The banquet hall was awfully quiet.

No one opened their mouths, and even breathing was held – so quiet that if someone rolled their eyes, even that sound could be heard.

They had all seen the same scene.

The Duke of Fraser collapsed, coughing up blood.

Who would dare do anything?

A man so stoic that even the rumour that he didn’t cry at birth could not be denied – if someone said it was true, no one could argue.

The stench of blood, sharper and more pungent as if mixed with something else, stung their noses, and a pool of almost black blood was clearly visible on the floor of the banqueting hall.

“Call the carriage! Now! We’re leaving at once!”

The Duchess of Fraser, known for her impeccable dignity, which no one dared criticise, was now screaming like a madwoman, her face drenched in tears.

The Duke of Fraser lay limp in her arms, as if lifeless.

Moments later, as if from nowhere, figures as dark as shadows appeared and surrounded the couple.

That was the end of it.

Before anyone could blink, the Duke and Duchess of Fraser had vanished from the banquet hall without a trace.

Who could have known that those surrounding the couple belonged to the Shadows, a secret division within the Duke’s Investigation Unit?

Anyone without proper clearance wouldn’t even be aware of the existence of the Investigation Unit, let alone the Shadows.

When Bolk was gathering information about poisons in the north, he had this to say about the shadow that followed him:

“I hope our first meeting will be our last. Enemy or ally, they’re the kind of bastards I never want to see again. I never imagined that part of the Bolshevik legacy would be carried on in such a damnable way.”

Perhaps because even rabid dogs would shudder at the sight of those who had entered, those who remained couldn’t bring themselves to face reality.

‘Is this a dream?’

As if in silent agreement, they all shared the same thought, staring blankly ahead, their eyes blinking slowly in a daze.

‘How much time had passed?’

As if under a spell that had turned them to stone, not one of them moved.

And yet, once again, they all came to the same conclusion.

‘It’s a dream.’

‘What kind of absurd dream is this?’

‘Truly, there’s no other word for it but a madman’s dream…’

Just as their desperate attempt to escape reality with dry, hollow laughter was about to succeed –

“Aaaahhh!”

A scream that cut through the air like a blade, grabbing them by the hair and dragging them back to reality.

Eyes, already wide as if they couldn’t get any wider, widened in shock.

The Countess of Diharman.

An experienced lady, known not only for hosting tonight’s banquet, but for being a central pillar of the entire social circle.

And yet there she was, letting out a choked cry as she clung desperately to her son’s waist, refusing to let go.

She was being dragged with such force that her feet barely touched the ground, her hair dishevelled and her make-up smeared beyond recognition – a pathetic sight – but still she refused to let go of his arm.

“No, no! No! Aaaah!”

Even as she clung to her son’s waist, being dragged helplessly across the floor, she struggled desperately to stop him, to hold him back.

But not a single person moved.

It was as if everyone had been paralysed, frozen by the horrific scene unfolding before them.

Delfion was no different.

He couldn’t comprehend what had just happened – not in the slightest.

Delfion had at least known that Irvelyn was up to something.

So he had watched Yoris, her closest ally, with relentless concentration, not missing even the slightest movement of his fingertips.

He was certain that Yoris had tampered with Dalia’s teacup.

So much so that when her pale hand had reached for the cup, he had tensed his thigh muscles, ready to intervene – to ease even a fraction of her pain.

And yet…

“Curtis Fraser?”

The same name as before, but now spoken as if it were something else entirely.

Delfion stared blankly at the empty seat where Dalia had been, his eyes clouded with helplessness, panic and a confusion far greater than either.

The one whose screams had turned the entire banquet hall from grotesque dream to unbearable reality was still screaming, her voice raw and torn.

“Yoris! Yoris, what are you doing? Please! Stop this!”

The Duke of Fraser had coughed up blood after drinking the tea her son had given him.

But even though this was a matter that could uproot her family, the Countess paid no attention.

It couldn’t be helped.

When her own son was about to take his own life in front of her, how could anything else matter?

Yoris hadn’t done anything particularly dramatic.

While everyone’s attention had been focused on Curtis, the Countess had been the only one watching her son.

And what she saw was enough.

Yoris subtly shaking his sleeve, glancing between the empty teacups and then licking his lips.

No further explanation or proof was needed.

Her son was about to die.

“Why are you doing this?! Why on earth would you do such a thing?! No, I don’t care why – just stop, please, stop!”

The Countess’s desperate cries were enough to shake the heart of any parent.

There are words to describe a child who has lost a parent, but none for a parent who has lost a child.

Such grief is too unbearable to put into words.

Watching a mother struggle to keep her child from slipping away, no one could bring themselves to point the finger at Yoris Diharman and accuse him of trying to assassinate the Duke.

So Yoris bought himself time.

He moved with a purpose that was, paradoxically, crystal clear beyond his fading consciousness.

He was unaware that his mother was clinging to his waist, being dragged along the floor.

No – he could see nothing.

Nothing but one thing:

He was going to die.

“Poison the Duchess’s teacup, then drink the same poison yourself and die. Hm. No, actually – it doesn’t matter how. Just die.”

In his unfocused gaze, his black eyes gleamed strangely, shimmering with a lifeless glow.

“You love me, don’t you?”

Yes. I love you.

He hadn’t denied it.

He couldn’t.

There was no doubt in his mind.

“Then do as I say.

He simply did as love commanded.

He checked the poison that had seeped into his sleeve.

It wouldn’t be enough.

Even if he licked every last drop, it wouldn’t be enough to kill him.

‘I must find another way.’

A sword?

He fumbled around his waist – nothing.

Of course not. Wearing a sword to a banquet would have been considered rude.

‘A dagger?’

That wasn’t there either.

Of course he wouldn’t have hidden a dagger at a banquet he was hosting.

‘Should I hang myself?’

His head dangled like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

His eyes landed on the massive chandelier above him, but no matter how far he reached, it was far too high to touch.

There were no options left.

And yet – he had to die.

Completely consumed by love, Yoris opened her mouth and spoke to the one who commanded her.

“Irvelyn, how should I die? Please, I beg you, tell me.”

His voice, chillingly clear and without a trace of madness or emotion, echoed through the banquet hall.

Hearing these words, the Countess’ strength drained from her body and she slipped from her son’s waist and collapsed to the floor.

With his body suddenly lighter, Yoris took a step towards her.

“Irvelyn, please tell me. I will die as you command.”

When there was no reply, he raised his arm and pointed his index finger directly at her.

“Irve—”

Thud!

With a sound as loud as breaking bones, Yoris’ eyes rolled back, showing only the whites, as he lost consciousness.

The Count of Diharman, who had struck him, wore an expression beyond words.

Eyes blazing, he turned his gaze to the person his son had pointed to just before he collapsed.

Irvelyn Romand.

At last, every single eye in the banquet hall was fixed on her, sharp and unrelenting, as if no one dared look elsewhere.

Like a fish on a spear, Irvelyn stood frozen, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

Then, as if to block everything out, she put her hands to her ears and took a deep breath.

“No! No! No! No!”

Not even able to form proper sentences, she could only repeat that one word over and over, on the verge of losing her mind.

Perhaps she had already lost it.

From the moment Curtis Fraser drank the poison, her mind went completely blank, only to be filled again and again with utter chaos.

‘What went wrong?’

‘Everything had gone perfectly.’

She had prepared a poison without an antidote. Of course – wasn’t that obvious? If she wanted to make sure he died, she needed something to guarantee it.

The method of delivering the poison had been simple. It had taken some forced magic, but she had used Yoris – the one person who could move freely around the Duke and Duchess of Fraser without arousing suspicion.

Then, to lure the woman out, she sent an invitation.

It was a Diharman family banquet, which had been successful once before.

As if the whole world were on her side, the woman had taken the bait without hesitation.

And after that, everything had gone even more smoothly.

The poison had been slipped into the teacup without a hitch, and as soon as she drank the tea, it should have been over.

But why?

Why was it Curtis and not her?

From the moment he took her teacup – without warning – and drank the poisoned tea, every part of it had felt completely unnatural.

“Ah.”

A short gasp escaped her lips before she realised.

As if struck by lightning, her mind suddenly cleared in an instant.

Dalia might have been stupid, but she wasn’t stupid enough to lose her head when her life was on the line.

She did it on purpose.

Then that man…

Irvelyn stood frozen as the Knights of House Romand approached her like ghosts, muttering to herself,

“They knew everything.”