on Lot 47 was impeccable. The Hell Singer will serve you well."
Arasto inclined his head. "I have high hopes for its voice." The envoy's smile was thin, professional. "Voices can carry far… if used correctly." He moved on.
[Post-Auction Office]
Arto stepped into the Post-Auction Office alone, the heavy double doors of dark mahogany and gold filigree closing behind him with a soft, resonant thud. The room was smaller than the Grand Hall but no less opulent—polished black marble floors, walls lined with low velvet benches and discreet rune-etched payment consoles, soft violet mana-lamps floating overhead like watchful eyes. Several nobles waited in the lounge area: a Vassago prince in midnight-blue robes idly flipping through a ledger, a Gaap duke sipping chilled wine while his aide tallied receipts, a Stolas scholar quietly annotating a scroll. Two Valefar and Barbatos dukes stood near the far wall, conversing in low tones over a shared tablet.
They noticed him immediately. Heads turned—subtle, controlled. Eyes flicked to the Atreides crest on his cane, then to the jet-black mask, then back to his posture. No one spoke. No one needed to. The silent recognition was enough.
Arto offered a small, courtly bow—head inclined just enough to show respect without submission. The nobles returned the gesture in kind: a fractional nod from Vassago, a lifted wine glass from Gaap, a raised brow from Stolas. Polite. Measured. Curious.
He continued past them without pause, cane tapping a slow, even rhythm against the marble. At the payment counter stood Riser Phenex.
The young lord's back was rigid, shoulders hunched, flames still flickering erratically around his hair like dying embers. His gloved hands shook as he thrust a black credit sigil toward the attendant again and again—each time the rune flared red, rejected. Low, furious grumbles spilled from his lips, just loud enough for Arto to catch as he approached. "…Ruval… that bastard… cut me off… Riser Phenex doesn't need his permission… Riser Phenex will—"
Arto stopped directly beside him. Without a word, he extended the ebony cane—silver ferrule glinting—and used the rounded head to gently but firmly push Riser's shoulder aside, creating just enough space to step up to the counter. "Excuse me," Arasto said, voice smooth, cultured, dripping with polite disdain. "You're blocking the machine."
Riser spun—face purple, eyes blazing. "You—" Arasto ignored him completely. He placed his own black credit sigil on the counter—Atreides hawk crest gleaming—and spoke to the attendant as though Riser no longer existed. "Full payment for Lot 47 and Lot 72. Secure carriers to the private exit, please."
The attendant swiped it once; green light flared clean and instant.
"Payment confirmed, Baron Atreides," the attendant said smoothly. "Two hundred and fifty-four million gold marks for Lot 47 and Lot 72. Please wait in the lounge for a few minutes while we finalize transfer protocols. The Hell Singer is stable and ready. The virgin succubus… requires additional suppression. Her power is considerable; even the current chains may not hold if given the slightest opportunity. We're applying a tertiary layer now—standard procedure for her lineage."
Arasto inclined his masked head once. "Understood. Proceed carefully." He retrieved his sigil, slipped it back into his coat, and turned. Riser still stood at the adjacent counter—shoulders heaving, flames licking erratically around his hair, the rejected card clutched in a white-knuckled fist. His low, venomous muttering hadn't stopped since the gavel fell.
Arasto stepped forward—cane tapping once—and used the silver ferrule to nudge Riser's shoulder aside again, just enough to pass. "Excuse me," he said, voice velvet-smooth and cutting. "You're still blocking the way."
Riser spun—face purple, eyes blazing. Arasto didn't break stride. He walked past without another glance, then paused at the threshold of the lounge and turned his head just enough for the words to carry. "That's how one pays for what one buys with actual money, parasite prince~"
The last two words landed like a slap. Riser's flames roared—hair igniting fully now, heat distortion warping the air around him. He lunged—fist cocked back, aimed straight at Arasto's masked face. The punch never landed. A broad, iron-hard hand closed around Riser's wrist mid-swing—stopping it cold.
Riser froze. Arto—still facing forward—hadn't even flinched. He simply turned slowly, cane planted, as though mildly curious about the commotion. The man holding Riser's wrist was middle-aged, jacked, built like a siege engine dressed in tailored charcoal velvet. Short-cropped iron-gray hair. Eyes the color of storm clouds. A faint scar ran from his left temple to jaw—old, precise, earned. The aura around him was calm, absolute, the kind that made even King-house heirs think twice.
The receptionist behind the counter straightened instantly. "Director Stanford," she said with quiet deference. Stanford released Riser's wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough that Riser stumbled back half a step. "Calm yourself, Lord Riser," Stanford said—voice deep, even, carrying the effortless authority of someone who had broken stronger men without raising his voice. "This is neutral ground. Violence here is… discouraged."
Riser snarled—flames guttering. "He—" Stanford's gaze flicked toward Arasto—then back to Riser. "Paid. In full. With coin that cleared instantly. It signals a transparent client, my lord. But there isn't much to make fuss about, is there, gentlemen?"
He reached out—casual, almost paternal—and brushed an invisible speck of dust from Riser's lapel. The gesture was light, but the weight behind it made Riser flinch. "You've secured a good amount of women for tonight, Lord Riser," Stanford continued, tone mild but edged with finality, "and paid to get most of them. The rest… we're reserving for you for a quarter. You can always come back to complete the transaction… when you have enough money."
He patted Riser once on the chest—firm, not quite a shove, but enough to make the young Phenex step back half a pace. "Now, why don't you go check the women you bought today? A private lounge has been prepared. Make sure they are to your taste."
Riser's flames guttered out completely. The heat haze around him dissipated like smoke in wind. He stood there—chest heaving, jaw locked—then gave a single, jerky nod. Acceptance. Defeat. Humiliation layered on humiliation. Stanford snapped his fingers—once, crisp. An attendant appeared instantly at Riser's elbow. "Lead Lord Riser to his lounge," Stanford instructed. "See that he is undisturbed."
The attendant bowed and guided Riser away. The young Phenex walked stiffly, head down, flames gone, pride in tatters. The corridor doors closed behind him with a soft, final click. Stanford turned fully to Arasto. "Sorry for the unintended fuss, my lord," he said, voice warm now, laced with genuine hospitality but still carrying that unmistakable aura of absolute authority. "I hope it didn't ruin your first experience here."
Arasto inclined his masked head—once, measured. "Not at all, Director. The evening has been… illuminating." Stanford's storm-cloud eyes studied him for a heartbeat—appraising, approving. "Most new patrons cause a stir by accident. You did it on purpose. And cleanly." He gestured toward the lounge area—where the Vassago prince, Gaap duke, and others still lingered, now watching the exchange with open interest. "You've made an impression tonight, Baron. Not just on the Phenex boy. On the room."
Arasto's voice remained smooth, cultured. "I merely bid what I believed the succubus was worth. The rest… followed naturally." Stanford chuckled—low, appreciative. "Naturally. Yes. A rare quality in this place." He extended his hand again—larger this time, more open. "Should House Atreides ever require private services—discreet acquisitions, sealed bids, off-book negotiations—my personal line is always open. No intermediaries. No records. Just results."
Arasto accepted the handshake—firm, brief, respectful. "I'll keep that in mind, Director."
Arasto settled into the deep, velvet-upholstered sofa in the private lounge adjoining the Post-Auction Office. The space was intimate—dark wood paneling, low amber lighting from floating mana-orbs, a single long table between the sofas, and a discreet bar cart in the corner stocked with crystal decanters. The other nobles had already drifted away after settling their accounts, leaving only the faint scent of expensive cologne and the soft hum of suppression wards in the walls.
Stanford took the opposite seat—broad shoulders filling the space, posture relaxed but never careless. A single attendant placed two lowball glasses of amber liquor on the table—aged shadow-oak whiskey, no ice—then withdrew without a word.
Arasto lifted his glass in a small, silent toast. Stanford mirrored the gesture. They both drank—slow, appreciative—before Arasto set the glass down and spoke."I'm curious about something," he said, voice still carrying the smooth, cultured edge of Arasto Atreides. "The 'checking' Lord Riser is doing in his lounge. Why the need for privacy? And what exactly does it entail?"
Stanford exhaled through his nose—a low, almost philosophical sound. He leaned back, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Tactfully put, my lord: he's tasting them."
He let the word hang for half a heartbeat—letting Arasto fill in the blanks if he wished—before continuing in the same measured tone. "Sometimes it's simple. A kiss. A touch to the cheek or throat to feel the pulse, the warmth. Sometimes he asks them to speak, to sing, to move in certain ways so he can judge grace, voice, obedience. Other times… it goes further. Stripping them, tasting skin with tongue and hands, exploring every curve. And yes—on occasion—full intimacy. A round or two of sex, right there on the lounge sofa or against the wall, to 'confirm compatibility' for long-term use. He wants to know how they respond, how they feel, how they taste before committing to ownership."
Stanford's gaze remained steady—neither defensive nor ashamed. Simply factual. "It's not uncommon in private lounges here. Many buyers do the same—though most are discreet, quiet, efficient. Riser… is not. He likes to be loud about it. Likes the women to know they're being evaluated. Likes the attendants to hear. It's part performance, part power trip."
He took another sip of whiskey. "As for legality and limits: none of them are underage. Ever. The King houses would burn this place to ash before allowing that. Age wards scan every lot the moment they arrive—any violation and the entire staff, myself included, would be forfeit. Everything else… is permitted. They're property the moment the gavel falls. What the owner does in private is their right."
Arasto listened without interrupting—cane resting across his lap, masked face unreadable. When Stanford finished, Arto spoke—still in the Baron's velvet drawl, but with a colder edge beneath it. "And you provide the lounge… the privacy… the silence."
Stanford met his gaze evenly. "I provide the space. What happens inside is between buyer and bought. My role ends at the door. If they break the merchandise before leaving the premises, that's their loss—and their coin. If they damage the furniture, they pay for it. Beyond that… I don't police morality. I police order."
At that moment, two carriers were wheeled into the lounge on silent casters. The first was a compact, softly glowing cage of black crystal and silver filigree—inside, the Hell Singer slept curled in a fluffy black ball, tiny white-tipped wings folded, small feather horns twitching faintly in dreams. Soft, melodic chirps escaped now and then, muffled by the suppression wards but still carrying that addictive, soul-soothing quality.
The second carrier was larger, heavier—reinforced obsidian orb reinforced with triple-layered void-locks and mana-dampening chains that pulsed with deep violet light. Inside stood Albedo—raven hair cascading like spilled ink, black swan wings tightly bound behind her back in glowing restraints, white horns curving gracefully around her forehead, yellow eyes fixed straight ahead in defiant silence. Her voluptuous form was still draped in the simple white dress, now marked with additional suppression runes that crawled across the fabric like living tattoos. Every chain, every seal, every ward had been doubled since the stage—protocol for a virgin succubus of her lineage.
Stanford placed a small, elegant vial of pink liquid on the table between them—crystal stopper shaped like a teardrop, contents swirling with faint opalescent light. "A gift from the house," he said, voice smooth and professional. "For your purchase of such a rare specimen. It will make her… more amenable." Arasto—still masked—reached out and lifted the vial, turning it slowly in gloved fingers. The pink liquid caught the lounge's amber light, shimmering like liquid rose quartz.
He didn't need to ask what it was. Sona's words from earlier echoed in his mind: the exclusive, expensive love potion… bypasses the love barrier… tricks her into believing the target is her true love… He set the vial down carefully—almost reverently. "The bypass potion," he said, voice carrying the calm certainty of Arasto Atreides. "The one that makes her believe love where none exists."
Stanford inclined his head—neither confirming nor denying, simply acknowledging. "Recommended for first interaction. Makes her less… hostile. More receptive. Many buyers find it essential." Arasto's masked gaze lingered on the vial for a moment longer. "I appreciate the courtesy," he said. "But I'll pass. I just want to check her health before taking her home. I'll decide on the potion later."
Stanford raised a brow—slight surprise, but no judgment. "As you wish, my lord." Arasto rose and approached the larger carrier. The attendants stepped back respectfully. He reached through the reinforced barrier—mana field parting for him like water—and carefully cupped Albedo's face in gloved hands.
She stiffened at the touch—yellow eyes narrowing, wings straining against the chains—but she didn't lash out. Not yet. Arto checked her gently: fingertips tracing her cheekbones for fever, thumb brushing beneath her eyes for signs of exhaustion or magical burnout, fingers combing lightly through raven strands to feel for tension or hidden wounds. He tilted her chin up—slowly, carefully—and met her gaze.
No distress. No sickness. Just raw, defiant will staring back at him. Albedo's eyes widened slightly—surprise flickering through the anger. No one had ever checked her like this. Not as property. As a person. Arto withdrew his hands—slow, deliberate—and turned back to Stanford. "She's healthy," he said. "Release her for transfer."
Stanford nodded once. "Of course. But protocol requires the bounding seal of obedience first. One on the dorsum of her master's hand, one on her lower back. Ensures compliance without breaking will. The procedure is done here—client present to verify. Any failure or lashing out is on the house. We suppress and restrain immediately. Any damage to you or the merchandise is accounted for: discounts on future sessions, private box access for a quarter, exclusive services as compensation."
Arto considered it for half a heartbeat. "Do it."Stanford snapped his fingers. Two attendants stepped forward—one carrying a small ritual tray: silver needle, crimson ink infused with obedience runes, sealing wax stamped with the Auction House sigil. Albedo's chains were adjusted—arms and wings still bound, but enough slack for the procedure.
Arto extended his right hand—palm up. The first attendant pricked his skin—quick, clean—then traced the rune in crimson ink across the dorsum. The sigil flared briefly—binding Arto's will to hers as master—then faded into a faint silver scar shaped like a stylized hawk in flight.
Albedo was turned—back to Arto—dress parted just enough at the lower spine. The second attendant repeated the process: prick, ink, rune. The sigil burned briefly on her skin—then settled, glowing softly before dimming to match her natural tone.
She tensed—muscles coiling—but did not lash out. The procedure complete, the chains were removed—carefully, one link at a time. Albedo stood free—wings unfurling slightly, raven hair falling forward to curtain her face. Yellow eyes locked on Arto—searching, wary, but no longer chained. The attendants stepped back.
Stanford bowed slightly. "She is yours, my lord. Safe travels." Arto extended his hand—palm up, open. Albedo stared at it for a long moment. Then—slowly—she placed her hand in his. Just a single, quiet acceptance. Arto closed his fingers gently around hers. "Come," he said—voice no longer the drawl of Arasto Atreides, but his own—low, steady, calm. "We're going home."
Albedo blinked—once—yellow eyes widening slightly at the change in tone. Then she stepped forward—wings folding close, horns catching the lounge's soft light.
Arasto stepped out of the Post-Auction Office with the small, softly glowing cage of the Hell Singer cradled in his left hand—the little black-feathered ball inside still dozing, tiny white-tipped wings twitching in sleep. In his right hand, he carried nothing; Albedo walked beside him instead—raven hair falling like dark silk, black swan wings folded tightly against her back, white horns catching the corridor lanterns in faint gleams. The triple suppression chains were gone; only the fresh bounding seal on her lower back remained, a subtle silver hawk sigil now matching the one on Arasto's dorsum. She moved with the resigned, obedient grace of someone who had long since learned that resistance changed nothing—yellow eyes fixed forward, expression unreadable.
Arasto tucked the small pink vial—the love potion—into an inner pocket of his coat without comment. He didn't look at it again.
They walked the short corridor to the private parking area in silence. Bernardo waited beside the reinforced limousine—sleek black with sapphire accents, wards shimmering faintly around the frame like heat haze. The butler bowed as they approached. "My lord. Lady Sona is inside."
Arasto nodded once. He opened the rear door himself—gentle, unhurried—and gestured for Albedo to enter first. She hesitated—just a heartbeat—then stepped inside without a word, wings brushing the doorframe as she settled onto the far seat. Arasto followed, sliding in beside her. The door closed with a soft, secure click.
Inside, Sona sat opposite—posture straight, pink eyes flicking between Arto and the succubus. The Hell Singer's cage rested on the seat between them, soft chirps barely audible through the suppression.
Arto reached up—slowly—and removed the jet-black mask. The Atreides persona dissolved with it: voice shifting back to his own—low, rough, steady. The blue flames in his eyes burned calm and clear.
He turned to Albedo. "Good day to you, Lady Albedo," he said quietly. "My name is Arto Abyssgard—not Arasto Atreides. It's good to have you with us on this trip." Albedo's yellow eyes met his—searching, wary, but no longer defiant in the same way. The bounding seal on her lower back pulsed once—faint silver—then settled. "I know you're really confused at the moment," Arto continued, voice even, "but don't worry. You'll soon know the situation."
[Post-Auction Office]
The Post-Auction Office had emptied out after the session—only the low hum of mana conduits and the occasional soft chime from the payment consoles remained. The violet lamps dimmed automatically to a more intimate level, casting long shadows across the black marble floor.
The double doors opened again. Ruval Phenex stepped inside.
Tall, broad-shouldered, flame-orange hair tied back in a severe knot, eyes the same blazing amber as his father's but tempered with something colder—control, exhaustion, responsibility. His coat was immaculate—crimson-trimmed black, Phenex crest heavy on the left breast—but the lines around his mouth and the faint shadows under his eyes betrayed the weight he carried.
He didn't announce himself...He didn't need to. The two remaining attendants straightened instantly, bowing low. "Lord Ruval Phenex," one murmured. "Lord Riser is… in his private lounge. We can escort you—"
Ruval raised a hand—quiet, commanding. "I'll find him." He walked past them without another word.
The corridor to the private lounges was short, lined with soundproofed doors. Soft red lights glowed above each—occupied or reserved. Riser's door was unmistakable: faint heat haze leaked from beneath the frame, the air around it shimmering like summer asphalt.
Ruval paused outside for half a heartbeat—listening. Low, ragged breathing. A woman's muffled whimper—cut short. The wet sound of skin on skin. Riser's voice—thick, slurred with wine and rage—muttering to himself in third person again. Ruval's jaw clenched.
He pushed the door open. The lounge was dim—only the violet wall sconces and a single floor lamp. Riser stood in the center, shirt half-unbuttoned, flames guttering around his shoulders like dying embers. Two women knelt before him—one succubus, one exiled noble—dresses torn open, faces streaked with tears and smeared makeup. A third—another succubus—was pressed against the wall, wings pinned, Riser's hand around her throat while he—
Ruval's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Enough." Riser froze. The flames around him flared once—then died. He turned slowly—eyes bloodshot, lips curled in a snarl. "Brother—"
"Out," Ruval said to the women. Not loud. Not angry. Just absolute. They scrambled—half-crawling, half-stumbling—toward the side exit. The door sealed behind them. Riser straightened, trying to summon dignity. "Riser Phenex—"
"Shut up." Ruval stepped forward—slow, deliberate—until he stood close enough that Riser had to tilt his head up slightly. "You've spent how much tonight?" Ruval asked—voice low, almost conversational. "Two hundred million? Two-fifty? More? All on women you don't need, don't want, and won't even remember in a month." Riser's fists clenched. "Riser—"
"You're not thinking," Ruval continued. "You're reacting. Father lost the throne. He lost Grayfia. He lost face. And now you're trying to buy back what he lost—through flesh and coin. Except it's not his money anymore. It's the clan's. Our clan. The one still bleeding from the war he started twenty years ago."
Ruval's voice hardened—still quiet, but edged now. "Three-quarters of our joint military force never came back from Gremory land. Twelve allied clans—gone. Whole bloodlines ended. We won a sliver of territory on their west border—ruined land, poisoned ley-lines, nothing usable for decades. Father called it victory. I call it a wound we've never healed from."
He stepped closer—close enough that Riser had to look up. "And now Gremory is rising again. Faster than anyone thought possible. Four months. Four months since that masked nobody called Atreides appeared, and they've already pulled themselves back from the brink. Magic-tech. Simulation Rooms. Stabilizers. Wealth pouring in like they drank Phoenix Tears themselves. They're not just recovering—they're surging. While we're still licking wounds from Father's ambition."
Ruval's eyes—amber like Riser's, but colder—locked onto his brother's. "And you… you're here throwing money at women to feel powerful. While I'm trying to keep the clan solvent. While I'm trying to rebuild what Father nearly destroyed. While I'm trying to make sure we don't get swallowed by the next war he started."
Riser's voice cracked—half rage, half desperation. "Father said—"
"Father is no longer Marquis," Ruval cut in—quiet, final. "I am. And I say you stop. Tonight." Riser's flames flickered—weak, uncertain. Ruval reached out—slowly—and gripped his brother's shoulder. Not hard. Not cruel. Just firm. "You want to prove yourself? Fine. Prove it with work. With restraint. With loyalty to the clan—not to your ego. Because if you keep this up—if you keep bleeding our coffers dry on petty revenge and cheap thrills—I will cut you off. Completely. No more cards. No more allowance. No more name to throw around. You'll be just another noble son with nothing left but resentment."
He released Riser's shoulder. "Go home. Sober up. And think about what House Phenex actually needs—not what your pride wants." Riser stared at him—chest heaving, flames gone, eyes glassy. Then—without a word—he turned and walked out. Ruval watched him go.
Then he exhaled—long, slow, exhausted. He looked around the empty lounge—discarded dresses, spilled wine, the faint scent of fear and perfume lingering in the air. And somewhere deep inside him—the weight of a throne he never wanted, a war he never started, a brother he couldn't save—pressed heavier than ever.
[Phenex Estate]
The heavy doors of Razer Phenex's private chamber swung shut behind Riser with a dull thud, sealing the six women inside with the two Phenex men. The room was vast, dimly lit by crimson mana-lanterns that cast long, flickering shadows across black marble floors and crimson velvet drapes. A low table held an open bottle of aged fire-wine and two half-full goblets; the air smelled of smoke, alcohol, and something darker—old rage that had never quite cooled.
Razer lounged in a high-backed chair carved from charred shadow-oak, one leg crossed over the other, goblet dangling loosely from his fingers. The former Marquis looked older than his years—deep lines around his mouth, amber eyes still sharp but shadowed with something bitter. His regeneration kept the body flawless, but no power could erase the humiliation etched into his expression since that single, televised duel four months ago.
He looked up as Riser entered. A slow, crooked smirk spread across his face. "Ruval scolded the shit out of you, I see." Riser's shoulders stiffened, flames flickering briefly around his hair before guttering out. "He cut my card. Said I was bleeding the clan dry."
Razer chuckled—low, rough, almost fond. "Of course he did. Your brother plays the long game. Always has." He took a slow sip of wine, eyes sliding past Riser to the six women standing just inside the doorway—heads bowed, bodies tense, already conditioned to obedience. "Anyway… bring them in. Let us blow off some steam."
Riser nodded once—sharp, obedient—and gestured.The women moved forward without protest—trained, broken, resigned. Two knelt immediately at Razer's feet; the others drifted toward Riser, hands already reaching to loosen his coat.
Razer pulled one succubus into his lap—dark hair, curved horns, yellow eyes wide with practiced submission. He buried his face against her throat for a moment, inhaling deeply. "You really know my taste, son," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.
Riser sat heavily in the chair opposite his father, accepting another succubus who draped herself across his shoulders, fingers already working at his shirt buttons. Riser stared at the floor for a long moment—then spoke, voice raw. "Father… answer me. It should be me taking that throne. You know it."
Razer released the woman's throat long enough to meet his son's eyes. His smirk faded—replaced by something colder, more calculating. "I know it," he said quietly. "But the council doesn't know it. The moment I lost to that masked Baron… my words stopped mattering. Ruval was already the safe choice—steady, boring, reliable. They didn't want another warlord. They wanted a caretaker."
He tore the succubus's dress open with one violent yank—fabric ripping like paper. She gasped but didn't resist. Razer's hands roamed her body roughly—groping, squeezing, licking a slow line up her collarbone to her jaw—using the flesh to smother the humiliation that still burned in his gut every time he remembered that duel.
After a minute he paused—breathing hard—then looked back at Riser. "You still have one way left to reach the throne…" He pushed the woman down onto the low table in front of him, shoved his trousers open, and entered her in one brutal thrust. She cried out—sharp, involuntary—but her arms wrapped around him anyway, conditioned to please.
"…you still have that arranged marriage with Rias Gremory," Razer continued, hips moving in hard, angry rhythm. "Once she is yours… her fortune becomes yours. Her clan's connections. Her peerage. Her everything. By then you'll have enough backing—enough gold, enough allies, enough raw power—to question Ruval's reign. To challenge it. To take it."
Riser stared—eyes wide, flames reigniting around his hair. "Rias… Gremory…"
Razer laughed—short, harsh—thrusting harder. "She was promised to you as the losing condition of Gremory. The contract still exists—dormant, not dead. Ruval can't void it without Gremory's consent. And Gremory… they're still recovering. Still vulnerable. Push hard enough—offer enough—threaten enough—and they'll bend. Marry her. Bed her. Breed her if you have to. Her womb will give you legitimate heirs to both houses. Her wealth will refill our vaults. Her name will silence the council. And when the time comes… you take the throne Ruval thinks he earned."
He leaned down—biting the succubus's shoulder hard enough to draw blood—then looked up at Riser again. "Do it, son. Do what I couldn't. Make them pay. Make them all pay." Riser's breathing grew heavier—flames roaring brighter.
His hands tightened on the succubus straddling his lap—fingers digging into her hips. "Yes… Father." The room filled with the sounds of flesh and rage—two men feeding their humiliation into bodies that could not refuse them.
[Sitri Estate]
The carriage glided to a smooth stop at the main entrance of the Sitri estate. Sona stepped out first—posture impeccable, giving Bernardo a quiet nod of thanks before heading inside to inform her parents of their return.
Arto remained in the back seat for a moment longer. He glanced at Albedo—still silent, yellow eyes fixed on the floor of the carriage—then at the small cage containing the Hell Singer, who had woken and was now softly chirping a melody that somehow eased the tension in the air.
He placed one hand on Albedo's shoulder—gentle, careful. "Hold on." A soft pulse of void-black mana enveloped them both, plus the cage. Reality folded. They reappeared in Arto's private bedroom at the Gremory estate.
The teleportation was flawless—silent, instantaneous—but the scene that greeted him was anything but expected. Rias, Akeno, Robin, and Nami were all there.
Rias sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed in a loose silk robe, hair still damp from the onsen. Akeno lounged beside her, wings half-folded, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt (Arto's) that barely reached her thighs. Robin occupied the armchair by the window—book open in her lap, one extra hand idly turning pages while the others rested on the armrests. Nami paced near the foot of the bed—still in her casual day clothes, Clima-Tact leaning against the wall like a sentinel.
All four heads snapped toward the sudden arrival. Four pairs of eyes widened. The Hell Singer chirped once—curious, cheerful. Albedo froze mid-step—yellow eyes flicking across the room, wings twitching against her back.
Nami reacted first. She crossed the distance in three strides, hands on hips, orange hair bouncing with indignation. "Boss! What the hell is this?!" She pointed—first at the fluffy black bird in its cage (chirping happily), then at Albedo (tall, raven-haired, swan-winged, horned, and radiating restrained power). "You leave for one day—one! And you come back with… a cute bird… and… whoever this gorgeous woman is?! Are you cheating on us?!"
Rias slid off the bed—robe slipping slightly off one shoulder—eyes narrowing as she stepped up beside Nami. "Arto… explain. Now." Akeno rose more slowly—wings rustling—violet eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of curiosity and possessiveness. "She's… very beautiful," Akeno said sweetly. Too sweetly. "And she's standing in our bedroom. In chains that just came off. Care to tell us why?"
Robin closed her book with a soft snap. She set it aside, rose gracefully, and walked straight to Albedo—ignoring the brewing storm around Arto. Extra hands sprouted—gentle, careful—as she reached out to check Albedo's wrists (reddened from chains), her wings (pinion feathers slightly bent), her horns (no cracks), her eyes (pupils reactive, no dilation from drugs or curses).
Albedo tensed at first—then slowly relaxed under Robin's clinical yet kind touch. Robin's voice was soft, professional. "You're dehydrated. Minor mana-burn on your lower back from the seals. No permanent damage. You're safe here." She glanced over her shoulder at the other three women—who had now backed Arto into the literal corner of the room.
Nami had both hands on his chest—pushing him back playfully but firmly. Rias stood with arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly vanished into her hairline. Akeno leaned against the wall beside him—wings flared just enough to block escape—smiling dangerously.
Robin sighed—fond, long-suffering. She turned back to Albedo. "Give us a moment. They're… protective." Albedo's yellow eyes flicked toward the corner—where Arto was now thoroughly swamped—then back to Robin.
She gave the tiniest nod. Robin patted her arm once—reassuring—then strolled over to the corner. She leaned against the wall beside Akeno, crossed her arms, and simply… watched. Nami was mid-rant. "—and you didn't even text! Not a single message! 'Hey girls, bringing home a literal goddess today, don't wait up' would've been nice!"
Rias stepped closer—voice dangerously calm. "Who is she, Arto? And why is she looking at you like you're the first person who's ever spoken to her gently?" Akeno's tail swished once—playful, predatory. "She's very pretty. I can see why you'd be tempted. But you could've at least warned us."
Arto—back literally against the wall—raised both hands slowly. "She's Albedo. Virgin succubus. I bought her at the Auction House tonight." Three gasps. One knowing sigh (Robin). Nami recovered first. "You… bought a person?! How much?" She checks her phone "Oh my gods, he burnt 251 millions on her.....Boss, I told you to spend your money more and this is your result?" Arto looks sideway "You told me to. Besides, she is a virgin succubus..." Nami's face changes "Say it again?" "Virgin succubus..." Arto mutters, ready to be scolded
Nami's eyes narrowed to slits as she stared at Arto like he'd just confessed to buying a planet instead of a person. She slowly lowered her phone, the screen still glowing with the transaction alert she'd apparently hacked into somehow (because of course she had). "Say. It. Again."
Arto met her gaze—sideways, sheepish, the way a man who knows he's in deep trouble but refuses to back down looks. "Virgin succubus," he repeated, quieter this time, as if volume might lessen the explosion. The room went dangerously still.
Then Nami exploded. "VIRGIN SUCCUBUS?!" Her voice hit a pitch that made the Hell Singer in its cage chirp in alarm and bury its fluffy head under its wings. "Boss, you just dropped two hundred and fifty-one million gold marks—on a virgin succubus?!"
She started pacing—fast, furious little circles—hands waving like she was conducting an invisible orchestra of outrage. "I told you to spend money! I meant buy a yacht! Or a private island! Or—hell—buy me a new wardrobe that doesn't consist of stolen shirts! Not… not buy a literal mythological sex demon who's still in her factory settings!"
Rias stepped forward, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly vanished into her hairline. "Arto," she said—dangerously calm—"explain. Slowly. And in great detail. Why you thought this was a reasonable purchase." Akeno leaned against the wall, wings half-spread in that way that made her look both angelic and terrifying. "I'm also very interested in this explanation," she purred. "Especially the part where you brought her straight to our bedroom. Without warning. In the middle of girl time."
Robin—still gently examining Albedo's wings—didn't even look up. "She's malnourished," Robin noted clinically. "And severely mana-suppressed. The bounding seal on her back is tied to him, but he hasn't activated it. Interesting choice."
Albedo—standing very still while Robin worked—finally spoke. Her voice was low, husky, almost musical despite the exhaustion in it. "…He bought me to free me." Arto cuts her words "Stop right there, Albedo, let's not say that...Here is the thing, I am not a hero, I have never been, and I never will. I bought you for many reason, but saying it's just straight up freeing you would earn me a high heel in the face by my CFO"
Arto sighed—long, resigned—and pointed at Nami. "Nami, stop for a moment and let me explain, okay?" Nami lowered the heel—slowly, suspiciously—but kept it in hand like a loaded gun. "Fine. You have five minutes."
Arto exhaled again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay. Here's the thing—you all should know the situation inside the Auction House when I bid for Albedo. She was the last lot of the night. The crown jewel. The one everyone waits for. And the main focus—the absolute obsession—of Riser Phenex."
Rias tensed instantly—spine straightening, eyes flashing crimson. "Riser? He was there?"
Arto nodded once. "Yes. He was hoarding women like a madman all night. Exiled nobles, succubi, valkyries, kitsune—anything beautiful, powerful, or rare. He disrupted the entire flow: deals, transactions, political agreements, everything. The King-house representatives had to step in multiple times—tripling bids, withdrawing lots—just to keep him from breaking the session. Hell, now I hate that arrogant third-person-speaking bastard even more than I did before."
Rias nodded—sharp, vicious. "I know, right? I hate him too. Now please—continue." Arto took a sip of water from the bedside glass someone had left there—probably Robin, always prepared—then set it down. "Right. By the end of the session, Albedo was brought out. I wasn't going to play at first. I went there to observe, to map the room, to learn how the real power moves in the Underworld. But after what Sona told me about the nature of virgin succubi—and that there's a way to bypass the love barrier with a potion—I knew I had to step in. Not just to keep Albedo from an abusive fate."
He looked at each of them in turn—Rias, Akeno, Nami, Robin—then at Albedo herself. "I was also trying to make an appearance for Arasto Atreides—my public alias. What's better than outbidding the insolent fool who'd been disturbing everyone all night? So I did. I bid the shit out of Riser. I made a spectacle. I earned the respect—and the recognition—of every noble present, especially those from the King-ranked houses. They saw a new Baron who could humble a Phenex heir without breaking a sweat. That was the strategic play."
Nami crossed her arms tighter. "So… you spent a quarter-billion gold marks to flex?"Arto snaps back "Hey, I was making connections, I've already gotten their recognition, you know? This could open new trading routes in the future, Nami. Think about it, Atreides is the channel we can use to sell stuffs without going through Gremory or Sitri, meaing we can use this made up vassal house to work with clans that don't have good relationships with Gremory and Sitri but still want their magic-tech products and innovations. We are looking at a new stream of revenue."
But Arto is not done because he has gotten another plan "But I don't want to just sell the same products under a diffent brand, I want Atreides to be something like a private tailor, we won't make general magic-tech products, but tailored ones to clients' specific requirement and orders. That would fit our status as a vassal Baron house with limited resources, but still maintain high quality and price due to exclusive orders, this would keep our relevance and connections to high-tier clients."
Nami blinked once—twice—her arms still crossed, heel now dangling forgotten from her fingers. The outrage on her face slowly melted into something else: wide-eyed calculation, the kind that only appeared when money entered the conversation. "Wait… wait, wait, wait." She uncrossed her arms, stepping closer, eyes narrowing like she was reading a balance sheet only she could see. "You're telling me you didn't just drop 251 million to flex… you did it to launder our brand?"
Arto gave a small shrug—still cornered against the wall, but now looking faintly pleased with himself. "More or less. Atreides isn't just a mask. It's a channel. A clean, neutral, newly minted Baron house with no pre-existing alliances or enemies in most circles. Gremory and Sitri are too visible—too politically loaded. Every deal we do under their banners carries baggage: old grudges, rivalries, expectations. But Atreides? We're the shiny new player. No history. No obligations. Just results."
He spread his hands slightly. "Think about it, Nami. We've got magic-tech products—Stabilizers, Simulation Room modules, compression arrays, mana-governance frameworks—that half the Underworld wants but can't openly buy from Gremory or Sitri without drawing political heat. Some clans hate Gremory for old wars. Some resent Sitri for their healing monopoly. Others just don't want to be seen cozying up to either house. But Atreides? They can buy from Atreides without anyone batting an eye. No factional implications. No council scrutiny. Just business."
Nami's eyes were practically sparkling now—anger replaced by pure, predatory greed. "So… parallel distribution channel. Shadow brand. Same quality, same tech… different name on the invoice."
"Exactly," Arto said. "And I don't want to just rebrand the same catalog items. That's lazy. Atreides should be bespoke. Private tailor, like you said. We don't mass-produce. We take custom orders—specific requirements, unique constraints, impossible specs—and deliver solutions no one else can. High margin. Low volume. Exclusive clientele. The kind of work that keeps us relevant to the high-tier houses without stepping on Gremory or Sitri toes."
He leaned forward slightly—voice dropping.
"Tonight wasn't just about Albedo. It was market entry. I showed up in their den, outspent a Phenex heir in public, humiliated him without breaking a single rule, and walked out with the crown jewel of the night. Every noble in that room is already asking the same question: 'Who the hell is Atreides, and where did he get that kind of liquidity?' Let them wonder. Let them talk. The moment one of them reaches out—discreetly, privately—we've already won the first contract."
Nami stared at him—then slowly started grinning, wider and wider, until it was downright feral. "You sneaky bastard," she breathed. "You turned a quarter-billion impulse buy into a brand launch." Arto gave the tiniest shrug. "I improvised."
Rias—still pinning him to the wall with her presence—finally exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. "So you weren't just saving Albedo," she said. "You were… networking."
"Both," Arto corrected gently. Akeno's wings rustled—amused now instead of threatening. "Very efficient, darling. Multi-purpose spending. I approve." Robin—still beside Albedo "Strategically sound," she said. "But expensive. Nami's right to be upset about the burn rate. Even for you, 251 million is a statement."
Nami threw her hands up. "Thank you! Someone else sees reason!" Arto looked at her—really looked. "I know it's a lot. But think long-term. One bespoke contract from a King house could repay it ten times over. And once Atreides has a reputation for impossible commissions… we name our price. Literally."
Nami stared at him—then slowly, reluctantly, started nodding. "…Okay. Fine. I hate that it makes sense. But it does." She pointed the heel at him again—less threatening now, more accusatory. "But next time you drop nine figures on a virgin succubus-slash-business-launch, you run the numbers with me first. Deal?"
Arto gave a small, tired smile. "Deal." Nami finally stepped back—letting him breathe. Rias exhaled—long, slow—then looked at Albedo. "Now, what are you going to do with her, love?" Arto thinks for a moment, then says—voice flat, almost bored: "Let's throw her away. I have no use left for her."
Albedo turns to Arto, clearly surprised, yellow eyes widening. "Wh… what? You're throwing me away?" Arto nods once—expression unchanging. "Yes. You've served your purpose as the means for me to establish my proxy clan. If it wasn't you, I would have bought something else. So now you've run out of use to me. It's about time for you to get out of my life. We can start by removing any restraint that is binding us."
He turns to Robin—calm, matter-of-fact. "Robin, help me, please." Robin looks at Arto—surprised for half a heartbeat—then notices the hidden glint in his eyes, the almost imperceptible upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. She smiles—small, knowing. "Right." She turns to Albedo—voice gentle, professional. "Albedo, turn your back to me. I'll help you remove the slave mark."
Albedo hesitates—wings twitching, yellow eyes darting between Arto and Robin—then slowly turns, shoulders tense, head bowed slightly. Rias, Akeno, and Nami are no less surprised at first. Then they see it too.
The faint amusement in Arto's posture. The deliberate flatness in his voice. The way he's watching Albedo's reaction—not with indifference, but with careful attention. They exchange quick glances—silent understanding passing between them in less than a second. Rias steps forward first—placing a gentle hand on Arto's wrist. "Come here, love. Let me help with that master mark."
Akeno moves to his other side—wings brushing his shoulders like a protective cloak. "Hold still. We don't want to leave a scar." Nami sighs dramatically—but she's already reaching for his hand. "You're such a drama queen, boss. Could've just said 'welcome to the family' like a normal person."
Arto lets them close in—still holding his hand out toward Robin, who is now carefully tracing the silver hawk seal on Albedo's lower back with one extra hand while her real fingers gently massage the tense muscles around it.
Robin speaks softly to Albedo as the seal begins to fade—silver light dissolving like mist. "This is a bounding seal of obedience. It ties your will to his. But he never activated it. Never used it. It's dormant. I'm removing it completely now—gently. You'll feel a warm pull, then nothing. No pain. No lingering compulsion. Just… freedom."
Albedo's wings tremble once—then slowly relax. "…Freedom?" Robin nods. "Freedom." The seal on Albedo's back dissolves completely—leaving only smooth, unmarked skin. At the same moment, Rias, Akeno, and Nami work together on Arto's hand. Rias channels a thin thread of Power of Destruction—crimson light so precise it only touches the hawk sigil.
Akeno adds a soft violet lightning weave—numbing any potential sting. Nami simply holds his wrist steady—fingers warm. The master seal flares once—then fades, leaving Arto's skin unmarked. He flexes his hand—testing—then looks at Albedo. "There," he said—voice back to normal now, rough and gentle. "No seal. No bond. No obligation. You're not bound to me. You never were."
Albedo stares at him—yellow eyes wide, shimmering. "…Why?"
Arto exhales "I told you, you've run out of use to me the moment I outbidded Riser, you would serve no purpose by my side anymore. Besides, I bought you, so I own you, and have every right to do anything I want to you, even if it's letting you go. So spread your wings, Albedo, and get out of my life"
Before anyone could react—before Albedo's lips could even part—Arto turned sharply, grabbed the nearest arm (Nami's), and pulled. "Come on." Rias blinked. "Arto—?"
"Now." He didn't shout. The tone was steel wrapped in velvet—absolute command without raising his voice. Nami yelped as she was tugged forward; Akeno's wings flared in surprise; Robin simply closed her book with a soft snap and followed without question. Rias hesitated longest—eyes flicking between Arto and the stunned succubus—but even she moved when Arto's hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist.
The door opened. The four women were ushered out—half-dragged, half-guided—into the hallway. The door closed behind them with a quiet, final click. Inside the room: silence. Albedo stood alone—wings half-unfurled, raven hair falling forward to curtain her face, yellow eyes fixed on the door that had just shut in her face.
The door had clicked shut behind the others—no slam, no finality, just a quiet, deliberate close. The Hell Singer's cage sat open on the bed, door ajar, soft black feathers still clinging to the velvet lining. No chirp. No flutter of tiny wings. The bird was gone—whether it had slipped out during the commotion or had quietly followed Arto when he herded everyone away, she couldn't tell. She hadn't even noticed it leave.
She turned slowly toward the open window.
Moonlight—crimson-tinged Underworld moonlight—spilled across the floor in a wide silver pool. The night air smelled of jasmine and distant river mist. Beyond the sill lay freedom: sky, wind, the chance to find the hidden enclaves where her sisters still hid, virgin and unbound, singing to keep the world at bay.
That was what she had dreamed of every moment since the chains first closed around her wrists. So why couldn't she move?
Her black swan wings shifted—half-unfurling on instinct—then folded again, tight against her back. The place where the obedience seal had been felt strangely naked, like a missing tooth. No compulsion pulled at her. No invisible leash tugged her toward the man who had just claimed—and then discarded—her. Yet something else anchored her feet to the carpet.
Arto.
Not the masked Baron who had bid absurd money with casual cruelty. Not the voice that had called her worthless the moment the gavel fell. The other one.
The one who had knelt in front of her cage in the lounge and checked her face, her eyes, her hair with careful fingers—as though she were a living thing instead of merchandise. The one whose voice had softened the moment the mask came off, rough and low and honest. The one who had said "you're safe" like it was a fact instead of a hope.
And the way the four women had closed ranks around her—not as a rival, not as a threat, but as someone who needed protecting. The way they had laughed at him, scolded him, touched him without fear. The way he had let them corner him against the wall and still looked at her like she was the only person in the room who mattered in that moment.
None of it fit. If he truly wanted her gone, why open the bird's cage first—so it could follow him out? Why remove the seal at all when he could have kept it dormant and used her indefinitely? Why spend a fortune just to humiliate Riser Phenex when he could have walked away after the first bid?
And why—why—did his hand tremble, just the smallest amount, when he told her to leave? Albedo's yellow eyes drifted to the open window again. She could fly. She could vanish into the night and never look back. No one would follow. No one would chain her again.
But the thought of leaving—of never knowing why he had looked at her like she was worth saving—felt heavier than any chain the Auction House had ever forged. She took one step toward the door. Then another. Her bare feet whispered across the carpet.
Albedo hesitated on the door knob—wings half-raised, heart hammering against her ribs. Then she whispered—barely audible, more to herself than anyone else: "…I want to know why."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto checking the through the door to make sure Albedo is gone]
Arto stepped back into the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. The Hell Singer perched on his shoulder, tiny black feathers fluffed against his neck, singing a gentle, lilting rhythm that seemed to soothe the very air. He sighed—long, tired, relieved—and glanced around the now-empty room.
The window still stood open. Moonlight pooled on the carpet where Albedo had stood moments ago. No trace of her remained—no raven hair, no black swan wings, no yellow eyes watching him with that quiet, searching intensity. "Welp," he muttered, voice rough but light. "She's gone. Good."
He walked the room once—slow, methodical—checking corners, under the bed, behind the curtains, even peering out the window as though she might still be hovering just beyond the sill. The Hell Singer tilted its head, chirped once curiously, then resumed its soft melody. "Yelp," Arto said again, turning back to the others. "She is truly gone. Goodness, I thought I'd have to beat her to chase her away. It seems she understood the signal."
Nami shook her head, arms crossed, one heel still dangling from her fingers like a half-forgotten threat. "You pulled that move again," she said, voice half-exasperated, half-fond. "First with Grayfia, now with that beautiful succubus. You're one strange man, you know?" Arto turned to her—blue flames in his eyes flickering with faint amusement. "How so?"
Nami flicked his nose—sharp enough to sting, soft enough to tease. "You dare ask me how? Look—you saved Grayfia Lucifuge from that arranged marriage with Razer Phenex under the name of Arasto Atreides and walked away without letting her even say thank you. Then you disappeared from her life like a ghost. No contact. No expectation. Nothing."
Rias stepped up beside her—arms sliding around Arto's waist from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. "Yeah," she agreed, voice soft but pointed. "And now you chased Albedo away after buying her freedom for two hundred fifty-one million gold marks. Removed every restraint, every seal, every obligation. Just… set her free and told her to get out."
She tightened her arms around him—possessive, protective. "But my strange man." Akeno shook her head—wings rustling softly as she drifted closer, one hand brushing Arto's cheek. "The reason is always the same," she murmured. "'I don't want them to look at me through the prism of gratitude. I don't want them to choose to remain by my side—or tolerate what they don't like about me—just because I saved them.'"
Robin came in last—book now closed and tucked under her arm, extra hands retracted. She leaned against the doorframe, violet eyes soft and knowing. "'Arasto Atreides will save her life. Arto Abyssgard will get to know her afterward. Two separate men. No connection. No ledger.'" She smiled—small, warm, proud. "I like that quote of yours."
Arto exhaled—long, slow—then reached up to scratch the Hell Singer under its tiny feather horns. The bird trilled happily, nuzzling into his fingers. "I don't save people so they owe me," he said quietly. "I save them because they deserve to be saved. If they stay… I want it to be because they choose me. Not because they feel they have to. Not because of debt. Not because of a seal or a favor or a name on a contract."
He looked at each of them in turn—Rias's steady warmth against his back, Akeno's gentle teasing, Nami's fierce protectiveness, Robin's quiet understanding. "That's why I sent Albedo away the way I did. If she comes back—if she chooses to walk through that door again—then it's real. Not gratitude. Not obligation. Just… her."
Nami finally tossed the heel onto the bed—letting it land with a soft thump. "You're impossible," she muttered. But her voice was softer now. "Stupidly noble. Stupidly stubborn. Stupidly… you." Rias pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. "And we love you for it."
Akeno's wings folded around them all—warm, enveloping. "Even when you make us worry." Robin stepped forward—placing a gentle hand on Arto's arm. "She'll come back," she said simply. "Or she won't. Either way… you did the right thing." The Hell Singer chirped again—bright, cheerful—like it agreed.
Arto looked toward the open window one last time—moonlight spilling across the carpet in a wide crimson pool—then turned back to his women. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the small crystal vial of pink liquid. The opalescent contents swirled lazily under the bedroom lamps, catching light like trapped rose petals.
He held it up between thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly so the glow passed across each face. "Let us study this," he said quietly. "I want to know what made this monstrosity. It has locked too many succubi like Albedo into nightmarish lives. I want to know if there is any way to reverse its effect… and further, find a way to break the biological restraint of virgin succubi entirely."
He tossed the vial in a gentle underhand arc.
Robin caught it one-handed—extra fingers already blooming from her wrist like dark petals to cradle the crystal securely. She held it up to the light, violet eyes narrowing in clinical focus. "Reverse-engineer the formula. Identify the active binding agent. Map its interaction with succubus neuro-mana pathways. Test for antagonists." She nodded once—small, determined. "I'll need samples from Albedo if she consents—blood, saliva, mana signature. But yes… I can do this."
Arto exhaled—long, slow. "Good." He looked at each of them in turn—Rias's steady warmth, Akeno's quiet protectiveness, Nami's fierce loyalty, Robin's calm certainty. "I don't want any more women trapped in love they never chose. Not while we can do something about it."
Nami crossed her arms, heel now forgotten on the bed. "So we're starting a succubus-rights underground lab now? Cool. I'm in." Rias stepped forward—placing both hands on Arto's chest. "We all are."
Akeno's wings folded around them—soft, enveloping. "Family project." Robin tucked the vial into her coat pocket—already mentally cataloguing lab equipment. "I'll begin tonight. Preliminary scans first. We'll need Albedo's cooperation, but only when she's ready."
Arto nodded once—sharp, grateful. "Thank you." He turned toward the door. "I'll be in the study if anyone needs me." The door clicked shut behind him. Outside the window—perched on the narrow stone ledge just beyond the sill—Albedo listened to every word.
Her black swan wings were folded tight against the night chill, raven hair whipping softly in the breeze. She had not flown away. She had not even tried.
She had stayed—hidden in shadow, heart hammering—because something in Arto's voice when he told her to leave had cracked like thin ice. Something in the way his hand had trembled, just the smallest amount, when he said "get out of my life."
So she stayed. And she heard. The mask. The alias...The deliberate cruelty...The lie...All of it… to protect her from gratitude. From obligation. From choosing him because she felt she owed him.
He had spent a fortune to buy her freedom—then thrown her away like trash so she would never feel that debt. And now he sat in his study—alone—planning to dismantle the potion that had chained so many of her sisters. Planning to break the very biological trap that had haunted virgin succubi for centuries.
Albedo pressed her palm flat against the cool glass. Her yellow eyes shimmered—wet, bright. She whispered—barely audible, more breath than sound: "…You idiot. You're an absolute idiot, my Master. But I will hear your final order, I will go, I will go visit my sisters, I will go enjoy my freedom, but when the time comes....please, don't chase me away again....because I know who to choose now"
She drew one slow, shaky breath. Then she spread her black swan wings—wide, silent, iridescent feathers catching starlight like spilled oil. One powerful downstroke. She launched into the night sky.
Meanwhile, inside the main mansion of the Sitri estate, the grand living room felt more like a courtroom than a parlor.
Arto knelt on the polished obsidian floor—knees together, back straight, hands resting lightly on his thighs in perfect legion posture. The blue flames in his eyes burned low and steady, but the rest of him looked very much like a man enduring the inevitable.
Lady Sena stood before him—arms crossed, rose-pink eyes flashing with maternal fury. "You took my seventeen-year-old daughter—my daughter—into the Auction House. The Auction House, Arto. Where nobles trade lives like currency and secrets like pocket change. And you didn't just take her there—you taught her how to read the room. How to map alliances, spot shill bids, decipher coded gestures, track proxy deals. You handed her the keys to the Underworld's darkest boardroom and said 'go ahead, darling, take notes.'"
She gestured sharply at the leather-bound notebook now resting on the low table between them—pages filled with Sona's precise handwriting, arrows, annotations, house crests linked to motives like a spiderweb.
Sora sat on the sofa behind his wife—same notebook open in his lap—reading with such intense focus that he hadn't spoken in ten minutes. His dark pink eyes flicked line by line, occasionally narrowing, occasionally widening. He hadn't defended his daughter once. He hadn't even looked up. Every few seconds he turned a page with the reverence usually reserved for sacred texts.
Sena continued, voice rising half an octave. "She is seventeen, Arto. Seventeen. She should be worrying about exams, peerage training, maybe her first crush—not learning how to spot which Duke is laundering void-crystals through a shill bid on a moonlit peach sculpture!"
Rias, Akeno, Robin, and Nami lounged around the edges of the room like a very amused jury. Rias reclined on a chaise—robe slipping off one shoulder—sipping tea with perfect composure while her eyes danced with suppressed laughter. Akeno perched on the armrest beside her—wings half-spread, chin in hand, smiling like she was watching her favorite drama.
Robin occupied an armchair—book open but unread—extra hands idly braiding tiny strands of her own hair while she observed the scene with quiet delight. Nami sat cross-legged on the floor—phone in hand, scrolling transaction logs—occasionally snorting when Sena hit a particularly good line.
Arto remained perfectly still—kneeling, silent, accepting every word without flinching. When Sena finally paused for breath, he spoke—voice low, rough, calm. "I understand your anger, Lady Sena. I overstepped. I exposed her to a place she wasn't ready for, and I taught her skills that carry weight she shouldn't have to carry yet."
He met Sena's eyes—direct, unflinching. "But I did it because I trust her. Because I've seen her on the battlefield inside Sector 1—mapping chaos, making impossible choices, keeping her people alive when the math said they should die. She's not a child playing at politics. She's already leading. And the Underworld won't wait until she's 'old enough' to learn how it really works."
He lowered his gaze slightly—respectful, not submissive. "I should have asked permission. I should have warned you. I apologize. If you forbid her from using what she learned tonight, I'll support that decision. If you want me to leave Sitri lands tonight, I'll go. But I won't apologize for believing in her."
Sena stared at him—fury still simmering, but now mixed with something else. Sora finally spoke—voice deep, quiet, still reading. "She's correct about the Belial-Paimon proxy on Lot 12. And the Zagan-Purson favor trade on the cloak. And the three coded signals from House Bael's third son. Every line."
He closed the notebook—slow, deliberate. "These notes, if verified, are worth more than most artifacts in that hall. They map leverage we didn't know existed. Weaknesses we can exploit. Alliances we can quietly reinforce or quietly sever."
He looked up—dark pink eyes meeting Arto's. "You put my daughter in danger. You also gave her a weapon sharper than any spell. I'm… conflicted." Sena exhaled—long, slow—then turned to her husband. "She's seventeen, Sora."
"She's Sitri," he answered simply. "And she's already better at reading power than most nobles twice her age." Sena's shoulders dropped—just a fraction. She looked back at Arto—still kneeling, still calm. "You will never take her into a place like that again without our explicit permission. Do you understand?"
Arto bowed his head. "I understand." Sena exhaled again—anger cooling into something closer to exhausted affection. "Then get up. You're not a supplicant. You're… family. Annoyingly reckless family." Arto rose—slow, graceful—cane tapping once as he straightened.
Sona—standing quietly near the doorway—finally spoke. "I'm not sorry I went. I needed to see it. I needed to learn it. And I'm not sorry I wrote it down." Sena looked at her daughter—long, searching—then sighed. "You're grounded from political fieldwork until you're eighteen. But… keep writing. Keep observing. Just… do it from safer rooms for now."
Sona nodded—small, relieved. "Yes, Mother."