Chapter 19- Have you forgotten who I am, brother-in-law?

Alexander sighed wearily. A grin stretched across his bloodied face as he slumped against the cold marble floor, his grip on the claymore loosening.

“So much for protecting that bastard’s name,” he chuckled, bitter and tired.

CLANG!

Fafnir’s draconic hand wrapped around the hilt of Alexander’s blade. With a low growl, he yanked it free, steel rasping against flesh and bone.

“Haah… haah… haa…”

Fafnir dropped to his knees. Though his breathing was ragged, the wounds across his chest began to seal slowly — sinew knitting, scales reforming.

“I won’t miss your heart next time,” Alexander muttered, his voice a fading whisper as the darkness finally took him.

Caelum rushed to his side, kneeling and cradling Alexander with his arm.

FWISH!

Small particles of green light sparkled to life, they flowed from the spellsword to Alexander.

The globules of light entered Alexander’s body, coursing through his veins, attaching themselves to his broken bones and torn skin. The wounds closed slowly, not fully healed but not fatal.

Thaddeus, too stunned to speak, only sat at his throne. Many emotions splashed over his face- Disbelief at Alexander’s strength, fear of his actions and the shame of pushing a loyal vassal too far.

His jaw tightened as he clenched the golden armrest of his throne.

“Bring in the medics!” His voice thundered through the vast hall.

Moments later, healers in flowing gold-and-white robes poured into the chamber, each drawn to their respective charges. The green light returned — brighter this time — filling the room with a soft, almost holy glow.

Fafnir slouched into a velvet chair, chest bare, breathing uneven. The scar from Alexander’s strike had vanished entirely.

A few hours later—

Alexander stood beside Richard and Arnold in the imperial court. Only he held his chin high.

Richard’s fists trembled, his nails digging into his palms.

“Forgive me for my shameful display, my lord,” Richard said, falling to one knee, his voice steeped in frustration and guilt.

Arnold followed suit. “I am sorry to have disappointed you, Your Highness.”

Alexander’s lips curled into a crooked smile.

“Your Highness,” he said, stepping forward, “even the greatest walls can’t stop me. If it means saving my friend — an innocent man — I’ll break those walls… and tear down whatever hides behind them.”

“How dare yo—” Richard snapped.

“But—” Alexander cut him off, his gaze calm but firm. “I was wrong in how I handled it.” He turned to Thaddeus. “Your Highness… Edward doesn’t deserve punishment. If anything, he deserves praise.”

Caelum chuckled quietly.
“You fool. Since when were you a philosopher?”

“Was I?”

“No.”

“Tsch.”

Thaddeus cracked a weak smile.

‘He’s right… but I have my own reasons.’

He raised a goblet of wine to his lips, hesitating as the weight of unspoken words caught in his throat. After a long pause, he lowered it and rubbed his temple.

“I only said Edward is suspected of treason, Alexander…” His voice was quiet. “We received intel about the matter…That is why this meeting was called — to discuss it.”

Alexander sank to one knee with grace.

“My lord,” he spoke, tone respectful, “Do we now even trust the words of neighbourhood aunts in our royal affairs?” his brow arched.

“Pft!” a small chuckle escaped Caelum’s mouth.

Richard glared at him, at which the latter politely covered his pearly teeth with his hand like a noble lady.

Thaddeus glared at Alexander, he himself was controlling his laugh at Alexander’s remark.

“The source of info is the Ashen Church.” Thaddeus grumbled, frustration and disgust evident in his tone.

Alexander stood up elegantly. With a polite smile his jaw moved again,

“Since when did we consult old fogeys who recite sermons while rubbing their bellies in our imperial affairs?”

“Haha!…sorry.” Arnold burst out laughing only to be stopped by Thaddeus’ narrowed brows.

Thaddeus looked at Alexander, then at the ceiling,

‘What do I say now?’

‘Is there any valid excuse… Please just give me a d@mn idea!’

GLOW!

A bulb flickered to life in Thaddeus’ head, his eyes traced back to Alexander.

“Alexander, we all know how much the Ashen church contributed to the empire.”

Thaddeus coughed in his curled fist,

“If they express concern for an issue, we must look into it.”

Before Thaddeus could continue, a laugh interrupted him.

“The Ashen church made CONTRIBUTIONS?…” his voice pressed at ‘contributions’, “To the EMPIRE?” Alexander said, pushing his tongue into the inside of his cheek, making his jaw bulge as he gave a slow, exaggerated nod. He flicked his wrist dismissively, as if shooing away a gnat. “Guess our forefathers only ate popcorn when the empire was being formed.”

Thaddeus leaned towards Alexander, his hand stretching towards him.

“Alexander, it's not that the noble houses did not contribute to the empire, but, even the church contributed a little.”

Alexander held his hand gently, “My lord, what have they done, donated money… made technological innovations…Help people?... Donated supplies during famines?” he walked closer to Thaddeus,

“What have they done except ask for money from us?” Alexander’s eyes glared at Thaddeus.

Thaddeus, feeling the weight of those bloodshot eyes only averted his gaze from Alexander.

STEP!

Alexander stepped away from the throne, he faced the other occupants of the room.

“The only thing they have provided is a concubine for your majesty.”

“Leonhart! Control your tongue!” Thaddeus roared. The sudden boom of his voice echoed like a whip crack. “I will not tolerate further insolence!”

Even Alexander — bold as ever — flinched.

A heavy silence hung in the air like dust refusing to settle.

Thaddeus's roar had shaken the hall. Even Alexander stood still, his tongue held back for once. A few moments passed — slow, thick, almost sacred in their tension.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

The sudden, rapid knocks against the towering doors startled everyone. All heads turned. The golden-plated gates opened with a creak, and in hurried came an elderly man clad in dark teal livery — the imperial butler, face pale, breaths uneven.

“Your Majesty,” he bowed hastily, eyes darting between the emperor and the battered nobles. “I beg your pardon, but… there is a gathering outside the palace.”

Thaddeus’s eyes narrowed. “A gathering?”

“At the common court grounds, Your Majesty,” the butler replied, voice tight. “Hundreds, perhaps more. It seems… the people have come by word of a certain noble.”

“It’s Count Henry Duskrane, Your Majesty.”

The air in the room chilled.

Thaddeus paled. The words hit harder than any blade. His shoulders stiffened, mouth opening as if to speak, but nothing came. His gaze dropped, shadowed by guilt.

“Henry…?” Richard whispered in disbelief. “That lunatic?”

Arnold glanced at Alexander, who simply narrowed his eyes, lips pressed tight. Caelum tilted his head, curious.

“Lead the way,” Thaddeus finally muttered, his voice low and hollow.

Together, they departed the audience chamber, each step toward the court grounds heavier than the last.

—

High above, nestled in a golden tower laced with dragon motifs and sun-soaked glass, Fafnir stirred from his slumber. Beads of sweat rolled down his temple as his eyes snapped open.

“Haaah…”

The dragon-blooded warrior sat up, brow furrowed. A tremor slithered down his spine—an instinct, ancient and primal, roaring in the back of his skull. A presence had entered the palace. Not just powerful—primordial. It gnawed at his senses like fire licking dry wood.

“…What the hell just walked in?” he murmured to himself, golden irises glowing faintly. His gaze turned toward the horizon beyond the balcony, heart pounding, breath uneven.

And still… he did not recognize it.

—

STEP… STEP…

Boots echoed down the marble.

A procession parted like waves before a ship. Nobles watched, frozen. Knights gripped their swords but did not draw. The palace guards stood aside, uncertain. He walked alone, his pace calm, each stride unhurried but commanding, like a predator in a world of prey.

At the center of the chaos stood a man—tall, striking, and thoroughly bruised.

It was Cardinal Anselm of the Ashen Church.

Or rather, what remained of him.

His white-and-gold robes were torn and stained with blood. One eye swollen shut. His once-regal hair now matted with sweat and dirt. He staggered forward only because he was dragged.

By a man.

White-haired, short-frizzed like wild frost-kissed wool, and with sapphire eyes that gleamed like storm-lit oceans.

Count Henry Duskrane.

“Is this what our empire has come to?” he asked, his voice silken—almost sultry—yet crackling with venom. “Holy men storming counties without decree, burning homes, and calling it righteous?”

The crowd stirred. A hush spread like wildfire.

Henry dropped Anselm onto the marble with a casual flick. The cardinal groaned, barely conscious.

Henry stood tall, his cloak tattered, yet he radiated something more potent than finery—ferocity. His smile was pleasant. His presence was terrifying.

“You sent them, didn’t you, dear brother-in-law?” His eyes locked onto Thaddeus as the emperor stepped out into the light.

Henry’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Have you forgotten who I am?”

A few hours earlier…

The hooves of Henry’s warhorse thundered down the Imperial Causeway, kicking up dust and panic in his wake. The sun blazed overhead, but the Count rode like a man possessed — coat flaring behind him, teeth bared in fury.

The palace was in sight. He would burn it down if he had to.

Then—

A shadow stepped into the road.

The horse skidded and reared, nearly throwing Henry from the saddle. He yanked the reins, furious, drawing breath for a curse—

—but stopped.

The man before him was no common fool. He stood calmly in the center of the road, posture straight, expression unreadable. Short, neatly parted black hair. Eyes the color of fresh blood, focused like a blade unsheathed.

He wore a black vest over a crimson dress shirt, paired with black tie and slacks — simple, sharp, and spotless.

Henry's eyes narrowed. “Move.”

But before the man could reply, a second figure stepped out from behind him.

A boy, no older than ten.

He pulled back his hood — and white hair, chopped into a sharp undercut, spilled free. His eyes were crystalline, twin shards of amethyst.

“Father!” the boy said.

Henry’s breath caught. “Vincent…?”

The Count slid from the saddle in stunned silence. “What…? How—”

“I’ll explain later,” the boy said, walking forward with calm beyond his years. “This is my friend. You don’t need his name yet. But he’s not here to stop you — neither am I.”

The dark-haired man gave a faint nod, arms crossed. “Your anger is righteous, Count. But anger alone burns blind.”

Henry growled, but Vincent raised a hand.

“I came to find you.”

He stepped closer.

“Strike them. Drag their truth into the light. Don’t let them hide behind locked doors and holy words.” His voice dropped lower. “Take them to the Common Court. Where the people can see. Where their masks will crack on their own.”

Henry stared at his son. There was something different in him — not just power, but clarity. And something in the black-haired man’s presence… something ancient.

“…Son of mine,” Henry muttered. “What a fabulous idea!, I was gonna raze the whole thing to the ground… but this will do.”

Vincent gave a faint smile. “You always said the world doesn’t give second chances.”

“Guess I was wrong,” Henry said, cracking his knuckles. “Time to go knock on some doors.”

—

Ashen marble, veined with gold.

The grand doors of the Ashen Church exploded open as Henry Duskrane kicked them in with the full force of a thunderclap.

Priests and temple guards flinched as he stepped inside — coat trailing behind him, blood still caked on his boots from the ride.

He scanned the chamber with icy disdain.

“I’m here for the Cardinal,” he said flatly, cracking his wrists one at a time. “You can send him out, or I’ll come collect him.”

Dozens of templars in white and gold armor began to descend the spiral stairs.

One of the senior clerics approached, hands raised.

“Count Duskrane—this is a sacred place. You can’t—"

“You came into my lands,” Henry interrupted, stepping forward. “Burned villages. Tortured innocents. And you think I care about your marble and robes?”

The tension snapped.

With a shout, the templars rushed forward, blades drawn, golden cloaks billowing.

Henry, unarmed, rolled his neck, smirked—

And walked into the storm.

Scene ends.