Chapter 35 - The lies

3rd Person POV

[Sitri Estate - Arto's room]

Arto stepped into the guest room—his guest room now, though the Gremory estate had long since stopped treating him like a visitor. The door closed behind him with a soft click, shutting out the last echoes of Sena's scolding and Sora's quiet, intense page-turning.

The four women were already there, sprawled across the space in comfortable disarray.

Rias lounged at the head of the bed in one of his old shirts (the crimson one she'd claimed months ago), legs stretched out, hair still damp and loose. Akeno sat cross-legged beside her, wings half-draped like a living blanket, wearing nothing but one of Arto's black undershirts that barely reached mid-thigh. Nami perched on the footboard—orange hair tied up in a messy bun, Clima-Tact leaning against her knee like a security blanket. Robin occupied the armchair by the window—book open on her lap, one extra hand idly turning pages while the others rested on the armrests.

All four looked up as he entered. Nami spoke first—grinning, teasing. "Survived the Sena wrath?" Arto exhaled through his nose—almost a laugh—and dropped onto the edge of the bed beside Rias. "Barely. She's terrifying when she's right."

Rias reached over—sliding an arm around his waist, pulling him back until he was half-reclining against the headboard with her. "She's terrifying when she's wrong too," Rias murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "But mostly when she's right."

Akeno crawled forward—wings rustling—until she could rest her chin on his knee. "So? Grounded from Sitri sleepovers forever?" Arto gave a small shrug. "Forbidden from taking Sona into dark-underworld-political-black-market situations without permission. Which is fair."

Robin closed her book with a soft snap. "She'll be fine. Sora was reading her notes like scripture. Sena will scold… then she'll use every line." Nami hopped off the footboard and flopped onto the bed between Rias and Arto—pillowing her head on his thigh. "Enough about politics. Where are we going tomorrow, boss? I'm bored of sitting around while you get scolded."

Arto looked down at her—then at the others. "Where do you want to go?" Nami answered instantly—eyes lighting up. "The Tree of Life. On those flying bikes. I've been dying to try them ever since Sona sent those photos. Glowing river from the sky? Floating through light? Yes please."

Rias and Akeno exchanged a quick glance—then both nodded. "Same," Rias said. "Though… honestly, it's more about the bikes for us." Akeno grinned—tail swishing. "Riding through the sky on a bicycle that turns into a hover-bike? Yes. The glowing river is pretty, but the flying part is the main event."

Robin tilted her head—extra hand absently twirling a lock of her own hair. "I'd like to see the Tree from above as well. The fractal pattern of the river branches should be mathematically beautiful up close." Arto gave a small, tired smile. "Tree of Life it is, then. Tomorrow morning."

Rias leaned in closer—chin on his shoulder, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "That's tomorrow. The day after tomorrow… we have a bigger plan." Akeno's wings rustled with excitement. "Crystal Lake," she said. "Deep in Sitri territory. Romantic scenery, clear water, private coves, floating lotus platforms. Sirzechs and Serafall both have a rare day off—first one in months. We want to give them a proper rest."

Rias picked up the thread—fingers tracing idle circles on Arto's chest. "It was their first date spot—Sirzechs and Grayfia's older sister, Yelena Lucifuge. Before everything got political. Before Grayfia's engagement mess. We thought… why not let the two families spend a day together? All members. No politics. No agendas. Just… family."

Akeno grinned wider. "You'll meet Serafall again. She's been dying to grill you since the broadcast of you breaking Razer. And you'll get to see the dynamics up close." Rias ticked them off on her fingers. "Lord Zeoticus and Lord Sora—best friends who argue about whose wife is better like it's a blood sport. Yelena and Sirzechs—still disgustingly lovey-dovey after all these years. Lady Venelana's cooking—legendary. Lady Sena's tea brewing—almost as legendary. And all of us… in swimsuits."

Nami perked up immediately. "Swimsuits? I'm in. Wait—Arto in swim trunks? Yes please." Akeno laughed—low, teasing. "We shouldn't expect much reaction from him, though. Last time Rias wore a bikini in front of his face, he said it was 'red.' Just… red. Didn't even notice the cut or the color details."

Rias huffed—playfully indignant. "He said it was 'very red.' Like that was supposed to be a compliment." Arto—cornered again—rubbed the back of his neck. "I… notice other things." Robin smiled—soft, amused. "Like structural integrity. And whether the fabric can handle combat mana flow."

Nami snorted. "Romantic." Arto looked around at them—Rias tucked against his side, Akeno's wing draped over his shoulders, Nami sprawled across his lap, Robin sitting close enough to brush knees.

Arto leaned back against the headboard, the Hell Singer now nestled comfortably against the side of his neck, its soft chirps a gentle counterpoint to the quiet chatter in the room. He rubbed his thumb absently along the edge of the small black cage (door still open, but the bird showed no interest in leaving).

His gaze drifted across the bed—Rias tucked against his left side, Akeno draped half over his lap like a possessive cat, Nami sprawled at the foot with her phone, Robin sitting cross-legged at the edge with the pink vial already resting on a small analysis tray she'd manifested from somewhere. He exhaled once—slow, thoughtful. "I haven't seen Kiba or Koneko since the summit about Grayfia. Where did they go?"

Rias lifted her head from his shoulder, crimson hair sliding across his collarbone. "Kiba's with Uncle Cedric." Arto blinked. "Cedric Gremory? The forge master?" Rias nodded—small, proud smile tugging at her lips. "You lit that fire in him, you know. When you gave him that book—Alchemist of Steel, the one supposedly written by Edward Elric—he hasn't put it down since. Cedric saw the spark immediately and dragged him off to the family forge. They've been locked in there ever since—transmutation circles, mana-alloy experiments, trying to recreate some of the more… explosive techniques from the text."

She laughed softly. "You have to take the blame for this one, love. That scholarly, gentle prince look? It's probably covered in soot by now. But when he comes back… expect a man forged through fire. Literally." Akeno's tail swished lazily. "He's going to come home smelling like molten steel and burnt ozone. I already miss the pretty-boy version." Arto gave a low huff—almost a laugh. "I'll take responsibility. If he ends up blowing up half the forge, tell Cedric to bill me."

Nami looked up from her phone—grinning. "Better yet—tell him to make me something shiny. Like a self-replenishing coin purse. Or a Clima-Tact upgrade that doesn't run out of juice mid-storm." Rias rolled her eyes fondly. "As for Koneko…" She reached over and poked Nami's leg. "She's at Cousin Damian's farm." Arto's brows lifted. "Damian? Priscilla's son?"

Rias nodded. "The one who runs the dairy and pastry operation. His cows produce the single best milk in the entire Gremory domain—rich, sweet, perfect fat content. He's the reason half of Mother's dessert cookbook exists. Koneko's basically his full-time taste-tester now. She naps in the hayloft, wakes up for fresh pastries, gives brutally honest reviews, then goes back to napping. Damian gets better recipes. She gets unlimited sweets. It's symbiotic."

Nami snorted. "Cat paradise. I'm jealous." Akeno's wings rustled in amusement. "Damian's been sending daily reports to Mother. 'Subject consumed three éclairs, two fruit tarts, and one entire tray of macarons. Requested seconds. Rating: 9.8 out of 10. Demanded more tomorrow.'"

Robin—still holding the pink vial between two fingers—looked up with a faint smile. "She's happy. And safe. And probably three kilograms heavier already." Arto let out a quiet breath—relief he hadn't realized he was holding. "Good. They both needed… space. Time to grow into whatever they're becoming."

the Hell Singer still perched on his shoulder like a living epaulet. The little creature's black fluff was warm against his neck, tiny white-tipped wings occasionally fluttering in contentment. The room had quieted—Rias leaning against the headboard with her legs stretched across his lap, Akeno curled beside her with one wing draped lazily over Rias's thigh, Nami sprawled on her stomach at the foot of the bed scrolling her phone one last time, Robin sitting cross-legged near the pillows with the pink vial already placed on the nightstand for tomorrow's analysis.

The bird tilted its head, big white eyes blinking up at Arto as though waiting. He scratched gently under one feather horn. The Hell Singer leaned into the touch with a delighted trill. "You understand me, don't you?" he murmured. A bright, affirmative chirp—clear as a bell. Arto smiled—small, real. "Then let's start with something simple. Are you a boy or a girl?"

He began listing male names—short, crisp ones from old Legion rolls and human stories he half-remembered: "Kael? Torv? Dren? Vark?" Each name earned him a tiny, offended head-shake and a soft, dismissive peep. Arto chuckled under his breath. "Alright. Girl it is."

The bird puffed her chest proudly, feathers fluffing even more. He tried again—gentler names this time, softer syllables, ones that felt like they belonged to something small and luminous. "Lira? Sylvi? Eira? Niamh?" More head-shakes—polite but firm. Then he paused, remembering a half-forgotten word from an ancient dialect he once heard sung in the Lowest Ring by a dying bard. "Radia?"

The Hell Singer froze—eyes going impossibly wider. Then she let out the happiest, brightest chirp of the night, wings fluttering so fast they blurred, tiny body bouncing on his shoulder in pure delight. A joyous melody spilled from her beak—light and cascading, like starlight turned into sound.

Arto laughed—quiet, warm, the sound startling even himself. "Radia it is." The bird immediately hopped down to his collarbone, nuzzling against his jaw with her fluffy head, singing even louder in celebration. Rias watched with soft eyes. "She likes it."

"She likes it a lot," Akeno agreed, reaching out to let Radia hop onto her finger for a moment. The bird inspected the fallen angel's violet nail polish, gave an approving peep, then fluttered back to Arto.

Nami propped her chin on her hands. "Okay, she's adorable. Officially adopted. But if she starts stealing my snacks, we're having words." Robin smiled—gentle, knowing. "She understands far more than most familiars. Language, emotion, intent. That voice of hers… it's not just pretty. It carries meaning."

Arto looked down at Radia—now nestled against the side of his neck, tiny beak grooming his earlobe like it was the most important task in the world. "Radia," he said softly, "can you do something for us? Sing a gentle melody—one that helps people sleep. Something calm. Safe."

Radia tilted her head—big white eyes blinking once, twice—then opened her beak. The song that followed was barely louder than a whisper at first—soft, rolling notes like distant waves lapping at a quiet shore. No words. No complex melody. Just pure, soothing resonance that seemed to sink straight into the bones.

Sleepiness arrived like warm honey poured slowly over the mind. Rias's eyelids drooped first; she slid sideways until her cheek rested on Arto's shoulder, one hand curling loosely in his shirt. "Mmm… that's nice…" Akeno's wings drooped, then folded neatly against her back as she curled against Rias's side—violet eyes fluttering shut with a contented sigh.

Nami yawned hugely—phone slipping from her fingers onto the blanket. "Okay… maybe just… five minutes…" She flopped forward, face-planting into a pillow, already snoring softly. Robin managed to stay awake longest—watching Radia with quiet fascination—but even she eventually leaned back against the headboard, book sliding from her lap, violet eyes closing on a gentle exhale.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by Radia singing with her angelic voice]

The next morning dawned soft and cool over the Sitri estate, the Sapphire Current outside the windows glowing with the gentle light of dawn. Rias, Akeno, Robin, and Nami had already left for the capital—eager to experience the Tree of Life from the flying bikes Sona had described so vividly the night before. Their laughter and excited chatter had echoed down the corridor as they departed, leaving the mansion quieter than usual.

Arto chose to stay behind.

He sat on the wide veranda overlooking the river gardens, sharing morning tea with Lady Sena. The porcelain set was one of her personal favorites—delicate blue-white china painted with silver river-lilies—and the tea itself was a rare Sitri blend: cool mint undercut with the faintest trace of starlit plum, soothing without being sedative.

Sena poured him another cup—precise, graceful—then set the pot down with a small sigh.

"I'm still angry with you," she said without preamble, though her tone had softened from yesterday's sharp fury to something closer to weary concern. "You took my seventeen-year-old daughter into the Auction House. You taught her how to read the room like a seasoned spymaster. That knowledge… it's valuable. Invaluable, even. Sora hasn't stopped reading her notes since last night. But she's still a child, Arto. She shouldn't have to carry that weight yet. That's for us—for her parents—to shoulder. Not her."

Arto cradled the warm cup between his palms, blue flames in his eyes steady and calm. "I know," he said simply. "I overstepped. I saw her potential—saw how quickly she already thinks on a battlefield—and I forgot she's still seventeen. I won't make that mistake again. If you want me to stay away from her training for a while, I will."

Sena studied him for a long moment—searching for any trace of deflection or excuse—then exhaled. "No," she said at last. "You don't stay away. You just… ask first. From now on. And you let us decide what she's ready to see." Arto inclined his head—once, respectful. "Agreed."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the river's gentle rush and the distant call of sapphire-winged songbirds filling the space between them. Then Arto's gaze drifted past the veranda railing, toward the open doors of the mansion's living room.

Sona was there—seated at the low chess table near the windows, facing her father. Sora's posture was calm, focused, the board between them a battlefield of black and white. Sona's shoulders were tense, brow furrowed, one hand hovering over a rook as though the piece itself had personally betrayed her.

Arto set his cup down. "Excuse me, Lady Sena." Sena followed his gaze—then gave a small, knowing nod. "Go. She's been losing since move twelve. Sora's playing without mercy this morning." Arto rose and walked inside.

The living room was bright with morning light—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, soft rugs in Sitri blues and silvers, low bookshelves filled with medical texts and strategy treatises. Sora sat with his back to the windows, expression unreadable, one finger resting lightly on the edge of the board. Sona sat opposite—cheeks flushed with concentration and frustration, pieces in clear retreat.

Arto approached without hurry, then lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor beside Sona—close enough to see the board clearly, far enough to give her space. She glanced at him—relieved, embarrassed, determined. "I'm losing," she muttered. "Badly."

Arto studied the position for ten seconds—eyes flicking across ranks and files, calculating lines in silence. "You're not lost," he said quietly. "You're pinned. There's a difference." He pointed—finger never touching a piece. "Your queen is trapped behind your own pawns. Your rook on a1 is useless. But look here—your knight on c6. It's attacking d4 and e5, but more importantly, it's forking his bishop on f4 and the pawn on b5. If you move the knight to d4 now, you force him to choose: lose the bishop or lose the pawn chain that's holding your queen hostage."

Sona blinked—then looked again. "…I didn't see that."

"You were looking at the immediate threats—his queen on h5, his rook lift on the h-file. That's what he wanted you to see. But chess isn't about what's screaming loudest. It's about what's quiet and deadly." Sona exhaled—slow, centering—then moved the knight. Sora's eyebrow rose—just a fraction. "Interesting," he murmured.

Arto inclined his head once, then turned toward the open doors leading to the garden. "I'll be outside. Radia's been waiting." He stepped into the morning light without looking back. The terrace doors closed softly behind him. Inside the living room, the silence lasted exactly three heartbeats.

Sora leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. His dark pink eyes fixed on his daughter—not angry, not teasing. Just… direct. "That boy," he said quietly. "Arto. He's a suitable suitor for you." Sona's hand froze halfway to the queen. Her mouth opened—reflex denial already forming—but before a single syllable could escape, Sena's voice came from directly behind her. "Don't even try, darling."

Sona stiffened. She hadn't heard her mother re-enter from the terrace. Sena stepped around the chair, arms crossed, rose-pink eyes glinting with the particular mix of amusement and steel only a mother could wield so perfectly.

"You can deny it all you like," Sena continued, tone light but unyielding, "but the facts don't care about your pride. You cheered the hardest when that masked Baron—Arasto Atreides—beat the living daylights out of Razer Phenex on live broadcast. Not Tomoe with her screaming. Not Momo with her calculations. You. Silent, intense, fists clenched so tight your nails left marks on your palms. I was sitting right behind you. I saw it."

Sona's cheeks flushed crimson—high on her cheekbones, impossible to hide. "Mother—"

Sena didn't let her finish. "And don't think I haven't noticed the little stack of photos you keep in the false bottom of your desk drawer. The ones confiscated from students who were supposed to be studying but were instead fangirling over 'Aruto Abyga' at Kuoh Academy. The quiet transfer student who somehow always ended up in the background of every group shot. You didn't throw those away. You kept them. And when you thought no one was looking—late at night, door closed, lamp low—you looked at them."

Sona's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came out. Sena's voice softened—just a fraction. "You're not a child anymore, Sona. You're a Sitri. You feel things deeply and you hide them even deeper. But you can't hide them from me. And you can't hide them from yourself forever."

Sora spoke then—still calm, still measured. "He's not perfect. Far from it. Reckless. Dangerous. Carries more ghosts than most men twice his age. But he sees you—not the Sitri heiress, not the macro leader, not the perfect student. He sees you. And he treats you like someone who can stand beside him, not behind him. That's rarer than any virgin succubus or flying bike in this domain."

He closed the notebook—Sona's notes—slowly, reverently. "If you choose him… your mother and I will not stand in your way. But you must choose clearly. No hiding. No pretending it's just admiration or gratitude. Because once you decide, there's no half-measure with a man like that."

Sena reached out—gentle now—and brushed a stray lock of hair behind Sona's ear. "You're allowed to want him, sweetheart. You're allowed to feel everything you're feeling. Just… don't lie to yourself about it. And don't wait too long to decide. Men like Arto don't stay unclaimed forever."

Sona stared at the chessboard—pieces frozen mid-game, just like her thoughts. Then—very quietly—she spoke. "…I know."

[Sitri Estate - Garden]

The garden behind the Sitri estate was quiet in the late morning—soft sunlight filtering through the canopy of river willows, the Sapphire Current murmuring a gentle counterpoint in the distance. Arto sat in a low chaise beneath a wide pergola draped in blooming nightshade vines, the Hell Singer—Radia—perched on his shoulder like a living epaulet. The tiny black ball of fluff had claimed him completely: every few minutes she would nuzzle against his neck, trill a soft, addictive melody that seemed to tune the very air, then hop down to peck at the seeds he offered from his palm. Each successful seed earned a delighted chirp and a flutter of white-tipped wings.

Spread across the table in front of him were holographic projections from the Gremory defense grid—layered overlays of mana-flow diagrams, rune-matrix stress reports, thermal scans of the western border sector, and real-time construction progress from Amon's team. The scorched lands once held by Gremory—now under Phenex control—glowed in angry red on the map: 1/4 of the original territory, still scarred from the war twenty years ago, ley-lines cracked and poisoned, unusable without years of reclamation. Phenex had fortified it, but not healed it. Arto's grid was changing that—one hidden emitter, one adaptive rune lattice at a time.

His phone buzzed again. Another message from Amon.

Amon:Tertiary dampening coefficient stable at +14%. West sector veil holding at 99.7% under illusion stress test. Minor crystallization in dusk-berry coolant line 4—cleaned manually. Request approval to propagate the adjustment chain-wide?

Arto typed back one-handed, Radia now nibbling a seed from between his fingers.

Arto:Approved. Monitor for residue every 30 minutes. Report at 14:00.

The reply came almost instantly: Understood. Thank you, sir. He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment as Radia launched into another song—high, clear notes that seemed to smooth the tension lines around his mouth. The bird had an uncanny sense of timing; whenever his shoulders started to knot from hours of remote oversight, she simply sang until the knot loosened.

Another buzz—this one from Nami. A string of photos flooded in.

First: Nami grinning wildly on her flying bike, orange hair whipping in the wind, the glowing branches of the Tree of Life just starting to emerge below as the sun climbed higher. Caption: BOSS THIS IS INSANE. WE'RE FLYING ON BICYCLES. ACTUAL BICYCLES. IN THE SKY.

Next: group selfie—Rias mid-laugh, Akeno making peace signs with her wings flared dramatically, Robin calmly holding the camera with one extra hand while reading a book in her lap, Nami photobombing with exaggerated duck lips.

Then a short video clip: Akeno banking sharply to skim just above a tributary, bike tires grazing the glowing water, leaving a trail of silver sparks. Her delighted shout echoed: "This is better than sex—don't tell Arto I said that!"

Last photo: them at an outdoor café overlooking one of the river gardens. Plates piled high with river-grilled moonlit peaches, chilled dusk-berry smoothies, and star-apple tarts. Nami's face took up half the frame, cheeks stuffed, caption: LUNCH AFTER MORNING FLIGHT. 10/10 WOULD RISK LIFE FOR THESE PEACHES AGAIN.

Arto stared at the photos—long enough that Radia tilted her head and chirped questioningly. He smiled—small, real, the kind that reached his eyes. He typed back:

Arto:Looking like you're surviving without me. Good. Don't crash into any lotus lanterns. Bring back one of those tarts if they let you.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Nami:Already negotiating. Boss gets first dibs. Also Akeno says hi and that she's lying about the sex thing. Rias says hi and that she misses you. Robin says hi and that she's analyzing the potion—preliminary results "promising but nasty." I say hi and that you owe me a new wardrobe for emotional damages caused by your absence.

Arto huffed a quiet laugh.

Arto:Noted. Tell them hi back. Stay safe. Don't let Akeno talk you into racing through the rapids.

He set the phone down. Radia hopped to his other shoulder, nuzzling his ear with a contented trill. He fed her another seed. "Keep singing, little one," he murmured. "We've got work to do." The defense grid overlays flickered back to life around him—west border schematics glowing faintly in the air. Arto leaned forward again—blue flames in his eyes steady, focused.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto reading messages]

Arto finished the last grid adjustment—west border node 14 now stable at 11.3% dusk-berry coolant infusion, phantom signatures neutralized with a silent counter-scan—and closed the laptop with a soft click. Radia trilled once in approval, hopping from his shoulder to the table to peck at the last few seeds he'd scattered.

He exhaled once—long, slow—then stood.

The pergola's shade felt heavier now, the distant Phenex borderlands still staring back like an open wound. But that was tomorrow's problem.

Today's problem was political geometry.

He walked back inside, cane tapping lightly against the marble. Sena had already retreated to her study; Sora was still buried in Sona's notes. Arto didn't disturb them. Instead he found a quiet alcove off the main corridor—small table, secure mana-line terminal, privacy wards already active—and opened a group call.

Four faces appeared almost simultaneously on the holographic projection:

Lord Zeoticus Gremory: relaxed in his office chair, sleeves rolled up, faint smile already playing at his lips. Lady Venelana Gremory: beside him, teacup in hand, eyes warm but sharp. Lord Sora Sitri: seated at his own desk, notebook still open in front of him, expression unreadable. Lady Sena Sitri: standing behind Sora, arms crossed, rose-pink eyes narrowed in that particular "I'm listening but I haven't forgiven you yet" way.

Arto inclined his head—respectful, not servile. "Thank you for taking the time. I'll be brief."

He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped on the table. "Last night—at the Auction House—I operated under the alias Arasto Atreides. New Baron house. No history, no alliances, no enemies in most circles. I made a spectacle. Outspent Riser Phenex in public. Secured recognition from several King-house representatives without a single overt deal. That was intentional."

He paused—letting them absorb. "What I propose is turning Atreides into something real. A proxy channel for magic-tech. Not mass production—that stays with Gremory and Sitri for the general market. Atreides would be a small, exclusive atelier. Bespoke solutions only. Clients come with specific problems—unique constraints, impossible specs, classified requirements—and we deliver tailored magic-tech that no one else can provide. Private commissions. High margin. Low volume. The kind of work that keeps us relevant to the high-tier houses without stepping on Gremory or Sitri toes."

Zeoticus raised one brow—intrigued. "Parallel distribution. Neutral brand. Clean hands."

"Exactly," Arto said. "Clans that won't touch Gremory or Sitri directly—old grudges, factional optics, council scrutiny—can buy from Atreides without political fallout. We become the quiet middleman. The tailor. Not the factory."

Venelana tilted her head. "And the risk?"

"Money flow is handled—Nami already has the accounts structured. Production is covered—Robin, myself, R&D from both clans. We can even open limited collaboration gates for academic institutes or corporations when the client problem requires it. The real risk—the one I haven't solved—is legitimacy. Right now Gremory and Sitri hold a near-monopoly on magic-tech. Any atelier suddenly producing high-end solutions under a new Baron house will scream connection. Everyone will assume Atreides is a front. That puts us in a dangerous position: either we look like a puppet, or we become a political card someone tries to play against you."

Sora spoke then—voice deep, measured. "You need a plausible origin story for Atreides's technical edge. One that doesn't point straight back to us." Arto nodded.

The silence in the alcove stretched—thick, thoughtful—until Zeoticus finally leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under his chin. The faint smile he wore wasn't his usual warm one; it was the sharp, satisfied curve of a man who had just solved a particularly elegant puzzle. "I have it," he said quietly.

Every eye turned to him. Zeoticus glanced once at Sora—mutual understanding passing between them in a single heartbeat—then spoke. "We turn Atreides into the enemy of Gremory and Sitri." Sena's brows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Not real enmity," Zeoticus clarified quickly. "Fabricated. Public. Dramatic. Enough to make every other house believe the rift is genuine and irreconcilable."

He spread his hands on the table like he was laying out a battle map. "Three weeks ago Sirzechs designated an abandoned castle in the northern march of Gremory domain as the official seat of House Atreides—newly raised Baron house, frontier holding, barely developed. Perfect stage. We stage a robbery. Atreides raiders hit the Gremory R&D division headquarters—non-lethal, clean, surgical. They take core architecture blueprints, prototype hard drives, encrypted file clusters, anything that looks like the beating heart of our magic-tech stack. They leave obvious traces: Atreides sigils burned into doors, a taunting message in the server room, maybe even a forged manifesto declaring 'the monopoly ends tonight.'"

Venelana's eyes narrowed—calculating. "The core architecture isn't in any physical vault," she murmured. "It's in your head, Arto."

"Exactly," Zeoticus said. "They steal nothing irreplaceable. But they steal enough to make it believable. The raiders withdraw to that northern castle—Atreides's official seat. Then Atreides starts spreading the news themselves: 'Gremory and Sitri's monopoly is broken. We have the future of magic-tech. Come and trade.'"

Sora leaned forward—dark pink eyes sharp. "Gremory and Sitri respond aggressively. Public threats. Demands for restitution. Military posturing near the border. Diplomatic ultimatums. We make it look like we're willing to go to war over the theft. The other houses panic—suddenly the two biggest players are on the verge of open conflict, and a third party is sitting on the stolen crown jewels."

Zeoticus's smile sharpened. "That's when they rush to Atreides. Not to buy general products—they can get those from us later—but to secure the core innovations before Gremory and Sitri burn everything to ash in retaliation. They'll offer protection, alliances, exclusive contracts, anything to keep Atreides independent and the tech out of our hands. Atreides becomes the instant neutral broker—the go-to place for any clan that wants magic-tech without having to bow to Gremory or Sitri."

Sena folded her arms, expression thoughtful now instead of angry. "And the pressure keeps Atreides small. If they grow too fast—expand land, population, production—either we crush them for real, or the other houses start fighting over who controls them. They stay lean, boutique, high-value. An atelier, not an empire. Too important to destroy. Too dangerous to ignore. Perfectly balanced on the knife-edge we create."

Arto spoke then—voice low, calm."The risk is execution. The robbery has to look real—enough violence to sell it, not enough to actually hurt anyone. The stolen data must be convincing duplicates—enough truth to pass inspection, enough fiction to hide that the real architecture is in my head. The Atreides response has to be arrogant but not suicidal—enough to scare everyone, not enough to force open war."

Zeoticus nodded. "We stage it carefully. Small strike team—loyal shadows, no traceable Gremory or Sitri markings. False Atreides banners, forged orders signed by 'Baron Arasto Atreides.' The northern castle gets reinforced overnight—defensive wards, visible patrols—so it looks like Atreides knew the hit was coming and is ready to defend the prize. We leak the manifesto through controlled channels—make it sound like Atreides has been planning this for months."

Sora tapped the notebook once. "Sona's notes from last night will help. We already know which houses are desperate for certain tech streams. We can tailor the 'stolen' items to make those houses panic hardest. Maximize the rush to Atreides."

Venelana looked at Arto directly. "You'll have to sell it in public too. Appear as Arasto again—arrogant, untouchable, taunting Gremory and Sitri openly. The more believable the enmity, the more houses will believe they can use Atreides as a wedge against us."

Arto's blue flames flickered—once, decisive. "I can do that." Sena exhaled—long, slow. "It's elegant. Cruel. Effective. And it keeps Sona out of the next dark room." She looked at Arto—still not fully forgiving, but conceding. "You have our blessing. But if this goes wrong—if Atreides becomes a real threat instead of a controlled one—we will dismantle it. And you with it if necessary."

Arto inclined his head. "Understood." Zeoticus smiled—small, satisfied. "Then we begin planning the robbery. Timeline: three weeks from today. Enough time to prepare, leak rumors, build tension. We'll meet again in forty-eight hours with full operational outline."

The call ended. Arto closed the terminal, leaned back in the garden chair, and let the afternoon sun warm his face for the first time in what felt like hours. Radia was still perched on his shoulder, softly trilling a melody that sounded suspiciously like a lullaby version of one of Nami's favorite sea shanties. He scratched under her feather horns; she nuzzled his neck with a contented chirp.

Then he looked up.

Four shadows circled high overhead—red, violet, black, orange—hovering just outside the estate's outer protection dome. The dome's faint shimmer distorted their outlines, but the colors were unmistakable. Rias's crimson hair trailing like a comet tail. Akeno's wings catching the light in purple flashes. Robin's dark silhouette calm and steady. Nami leaning forward on her bike's handlebars, clearly the one steering the formation.

They couldn't get in. Not without tripping every ward and alerting half the estate guard. Arto exhaled through his nose—half amusement, half resignation—and tapped the comms rune on his wrist. The group call connected instantly. Nami's voice hit first—sharp, accusing, no preamble. "Boss! You sneaky, scheming, marriage-plotting bastard!"

Arto blinked. "…Hello to you too."

"Don't 'hello' me! We just finished the Tree of Life loop and Robin pulled the call logs from the Atreides alias. You're literally engineering a whole shadow house so the Lucifuge elders will have to look at you differently. Convenient timing, right after you publicly freed Grayfia from Razer's engagement. If Atreides becomes the indispensable third pole in magic-tech… they'll need access. They'll need you. And suddenly the 'new Baron who saved Grayfia' looks like a politically acceptable match."

She sucked in a breath. "You're trying to marry Grayfia Lucifuge!" The other three voices overlapped in a chaotic chorus: Rias — "Are you actually planning this?" Akeno — "Darling, if you wanted a sixth… you could've just asked~" Robin — "The timeline does align suspiciously well."

Arto pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am not—" Nami cut him off. "Excuses! You're too smart to make bad excuses. Every single step is beneficial: humiliate Riser → elevate Atreides → open back-channel tech deals → gain leverage over half the Underworld → suddenly you're the only neutral party Lucifuge can marry into without losing face or tech access. It's elegant. It's ruthless. It's you."

Arto opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I bought Albedo to keep her from Riser. The Atreides angle was—"

"—a convenient layer you slapped on top so we wouldn't call you a hero again," Robin finished gently.

She sounded almost fond. "You saved a virgin succubus from eternal toxic devotion purely out of compassion. You knew what that potion would do. You knew what Riser would do. So you spent a fortune, made a spectacle, and then pretended the whole thing was cold strategy so we wouldn't see the bleeding heart underneath."

Akeno's voice purred through the speaker. "Our terrifying, three-thousand-year-old war machine… is secretly the biggest softie in the Underworld." Rias laughed—soft, warm, exasperated. "You could've just said 'I wanted to help her.' We would've understood. We do understand."

Nami huffed. "But nooo, you had to wrap it in three layers of plausible deniability, geopolitical maneuvering, and brand strategy. Classic Arto." Arto stared up at the four circling silhouettes—red, violet, black, orange—against the crimson sky. He exhaled again—longer this time. "…I really did want the proxy channel."

Nami snorted. "We know. We're not mad about the money or the plan. We're mad you keep trying to pretend you're not kind."

Rias leaned forward, elbows on her knees, crimson hair falling like a curtain around her face as she fixed Arto with that look she reserved for when she was done pretending. "Your improvised plan," she said slowly, each word deliberate, "the one where you push every woman you save far enough away that they never feel obligated to stay… it's failed. Completely."

She didn't blink. Didn't soften it. "Grayfia has been silent for weeks. Not a message. Not a formal thank-you through channels. Nothing. Robin's been watching her digital footprint closer than anyone—she's gone quiet because she's moving. Either she's already tracking Arasto Atreides… or she's found threads that lead straight back to you."

Robin nodded once—calm, factual, the pink vial still resting on her open palm like evidence. "The summit ended with Razer Phenex defeated and forced to abdicate under the public terms you set. Sirzechs tried to spin it afterward—said your intervention had nothing to do with Grayfia's hand in marriage, just an old grudge against Phenex. It was a clean lie. Too clean. Grayfia didn't buy it. She's too sharp, too proud, and too grateful. You walked out the second the gavel fell—didn't let her speak, didn't accept thanks, didn't leave a forwarding address. You vanished like smoke. That silence she's kept isn't acceptance. It's preparation."

Akeno's wings rustled—soft, almost amused, but her violet eyes were serious. "You left your flank wide open the moment you bought Albedo in front of half the Underworld. The Auction House isn't just a market; it's a rumor mill with King-house oversight. Word of a new Baron spending obscene money to snatch the crown-jewel virgin succubus from Riser Phenex's grasp is already spreading. Grayfia will hear it. Sooner or later she'll connect the dots—the same man who humiliated one Phenex heir just humiliated another. The pattern is too obvious. She'll come looking. And this time she won't take 'no contact' for an answer."

Nami crossed her arms tighter, heel still in hand like she hadn't quite decided whether to throw it yet. "And Albedo?" she asked pointedly. "You think she's really gone for good?"

Robin answered before Arto could. "No," she said simply. "Succubi of her lineage—virgin-state—are exceptionally good at reading emotions. Micro-expressions. Vocal tremors. Pupil dilation. Heart-rate fluctuations through mana resonance. She heard every lie you told her. The cruelty was too forced. The tremble in your hand when you said 'get out of my life' was too real. She knows you were trying to free her from gratitude, from obligation, from ever feeling she owed you. That's why she left."

Robin's voice stayed gentle, but the words landed like stones in still water. "She left to think. To breathe. To visit her sisters and taste real freedom for the first time. But she'll come back. Not because she has to. Because she wants to. Because she already knows who she'd choose… and it isn't some noble who'd chain her with a potion. It's the idiot who spent a fortune to give her a real choice and then tried to pretend he didn't care."

Akeno leaned in—wings brushing Arto's shoulders like a warm cloak. "You keep doing it, darling. You save them out of pure compassion—Grayfia from a marriage she never wanted, Albedo from a lifetime of forced devotion—and then you panic because you're terrified they'll stay only because they feel they owe you. So you wrap every selfless act in layers of cold calculation: 'strategic leverage,' 'brand launch,' 'proxy channel.' You build entire public personas just to hide that you're still, deep down… kind."

She smiled—soft, teasing, but her eyes were serious. "But the plan's ruined. Two more lovely women are going to come to you sooner or later. Grayfia because she's too proud to let a debt like that go unanswered. Albedo because she's already seen through the mask you wear to protect yourself from being loved for the wrong reasons."

Rias reached out—cupped Arto's cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his eye where the blue flames flickered. "You don't have to keep running from being a hero, love. We already know you are one. And we're not here because we owe you. We're here because we choose you. Every day. Even when you're being an idiot about it."

Nami finally tossed the heel onto the bed—sighing dramatically but smiling underneath it. "So stop pretending every good thing you do is secretly selfish. It's insulting. To us. And to them."

"Before we end this call and cycle down to see the Tree of Life at full glow," Robin said, voice soft but carrying that unmistakable calm authority, "there is one more matter I need to propose." She paused—long enough for the others to feel the shift in tone.

"We all know what Arto is," she continued. "A black hole of attractive, powerful women. Grayfia is already circling. Albedo is almost certainly doing the same—whether she returns tomorrow or in a month. And there will be more. It's not arrogance to say so; it's arithmetic. He saves people. He frees them. He refuses to let them feel obligated… and yet they choose him anyway. Because he's safe. Because he's kind. Because he's Arto."

She leaned forward slightly—extra hands folding neatly in her lap. "This pattern will only accelerate. And while Arto's heart is big enough to hold them all, his current method—pushing them away so they never feel gratitude—is failing spectacularly. We're past the point where distance works. We need structure. Not to control them… but to protect everyone involved. Including him."

Robin's gaze moved to each woman in turn—Rias, Akeno, Nami—then back to Arto. "I propose we form a Harem Council." Nami choked on air. Rias's eyebrows shot up. Akeno's wings flared in delighted surprise. Robin continued—unfazed, unrushed. "The four of us—Rias Gremory, Akeno Himejima, Nico Robin, Nami—as founding members. I will serve as its leader… and, by extension, as the de facto head of this growing family."

She raised a hand before anyone could interrupt. "I'm not claiming to be the one Arto loves most—though we all know I hold a special place." A tiny, self-aware smile curved her lips. "I'm claiming to be the one best equipped to see, hear, and resolve the inevitable problems, turmoils, and conflicts that arise when powerful women share the same man. I have the widest view—through observation, through analysis, through sheer volume of data. I have the voice that can talk anyone down from a ledge or into sense. And I carry an aura that commands respect without ever demanding it."

She looked at Arto directly. "A few nights ago, you and I talked about this. You don't want a star-shaped system—everyone connected only through you, fragile, dependent on your gravity alone. You want a web. With you as the central hub… but every thread touching every other thread. The women won't just love you. They'll love each other. They'll support each other. They'll hold each other accountable. They'll weave new connections and repair broken ones. That way, every woman who decides to stay does so because her life is objectively better here—not because she feels chained by gratitude or obligation to you."

Robin's voice softened—almost tender. "This serves your ideal perfectly, Arto: love should begin with knowing and understanding another person, finding resonance between souls—not out of debt, not out of savior-worship. A web keeps the family strong and healthy even when you're not there to hold it together. It gives every woman real agency. Real choice. Real sisterhood."

She looked at the others. Rias met her gaze first—then smiled, slow and certain. "I have no objection. You're the wisest among us when it comes to minds and hearts. Your voice can calm a storm or start one. And you already carry the queen aura we all instinctively respect."

Akeno's wings rustled—pleased, approving. "None from me either. You see everything before it becomes a problem. You fix things before they break. And you're terrifyingly good at making sure no one feels left out… even when jealousy tries to creep in."

Nami threw her hands up—half surrender, half excitement. "Ugh—fine! You win. You're basically the only one who can keep this circus from imploding. And yeah… you've got that 'everyone shut up and listen to big sister' energy. I respect it. I'm in."

Robin turned back to Arto—violet eyes steady, warm. "So… do we have your blessing to form this council? To weave the web properly? To make sure this family stays healthy—not just for you, but for every woman who chooses to walk through that door?"

Arto looked at each of them—Rias's quiet strength, Akeno's playful devotion, Nami's fierce loyalty, Robin's calm certainty. Then he looked toward the open window—still open, still waiting. And finally… he smiled. Small. Real. Tired in the best way. "You have it," he said. "All of it."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Grayfia coming towards chibi Arto menacingly]

Arto leaned back in the garden chair, the pergola's lattice casting shifting patterns of light across his face as the afternoon sun dipped lower. Radia had settled into a soft, repetitive trill on his shoulder—almost meditative now, like she sensed the weight settling over him. The defense grid reports had gone quiet for the moment; the west border held steady. For once, there was no immediate crisis demanding his attention.

Just him. And the quiet realization that the life he'd tried to reclaim—simple mornings with tea, evenings with science and loved ones, nights without the Arena—was slipping further out of reach with every step he took.

He stared at the horizon where the Phenex borderlands still smoldered under their own banners. One-quarter of what should have been Gremory soil. A scar twenty years old that refused to fade.

At first, Atreides had been nothing. A name scribbled on a forged summons so he could walk into the summit and break Razer Phenex's spine in front of the entire Underworld. A mask he planned to burn the moment Grayfia walked free. A ghost that would vanish, leaving Arto Abyssgard to disappear back into the background where he belonged.

Then Albedo happened. He'd told himself the Hell Singer was enough—a small, harmless purchase to remind Riser he was still watching. A petty jab. A warning shot. But the moment he saw her on that stage—chained, defiant, yellow eyes burning with the kind of quiet fury that reminded him too much of himself three thousand years ago—something cracked.

He hadn't planned the spectacle. He hadn't planned the 251 million. He hadn't planned the way the entire hall went still when his paddle rose, or the way Riser's face twisted from arrogance to raw humiliation with every incremental bid.

And he definitely hadn't planned for the lie he told Albedo—"you've run out of use to me"—to become the seed of a real plan. The proxy channel. The staged robbery. The fabricated enmity. The northern castle suddenly bristling with fake defenses. The manifesto already being drafted in Sora's secure terminal.

What started as a desperate improvisation to keep Albedo from feeling indebted had metastasized overnight into a full geopolitical maneuver. Atreides wasn't a ghost anymore. It was a player. A piece on the board. And every noble who'd watched him humiliate Riser last night was already recalculating alliances, weighing risks, drafting discreet inquiries.

He had wanted peace. Science in the morning. Magic in the afternoon. Laughter and warmth at night. Instead he had built a lie so convincing it was becoming truth. And the worst part—the part that made his chest ache—was that he couldn't even pretend it was accidental anymore.

Every move he made to protect someone—to keep Grayfia free, to keep Albedo from Riser's hands—ended up dragging him deeper into the game he'd spent three thousand years trying to escape. The second Abyssal War had ended with ten million graves. Ten million souls who followed him into the Pit because he asked. Because they believed he could lead them through the dark and bring them out the other side.

He had. None came back. Even him. And ever since, he'd carried the quiet terror that if he ever stood at the head of anything again—if he ever gave orders, made choices, moved pieces—more graves would follow. So he'd hidden. Stayed invisible. Kept his hands clean of power.

Until power found him anyway. And now he was building Atreides—whether he wanted to or not—because the alternative was letting Riser, or someone like Riser, claim women like Albedo. Letting Grayfia be bartered like a treaty clause.

He couldn't stand by. And he couldn't lead without becoming the thing he feared most: a man who decides who lives and who dies. Radia chirped once—soft, questioning—and nudged his cheek. Arto reached up—slowly—and let her hop onto his finger. "You're not afraid of me," he murmured to the tiny bird. "Even though I'm still deciding whether I'm allowed to exist."

Radia trilled again—bright, trusting. He smiled—small, broken, real. "Yeah. I know." Arto was still leaning back in the pergola chair, Radia dozing against his collarbone with tiny contented puffs of breath, when the private comms rune on his wrist pulsed once—sharp, insistent, and utterly unexpected.

The sigil was not the usual Gremory crimson or Sitri sapphire. It was obsidian edged in silver hawk feathers. Atreides. His spine straightened before his mind fully caught up. Radia startled awake, chirped in protest, then resettled when he automatically cupped a protective hand over her.

He accepted the call. A holo-window no larger than his palm unfolded in the air. The retainer's face appeared—same silver hawk mask, same charcoal velvet coat, same ebony cane resting across his knees. The disguise was flawless to anyone who had only seen Arasto Atreides on a broadcast or in grainy Auction House security stills.

But Arto knew the man underneath. Knew the slight hesitation in the shoulders that the real Arasto never had. Knew the faint tremor in the voice that tried—and failed—to match the velvet drawl perfectly. "My lord," the retainer said. Formal. Tense. "Forgive the intrusion. I would not have called unless the matter was… unavoidable."

Arto's thumb brushed Radia's feathers once—calming both of them. "Speak." The retainer swallowed. "Lady Grayfia Lucifuge is here. In the grand hall of Castle Caladan. She arrived thirty-seven minutes ago. Unannounced. Alone. No escort. No prior diplomatic notice."

Arto's eyes narrowed behind the invisible mask he no longer wore. "She's waiting for the true Baron Arasto Atreides to return to the domain he owns." A long silence.

The retainer continued—voice dropping even lower. "She… knew, my lord. The moment I greeted her. She shaked my hand—and said, very calmly: 'You are not him.' She has simply… sat down in the great chair at the head of the hall, opened a book, and begun reading. She asked the staff to inform the real lord that she will wait as long as necessary."

Arto's free hand slowly curled into a fist on the armrest. "What book?" The retainer hesitated—then answered. "Dune, my lord. She has been turning pages steadily. She has not looked up since she sat down." Arto exhaled through his nose—once, sharp. He knew the book. Knew the story. Knew exactly why Grayfia—of all people—would choose that one to read while waiting for a man who wore a mask and carried a hawk crest.

Paul Atreides. The outsider who became a messiah. The man who toppled empires with a name that wasn't his own. The man who paid prices no one else could see. Grayfia was not here to thank him. She was here to see him. To strip the mask—figuratively, maybe literally—and decide for herself whether the debt she felt was real… or whether it had always been something more.

Arto looked toward the western horizon—where the Phenex border still waited like an old scar. Then he looked up—where four familiar silhouettes were still circling high above the capital, their bikes carving lazy loops through the gathering dusk. He tapped the comms rune again. "Prepare the teleport beacon. Full privacy wards. No staff within fifty meters once I arrive. Tell her… the true lord will be there shortly."

The retainer bowed—relief and dread mingling in his posture. "As you command, my lord." The holo winked out. Arto sat very still for another few seconds. Radia chirped once—soft, questioning. He lifted a hand—let her hop onto his finger. "Looks like we're going home early," he murmured to the tiny bird. "And we might have company waiting."

He stood. Asking a maid to take his laptop to his room for him. Radia stays steadily on his shoulder. Arto sighs before summoning his attire, the mask, the tux with the crest and the cane, he has to be Arasto Atreides once more.

Putting his clothes on, Arto doesn't seem to be in a rush "Radia, let's go witness our land first, shall we? I've never been there before, I've only saw the indexes, 5 villanges, 5 manors, one town, and one castle. Might as well take a look at what Sirzechs assigned Arasto to govern"

Arto is now fully in the attire of Arasto Atreides, with Radia riding his shoulder. He steps before the circle as the portal opens before him, revealing a peaceful land where he was supposed to govern as Baron Atreides

[Atreides Domain]

He emerged in the grand courtyard of Castle Caladan.

The air smelled of pine resin, damp stone, and the faint metallic tang of leyline wards still settling after three weeks of minimal occupancy. Towering gray walls rose around him—ancient, weathered, but reinforced with fresh Gremory runes that glowed a soft, watchful crimson. The castle itself was no ostentatious palace; it was a frontier fortress repurposed for nobility: thick battlements, narrow arrow-slit windows, a single soaring keep that looked like it had stared down more sieges than celebrations.

Five villages dotted the visible valley below—smoke curling from chimneys, fields already turning gold with late harvest. Five smaller manors stood at strategic points along the river that bisected the domain. A modest town clustered at the foot of the castle hill—tile roofs, cobbled streets, a central square with a fountain that hadn't run in decades until Sirzechs's engineers restarted it.

Peaceful. Empty-feeling. Exactly what a newly minted Baron's seat should look like after three weeks of quiet governance by proxy. Radia chirped once—curious, bright—then hopped to the top of his ebony cane, tiny claws gripping the silver ferrule as though claiming it for herself.

Arto allowed himself one slow circle—taking it in. "Sirzechs didn't skimp," he murmured to the bird. "Defensible. Self-sustaining. Room to grow without looking ambitious. Good bones."

He started walking—cane tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against flagstone. Radia swayed happily with each step, occasionally bursting into a short trill that echoed off the walls like tiny bells. The courtyard was deserted save for two guards in Atreides livery—silver hawk on black—who snapped to attention the moment they saw him. They didn't question the mask. They didn't question the sudden arrival. They simply saluted—crisp, silent—and fell in behind him at a respectful distance.

Arto didn't correct them. He wanted to see the place before Grayfia saw him. He passed through the main gatehouse, down a wide stone stair that switchbacked toward the town below. The streets were quiet—late afternoon, most people indoors or in fields—but a few heads turned. A baker paused mid-shutter, eyes widening. A pair of children playing tag froze, staring at the masked figure with the singing bird on his cane. Whispers started—soft, spreading.

Baron Atreides… he's here… 

Arto kept walking. He passed one of the five manors—a sturdy stone house with ivy-covered walls and a small vineyard already bearing fruit. The steward emerged at a run, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the ground. "My lord—!"

Arto raised a gloved hand—gentle stop. "Later," he said. "I'm taking the measure of the land first." The steward straightened—awed, relieved—and stepped aside. Arto continued.

Past the town square—fountain now flowing, children running to hide behind parents who stared openly. Past the river bridge—newly repaired, wards humming beneath the arches. Past the second manor—smaller, but with a training yard where a handful of young men were drilling spear forms. They stopped when they saw him—salutes sharp, eyes wide.

He acknowledged each group with a single nod—nothing more. By the time he reached the outermost village—farthest from the castle, closest to the northern march—he had seen enough.

Five villages: self-sufficient, loyal, already whispering his name like a legend. Five manors: defensible, productive, staffed by people who looked at him with cautious hope rather than fear. One town: small but growing, market square busy, people already hanging hawk banners from windows. One castle: old, strong, waiting for a lord who had never intended to claim it.

And one bird—singing softly on his cane—like it approved of all of it. Arto stopped at the village edge—looking back toward the castle on its hill. Radia chirped once—bright, expectant. He exhaled—quiet, certain. "Home," he murmured to the bird. "Or close enough."

Then he turned—and walked back up the hill. 

After a while, Arto stood at the crest of the hill, the wind tugging at the hem of his charcoal coat and the silver hawk crest on his breast. Castle Caladan loomed behind him—gray stone towers rising like silent sentinels, banners bearing the Atreides hawk already snapping in the breeze even though he had never ordered them raised. The castle had been waiting for him, patient and empty, since Sirzechs assigned it three weeks ago.

He didn't step inside...Instead he turned his back to the gates and looked down across the domain that was now—on paper—his.

Five villages nestled in the valley folds, smoke rising from chimneys in thin gray threads. Five manors dotted the hillsides like watchful eyes. One small town at the foot of the castle hill—tile roofs, cobbled streets, a central fountain that had only recently begun to flow again. Roughly a thousand souls in total. Farmers, craftsmen, a handful of merchants, a scattering of retired legion veterans who had taken the land grant after the Phenex war. Quiet people. Simple lives. Land scarred in places by old border skirmishes, but fertile enough to feed them all.

He could see the potential already.

The youngsters—strong backs, eager minds—could be trained into fine craftsmen. Blacksmiths who understood mana-alloy tempering. Weavers who could work compression threads. Artificers who might one day help fill the bespoke commissions he planned to take under the Atreides name. The older generation could keep the fields alive—perhaps with a little help: automated irrigation arrays, soil-enrichment runes, small mana-powered harvesters that wouldn't replace hands but would ease aching joints.

A thousand people. One castle. One Baron who had never wanted a title. Arto sighed—long, slow—and turned back toward the gates. He didn't enter through the main doors.

Instead he followed a narrow side path—servants' route—down past the herb gardens and into the rear courtyard. The kitchen wing was low and warm, windows open to vent steam and the smell of baking bread. Four maids stood clustered near the door—young, wide-eyed, aprons dusted with flour—trying (and failing) to look calm while stealing glances toward the corridor that led to the grand hall.

[Castle Caladan - Grand Hall]

Arasto stepped into the grand hall, the heavy double doors sighing shut behind him with a sound like distant thunder. The space was vast—vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, long stone table running down the center like a spine, high windows letting in slanted crimson moonlight that painted everything in blood and silver. The only warmth came from the massive hearth at the far end, logs crackling low, throwing flickering orange across the flagstones.

Grayfia Lucifuge sat in the great chair at the head of the table—posture impeccable, silver hair catching firelight like spun moonlight. Dune lay open on her lap, one long finger marking her place. She did not rise. She did not startle. She simply lifted her gaze from the page as Arasto's cane tapped once—gentle, deliberate—against the stone.

A small, knowing smirk curved her lips. "It's good to see you again, Baron Atreides." Arasto stopped three paces from the table—cane planted, Radia still perched on the silver ferrule like a living jewel. The bird tilted her head, chirped once—soft, curious—then went quiet. "You saw me earlier today," he replied, voice carrying that velvet drawl perfectly. "I know it's hard to get confused with this mask and all, but I've always been here, Lady Grayfia."

Grayfia closed the book with a soft snap—set it aside on the armrest—then leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other. Her silver eyes never left the obsidian mask.

"Always?" she echoed—tone light, almost teasing, but edged with something sharper. "A curious choice of words. The retainer who greeted me wore your mask, your coat, carried your cane, spoke in your cadence… yet I knew within three seconds he was not you. The way he held himself—too stiff, too rehearsed. The real Arasto Atreides moves like a man who has worn a thousand different skins and grown bored of every one. The retainer moved like a man afraid of dropping the mask he borrowed."

She tilted her head—silver hair sliding across one shoulder. "So I waited. And here you are. The true lord of Castle Caladan… finally come home." Arasto did not move closer. Radia chirped again—once, bright—and hopped to the top of his cane, tiny claws gripping the silver hawk crest.

Radia balanced atop the silver hawk crest, head cocked, tiny black feathers fluffed against the draft from the hearth. Her soft trill lingered in the air, bright and untroubled, as though the tension in the room was merely background noise to her song.

"That bird wasn't here when I arrived," she said, voice smooth and deliberate, each word placed like a piece on a chessboard. "Hell Singers value freedom above all else. Open the cage and they fly—straight into the sky, no hesitation, no backward glance. They do not linger. They do not perch on strangers. Unless…"

She let the word hang for a heartbeat, silver eyes lifting to meet the narrow slits of the obsidian mask. "…they have found harmonic resonance with a person. A bond deeper than ownership. Deeper than gratitude. When that happens, they stay within ten meters of their chosen one—never farther—singing for no reward except the joy of being near."

Radia chirped once more—short, cheerful, almost smug—and hopped from the crest to Arasto's shoulder, nuzzling against the side of his neck as though claiming territory.

Grayfia's smirk returned—small, knowing, almost fond. "That was the final proof. The retainer who greeted me wore your mask, your coat, carried your cane, spoke in your cadence… but no Hell Singer sang for him. No tiny black ball of feathers rode his shoulder like it belonged there. He was convincing. You are unmistakable. Now, sit down, Baron Atreides, we still have something unsettled"

Arasto looked at the woman before him, a silent sigh escaping through the mask. He hadn't known enough about his own bird—Radia chirped once in soft agreement, as if to say you really should have read the manual on me by now.

He stepped forward without further hesitation, cane tapping a slow, measured rhythm against the flagstones. Radia hopped back to the silver hawk crest at the top, balancing perfectly as though it were her personal throne.

Arasto reached the head of the table and pulled out the heavy chair opposite Grayfia's—deliberate, unhurried. The wood scraped once against stone; then he sat, posture straight but relaxed, cane resting across his knees like a scepter at rest.

At that moment the double doors at the far end of the hall opened again. Four maids entered in a quiet, practiced line—two carrying silver trays laden with warm dishes, one bearing a crystal pitcher of chilled river-mint tea, the last holding a small basket of fresh-baked blackberry tarts still steaming faintly.

They froze mid-step when their eyes landed on Grayfia—silver hair catching firelight, posture regal even in stillness, the very air around her carrying the weight of one of the Underworld's strongest and most feared women.

Arasto raised a gloved hand—gentle, calming. "There is no need to worry, everyone," he said, voice low and steady beneath the cultured drawl. "Grayfia isn't here for anything bigger than a talk with me. So you can be at ease. Settle the food down for us. I must say… you made quite a spectacular work today. The dishes smell so good."

The maids exchanged quick, wide-eyed glances—then moved again, faster now but still careful. Trays were placed with soft clinks: smoked river trout arranged on a bed of valley greens with honey-thyme drizzle, warmed moonlit peaches split and glistening with cinnamon-clotted cream, blackberry tarts dusted with powdered sugar that caught the firelight like tiny stars. The tea was poured—clear, fragrant—into two goblets. The basket of tarts was set between them.

They curtsied—deep, hurried—and retreated almost at a run, the doors closing behind them with a muffled thud.

Arasto laughed—low, genuine, the sound echoing softly off the high stone walls. "Ah~ Lovely ladies. It's rare for them to meet one of the strongest devils in Hell in person. Please forgive them for their… rush." He gestured toward the spread—simple but perfect. "Now, let us enjoy this exquisite meal as we talk about unsettled things between us."

"I believe you're here for what happened at the summit, for the humiliation of Razer Phenex, for the failure of the summit to choose your suitor. Or maybe, you're here for what your elder council said about keeping an eye on me for I am now a candidate to be your consort, to inspect the land and the clan I am running at the moment. And I believe you've found your answer about our current state after coming here, right?"

Arasto forms a neat arrangement of smoked river trout on a bed of valley greens, a single warmed moonlit peach half glistening with cinnamon-clotted cream, and a delicate blackberry tart dusted with powdered sugar. The aroma rose between them—warm, comforting, almost domestic in its simplicity.

He set the plate down in front of Grayfia with deliberate care, then eased back into his chair, cane resting across his knees once more. Radia hopped from his shoulder to the table's edge, tilting her head at the tart as though considering whether it was worth a peck.

Grayfia's silver eyes flicked from the food to his mask—then back to the plate. She picked up her fork, speared a small piece of trout, and brought it to her lips. She chewed slowly—thoughtfully—before swallowing.

"Umm… no," she said bluntly, setting the fork down. "I can see this place is like a peaceful countryside—people working the fields day in, day out under a Baron who rarely collects their taxes. It raised a serious concern. Where did you get the money to buy that virgin succubus? Two hundred and fifty-one million isn't a small number, Baron Atreides. It could cripple some decent counts. Yet a Baron governing a land of no more than a thousand people could churn out such an amount. I do have some suspicion."

She leaned forward slightly—elbows on the table, chin resting on interlaced fingers. "You humiliated Riser Phenex tonight in front of half the Underworld's nobility. You did it cleanly, calmly, and with money most Barons couldn't dream of touching. So I ask again—where did it come from?"

Arasto regarded her for a long moment—blue flames steady behind the mask's slits. Radia chirped once—curious, unafraid—and hopped closer to Grayfia's plate, inspecting the tart with tiny, investigative pecks. Finally, he spoke—voice low, measured, still carrying the velvet drawl of Arasto Atreides but now edged with something quieter, more honest. "You're right to ask," he said. "Suspicion is healthy. Especially from someone who has spent her life reading ledgers and people with equal precision."

Grayfia waited—silver eyes steady, fork resting untouched beside her half-eaten trout.

"The money," Arasto continued, "came from His Highness Lucifer. Along with this land. It was the reward for saving you from the marriage with Razer Phenex."

He paused—letting the statement settle between them like dust after a collapse.

"I have never been anything noble before in my life. Until His Majesty came with a deal: a title, a land, and money. He gave me the title of Baron first so I could enter the summit without raising alarms. A nobody from nowhere could never have walked into that room and challenged a Phenex heir. But a newly minted Baron—backed by Lucifer's word—could."

Grayfia's expression did not change, but the faintest tightening at the corners of her eyes told him she was listening—truly listening.

"After the work was done," Arasto went on, "he handed me the land—Castle Caladan and everything below it—and the bounty for defeating Razer. Five hundred million gold marks. You see… it was all a transaction between me and the King to secure your future. Nothing more romantic than that. No hidden agenda. No grand design. Just payment for services rendered."

He spread his gloved hands slightly—open, unthreatening.

Grayfia picked up her fork again—slowly—speared another small piece of trout, but did not eat it yet. "And the purchase of the virgin succubus?" she asked. "How do you explain throwing half of your reward into that woman?"

Arasto nodded—once, acknowledging the fairness of the question.

"Lady Grayfia, you know how strong a virgin succubus is. Strength. Wits. Raw potential that doesn't twist toward seduction until she chooses to give it away. I bought her to be a guardian of this land. With me. As my Queen in my peerage."

He leaned forward slightly—voice dropping to match the crackle of the hearth.

"Both to create a solid foundation against future threats… and to find potential business partners. I don't expect them to be big—not yet. Just enough for me to sell the local products—river trout, moonlit peaches, blackberry tarts, the wool from the valley herds—and continue to develop from that point on. A small atelier. Bespoke commissions. Nothing that competes with Gremory or Sitri's mass production. Just… enough to keep this place breathing."

Radia chirped once—soft, approving—and hopped to the edge of Grayfia's plate, inspecting the peach half with tiny, curious pecks. Grayfia studied him—long, silent—then finally took the bite she had been holding. She chewed thoughtfully.

Swallowed. Then set the fork down. "I see, so that's your story, Baron Atreides, this leaves only 4 questions left. Why did Sirzechs look for you out of all people? And what is the origin of the power you used to defeat Razer Phenex? What does your face look like behind the mask? Lastly, what is your true name? Because I know the Atreides was a made up surname from this book" she gently taps the book Dune next to her cup.

Arasto chuckles behind his mask "I see, you have so many questions, my lady, it seems I have captured your care quite unexpectedly. But let's answer them one by one, because I know I have no where left to run now that you're here."

He settles his fork down "You fought in the Devil Civil War, lady Grayfia, so you should know this. Does the name Crimson Shadow ring any bell to you?" Grayfia's fork paused halfway to her lips, the small piece of trout forgotten. The firelight danced across her silver hair as she lowered the utensil slowly, deliberately, eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but in the sharp, focused recall of someone who had lived through too many battlefields to forget their names.

"Crimson Shadow," she repeated—quiet, almost reverent. The words carried the weight of an old wound that had long since scarred over. "Lucifer's personal black-ops cadre. Thirteen operatives. No records. No survivors listed. Officially disbanded after… Vigilius." Arasto nods

She set the fork down completely. The clink against porcelain was the only sound for several long seconds. "You were there," she said—not a question. A statement. "The night Yelena almost died. The night Sirzechs broke every protocol, every council order, and went in himself because the Old Satans' descendants had her cornered and the war council refused to commit reinforcements. They wanted her head as leverage. He wanted her alive."

Grayfia's gaze lifted to meet the narrow slits of the obsidian mask. "Castle Nicander was a graveyard that night. I was pinned down three leagues away—cut off, bleeding, watching the signal flares die one by one. We all thought the Crimson Shadow had been wiped out to the last man. Thirteen shadows against three full companies of Old Satans' loyalists. No one came back."

She leaned forward—elbows on the table, fingers interlaced. "But you did."

Arasto—still masked—gave the smallest inclination of his head. "I was buried under half the eastern tower when it collapsed. Broken ribs. Shattered leg. Mana channels torn open. They left me for dead because they had to—Sirzechs was already carrying Yelena out, and the rest of the Shadow were gone. I crawled out three days later. Alone. No extraction. No medical team. Just me, the rubble, and the knowledge that the mission succeeded… and everyone else paid the price." 

He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm with slow, methodical movements. The charcoal velvet parted to reveal pale skin marked by a single, stark tattoo: a stylized crimson hawk in flight, wings spread wide, encircled by thirteen thin black thorns. The ink had faded at the edges—centuries old—but the lines were still sharp enough to cut memory.

"The mark of Crimson Shadow," he said quietly. "C13. Last blade standing."

Grayfia's gaze fixed on the tattoo. Her expression did not change, but the faintest tightening at the corners of her eyes betrayed recognition—old grief, older respect.

"I lived a precarious life after that," Arasto continued, lowering his sleeve but leaving the cuff unbuttoned. "Hundreds of years going here and there under many names without a purpose. Drifting. Surviving. Until three weeks ago, when His Majesty found me again. He gave me the offer as compensation for my service: one last mission, and I would have my own home, land, money, and the salary he had been keeping for me all this time. A chance to start again—somewhere more peaceful."

He tapped the cane once against the flagstone—soft, final.

"About the name… it was made up when I needed one for His Highness's imperial decree to make me a Baron. My true name has been forgotten the moment we started being Crimson Shadow. I was C13. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Radia chirped once—soft, almost mournful—and hopped down to the table, walking in a small circle between the two goblets as though trying to comfort the silence that followed.

Grayfia's smile softened—still carrying that quiet, regal edge, but now laced with something warmer, almost unguarded. She rose smoothly from her chair, the white dress whispering against the stone as she stepped around the table.

"I see," she said, voice low and clear, "so that's your story, Baron Atreides. You contributed in saving my sister… then saved me. So my family owes you more than I expected. But now you're in a new life—in this peaceful land with people to care about and protect."

She extended her hand toward him—gloved, open, palm up in the formal gesture of gratitude and respect that high nobility reserved for debts that could never truly be repaid.

"So I will do this in the stead of my sister and myself: thank you, Arasto Atreides… C13… for your service to your King, and for saving us."

Arasto regarded her outstretched hand for a single, measured heartbeat.

Then he stretched his own forward—not in the usual open-palmed clasp of devils, but in a different configuration: middle and ring fingers straight and firm, index and little fingers bent inward at the second knuckle, thumb tucked lightly against the side. The grip was precise, almost ritualistic—old, forgotten, the kind of handshake that had once been whispered about in the darkest corners of the Crimson Shadow's operations.

Grayfia's eyes widened—just a fraction—recognition flashing across her face like lightning behind clouds. She had seen this grip only once before...Arto....Arto Abyssgard, when he took the hand of a young scientist at the party celebrating her freedom from the marriage with Razer Phenex.

Grayfia's grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to make the point unmistakable. Her silver eyes bored into the narrow slits of the obsidian mask, searching for the man behind it. "You told a great story, Baron Atreides," she said, voice low and velvet-smooth, each word carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "A magnificent story. It fits perfectly with every piece of the setting. That's how smart you are… Arto. Arto Abyssgard."

She pulled him closer—slowly, inexorably—until only the width of their clasped hands separated them. "You even read the old documents of Sirzechs about Crimson Shadow and the event at Castle Vigilius to make up this magnificent tale of a fallen soldier who came back from death. A story of a soldier you're not."

Her thumb brushed once—deliberate—across the scarred skin of his wrist, right over the dormant seal that had never been activated. "But it seems you didn't update the news," she continued, smirk deepening into something sharper, almost triumphant. "The corpse of C13 was found just a few days ago at the ruin of Castle Vigilius."

Grayfia leaned in—close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against the mask. "He was buried at the northern wall," she whispered. "Unlike what you said, my dear Baron. So let me ask again… is it you, Arto Abyssgard, under the mask?"

Arasto tilted his head—just slightly—the motion slow, almost amused. "How did you know it's Arto under the mask?" Grayfia giggled—soft, delighted, the sound carrying a dangerous edge of affection.

"It's because of the way you extend your hand for a handshake. Always middle and ring fingers extended, index and little fingers bent inward. I saw you shake Razer's hand that way before the duel—before you broke him. I saw Arto shake a young scientist's hand the same way at the party celebrating my freedom. It's not hard to make the connection… once you know what to look for."

She released his hand—slowly, reluctantly—and leans back against her seat, because she knows she has peeled the mask, what's left is only for him to reveal "I thought you were drunk enough not to notice, but I took a precaution for the retainer to do the same handshake, how did you still find out?"

Grayfia takes her cup of wine and takes a sip "You see, his way of imitating you is a practiced effort, while your is a result of the deformation of your hand, forcing you not being able to extend your index and little fingers fully. The fake one can't maintain that deformation when letting his hand down, you can"

Grayfia took another slow sip of her wine, letting the deep crimson liquid linger on her tongue before setting the goblet down with a soft clink. The firelight caught the rim and threw tiny sparks across her silver hair.

"You see," she continued, voice low and almost intimate, "his imitation was practiced—polished, precise, every gesture rehearsed in front of mirrors and memory. But yours…" Her gaze drifted to his right hand, now resting lightly on the ebony shaft of the cane. "…yours is the result of deformation. The way the index and little fingers refuse to extend fully, even when you try. The subtle crook that never quite straightens. The retainer could mimic the shape when he extended his hand—but the moment he relaxed it, the fingers flattened out. Yours don't. They stay bent. They stay broken."

She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, chin on interlaced fingers. "That's how I knew. Not just the grip itself—but the way it fails to un-grip. A living scar. A signature no one can copy without living through the wound that made it."

Radia tilted her head, let out a single soft chirp, and hopped back to the hawk crest on the cane—perching there like a tiny sentinel watching the exchange. Grayfia's smile returned—smaller now, gentler, but no less certain. "So… no more masks, Arto Abyssgard. No more proxies. No more running. You're here. I'm here. I have delivered my thank to Arasto Atreides, now, I want to know Arto Abyssgard"

Arto leans back at his seat "Well, that's what I've been waiting for, getting to know you, Grayfia Lucifuge. But are you sure you're ready...." Arto slowly takes off his mask, revealing to her his face

Grayfia's breath caught—not in horror, not in pity, but in something far quieter and more dangerous: recognition.

She had seen beauty before. Polished devils with flawless skin and perfect symmetry—Razer Phenex had been one such creature, all golden arrogance and regenerating perfection. She had seen power, too—Sirzechs's crimson radiance, her own silver-steel calm, the terrifying elegance of the old Satans before they fell.

But this…This was something else entirely.

Arto Abyssgard—unmasked, unguarded—sat before her like a ruin that still refused to collapse. Pale gray skin stretched too tight over sharp bones. Sunken eyes whose dark blue depths swallowed light instead of reflecting it, the blue fire within them now dimmed to a low, smoldering ember that made looking into them feel like staring down an open grave. Scars—old, deep, merciless—crisscrossed every visible inch: jagged claw marks across the cheeks and brow, burn-like welts along the jaw, deep gouges that had healed poorly and pulled the features into something harsh and monstrous. 

One long slash bisected his left eyebrow and continued down to split the upper lip. Another cluster of puncture scars dotted his throat like someone had tried to tear it out more than once. The handsome face she had glimpsed at the Gremory estate party—the one that had smiled politely while shaking a scientist's hand—was gone. Not hidden. Destroyed.

And yet…The eyes still burned. The posture still carried that quiet, unyielding strength. The voice—rougher now, stripped of every aristocratic polish—remained unmistakably his.

Grayfia did not flinch For a long moment the only sound was Radia's soft, curious chirp as the Hell Singer hopped from the cane back to Arto's shoulder, nuzzling against the scarred skin of his neck as though the damage meant nothing to her.

Grayfia exhaled—slow, steady—and leaned forward until her forearms rested on the table. "Yes," she said simply. "I'm ready to talk to this."

Her voice carried no tremor. No forced gentleness. Just certainty. "You think the scars will frighten me away," she continued, eyes never leaving his. "Or disgust me. Or make me see you as less. You're wrong."

She reached across the table—gloved fingers brushing the edge of the worst scar on his cheek. She did not flinch at the texture—rough, raised, cold. She traced it once—slow, deliberate—like she was memorizing a map instead of a wound.

"I have seen beauty," she said quietly. "I have seen perfection. I have seen men who think flawless skin and golden hair make them worthy. None of them ever risked themselves the way you did. None of them ever crawled out of rubble alone because the mission mattered more than their face. None of them ever spent three thousand years being useful… and then tried to disappear so no one would have to thank them."

Her fingers stilled—resting against the scar.

"I'm not here because of a handsome face I saw at a party," she said. "I'm here because of the man who walked out of a summit without waiting for applause. The man who spent a quarter-billion to buy a succubus's freedom… then tried to give it away so she wouldn't feel chained by gratitude. The man who just spent the last ten minutes trying to convince me he's nothing more than a transaction… when everything about him screams otherwise."

She withdrew her hand—slowly—then reached for her goblet again. "You asked if I'm ready to talk to this." She lifted the wine in a small, private toast. "I'm ready to talk to you. All of you. Scars, shadows, secrets, and all."

Arto smiled—small, quiet, the kind of smile that didn't reach for approval but simply existed because the moment allowed it. He reached for the covered tureen of stew the maids had left, lifting the lid to release another gentle wave of warmth and thyme-scented steam. 

With careful, unhurried motions he ladled a fresh portion into Grayfia's bowl, the dark broth rich with root vegetables and tender river trout, still piping hot thanks to the faint heating spell he maintained over the dish. "Have another stew, Lady Grayfia," he said, voice low and steady, no longer wrapped in the velvet drawl of Arasto Atreides. "Let us talk. About you. About me. About… Arrakis."

He set the bowl in front of her—close enough that the warmth brushed her gloved hands—then refilled his own goblet with the chilled river-mint tea. 

Radia, perched on the table's edge, hopped once toward the fresh steam rising from Grayfia's bowl, tilted her head as though appraising the aroma, then trilled once in clear approval before fluttering back to nestle against Arto's collar.

Grayfia watched the small ritual without comment, her silver eyes tracing every deliberate movement. When he finally settled back into his chair—cane resting across his knees, mask lying face-down on the table like a shed skin—she lifted her spoon and took a slow, thoughtful bite of the stew.

The silence between them was not heavy. It was patient. After swallowing, she set the spoon down and met his gaze—direct, unguarded.