The garden was a picture of calculated elegance—wild, yet restrained.
Towering oaks lined the outer ring of the circular space, their gnarled limbs casting long, cool shadows over the vibrant underbrush.
Petals of crimson, violet, and gold spilled like tears from flowerbeds cultivated to appear untamed.
The air was rich with the heady scent of blooming night lilies and duskroot orchids—native to Opalcrest, but intentionally arranged by someone with a refined palate for balance.
At the garden’s heart sat a round table made of pale whitewood, polished to a mirror sheen. Four chairs encircled it, though only two were occupied.
Heinau Opalcrest sat on one side—his black hair neatly combed back, his equally black eyes as still and unreadable as ink in an undisturbed well. His posture was straight, almost stiff.
Though dressed in regal attire, a tailored coat of navy and silver threads, he looked like a man ill at ease in his own home.
Opposite him, seated with a grace that bordered on lethality, was Isolde Lancaster.
Her long amethyst hair shimmered faintly in the filtered moonlight, her eyes sharp enough to cut stone.
The tailored black uniform she wore hugged her frame like armor, elegant but utilitarian—void of decoration. She had the bearing of someone who had never once doubted her place at the table.
And for the longest while, they simply stared.
The silence was not awkward. It was oppressive.
A hush filled the garden like the pause before a blade strikes.
Finally, Heinau broke it.
His voice was quiet, yet heavy with accusation. "I’ll be blunt, Miss Lancaster. Your husband acted alone again, didn’t he?"
No response. Not yet.
He continued, pressing with the kind of restraint that hinted at frustration. "Ten regions in Everhart. All under our control. All decimated. We’ve confirmed no survivors in several of them. And now, even Rufus Everhart has gone missing."
His fingers twitched atop the table, though he kept his tone civil. "Whatever leverage I had on Liana is dwindling with Rufus gone.."
She simply sat there, her presence dwarfing his despite her silence.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke—her voice measured, icy, and absolute. "Heinau... when I say my husband had no involvement, I don’t mean it as a suggestion. I mean you lack the authority to question me."
Her words struck like a whip.
"I’m giving you a gift—an opportunity. The chance to reunite Mythria. And yet, all I hear from you is excuses." Her gaze narrowed, almost pitifully. "So far, I’ve seen no meaningful progress from your end."
Heinau inhaled sharply. That tone—she wasn’t angry. That was worse. She was disappointed.
Still, he braced himself and replied carefully, "The plan is in motion. It just needs... a few more days. Liana has begun exhibiting the signs. Her transformation is accelerating. Once it’s complete, I can begin implementing Phase One."
Isolde tilted her head ever so slightly, and a thin smile crept onto her face—not warm, but sharp. "Good. At least something is proceeding as scheduled."
She adjusted her gloves idly, then added, "I’ve suppressed intervention from all major Houses across the continents, including Lucian. No one will interfere. You’ll have full operational freedom... which means I expect results. Swiftly. Efficiently."
Her next words were like daggers wrapped in silk. "You had ambition, Heinau. That was why I chose you. But if you forget that..." she leaned in slightly, her smile curving wider, "...even the Everharts could reunite Mythria in your place."
The threat wasn’t veiled.
It was wrapped in honey, but it was real. And cold.
Heinau lowered his head. The pressure was immense. In truth, he had always considered himself a visionary, a tactician. But in the presence of Isolde Lancaster... he felt like a pawn trying to pretend he was a king.
Everything he’d done up until now—all his plans, all his subterfuge—it had all been orchestrated by her. She had drawn the lines. He was just moving within the boundaries she’d designed.
He swallowed hard, and then, tentatively, he asked the question that had plagued him for weeks.
"...Why are you helping me?"
His voice lacked the pride of a ruler. It was quiet. Hesitant. Almost submissive.
Isolde’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened with something close to amusement. "Let’s just say... I’m doing this for Alaris."
He almost asked—but one glance at her face told him it would be unwise.
’What does Alaris have to do with this?’ he thought, bewildered.
His mind raced, connecting dots that refused to align. ’If she truly was acting on Alaris’s behalf, then what was the end goal? Subjugation? Control? Rebirth?’
Their meeting was over.
But just as Isolde turned to leave, her booted heel brushing against the stone path, Heinau’s voice called out—soft, but firm.
"Miss Lancaster... how about a tea session? I would still like to learn from you, if you’ll allow it."
She turned her head slightly, a single amethyst eye glinting in the moonlight. For a moment, she said nothing—just watched him, as if weighing the intent behind the offer.
Then, without a word, she returned to her seat.
The tea had already been poured. Twin porcelain cups sat between them, untouched until now. Isolde had never bothered with it before—she never indulged in the courtesies of social pretense. But since he had asked...
She reached for the cup only after Heinau did. A subtle display of dominance? Or perhaps caution. Regardless, their fingers wrapped around the warm porcelain in unison, and both took a measured sip.
The tea was still warm. The heat-retention charm etched into the cup’s base was one of Opalcrest’s minor enchantment trademarks. Heinau took pride in these little details.
He spoke first, as expected.
"Miss Lancaster," he began carefully, "were you not once a friend of Liana?"
Isolde didn’t look at him. She simply stared into her cup, her voice as cold as steel. "That word means very little to me."
"But still," he pressed gently, "you destroyed her life. Coldly. Without hesitation."
"I destroyed nothing. I acted," she replied flatly. "I don’t care for sentimental chains like ’friendship.’ All I care about is my family—and Alaris. If they were ever threatened, I would tear kingdoms apart without remorse."
Heinau’s lips pressed together.
"And Liana’s daughter... isn’t she part of your family?" he asked, tone dipping into the dangerous.
Surely even Isolde could not dismiss that so easily.
But her laugh was soft—more like a scoff. "She is a pawn. A useful vessel to lull them into a false sense of security. Nothing more. Even my son didn’t spare her a glance. She may be the most beautiful girl in Cronica, but if he has no interest, then neither do I."
Her tone was void of emotion. Heinau was struck by how easily she discarded people—how casual cruelty came to her.
He nodded slowly, taking another sip.
But behind his calm demeanor, his thoughts burned with venom.
’Just you wait, woman...’
’All the humiliation. Every insult. Every order barked like I’m your hound. One day, you’ll learn what it feels like to kneel.’
Unseen, the scent of flowers thickened in the air.
Among the orchids and duskroot blossoms was another—pale-blue, almost invisible to the eye flower, but exuding a subtle paralytic fragrance.
Heinau had it cultivated specifically for this moment. A rare variant called Virenna’s Breath. He had long since developed immunity.
And he could see it now—the slight dip in her shoulders, the faint sluggishness in her movements, the way her eyes blinked slower than before.
Then her grip loosened.
Her fingers released the cup as if it had suddenly grown too heavy. Her head tilted slightly, her eyes glassy.
Moments later, her body slumped forward, and with a dull thud, her face struck the table.
The porcelain cup rattled but did not spill.
And then... he smiled.
The mask fell away, revealing something vile beneath.
"Look at you now... helpless, aren’t you?" he whispered, his voice trembling with triumph. "Not so untouchable anymore, are you? Your precious husband won’t be here to save you."
His steps were measured as he rose and walked around the table. His fingers curled in anticipation, reaching toward her unmoving form with a disgusting glint in his eyes.
But before he could touch her—
A delicate, almost invisible light sparked in the air like fireflies igniting.
Thin, translucent, razor-sharp threads materialized around him, wrapping his limbs and torso before he could even blink. His eyes widened in horror.
He tried to speak, but the threads constricted.
They squeezed tighter.
Panic replaced arrogance. He screamed—only for the sound to be strangled as the threads dug into flesh and muscle, slicing without hesitation.
His body burst like a fruit left too long under the sun, torn apart in a spray of blood and ruined flesh.
He awoke with a gasp, jerking in his seat.
His body was whole. No cuts. No pain.
But he was soaked in cold sweat. His hands trembled. His breath came in ragged gulps. Tears streamed down his cheeks involuntarily, mixing with the snot and drool that clung to his face.
’It was a dream? No... a vision? No, it—’
Laughter bubbled up from his chest, cracked and broken like a madman’s.
But it died the instant his eyes met hers.
Isolde Lancaster sat across from him, finishing her tea with a slow, deliberate sip. Her expression was calm—but when she looked up, there was something behind those violet eyes.
Something ancient. Something cruel.
"A mistake," she said softly, placing the cup down with a faint clink. "Your first, Heinau."
She stood. "I’m letting you live because you still have worth. But if you ever attempt something again... it won’t be a mere illusion."
Her words hung in the air like a curse.
She turned and walked away, this time without pause.
Heinau remained seated, paralyzed. The silence of the garden was louder now. More alive.
Streaks of crimson stained the wood grain. Blood pooled near where his head had struck. Drops led toward the ground—his blood.
Exactly where he had died.
’It wasn’t a vision. It wasn’t a dream.’
He couldn’t smile. Couldn’t speak. Could barely move.
The woman he had tried to outmaneuver had just shown him something no illusionist or assassin could:
A fate worse than death.