Just as the prince was about to step beyond the threshold of the Archives, the voice of fate returned,an unseen presence that echoed within the ancient heart of the Steel Citadel.

“Through a collision of destinies, a new fate is born. Lesser Fate: A Hint of Fortune has taken root.”

A sharp, amused laugh slipped past the prince’s lips before he even realized it,cracked with madness, not mirth. The sound hung in the air like smoke.

Outside, the once-blazing sun had lowered into the western sky, casting the heavens in a veil of pale violet. The heat of day had faded, and with it, the absence of routine,a missed afternoon training,seemed inconsequential. Something greater had been claimed in its place.

The moment the prince turned his gaze to seek out his attendant, Alfred appeared, as if summoned by the silence.

“Have you concluded your affairs, Your Highness?” came the low, respectful voice, paired with a perfectly measured bow.

Beside Alfred stood a different official,another steward of the Steel Citadel, not the one from earlier. Suspicion clung to the man’s eyes, poorly concealed behind thin professionalism.

“Watch those insolent eyes,” the prince said coldly. “Before I pluck them out.”

“Apologies, Your Highness.”

The steward stiffened, clearly unsettled. He had every reason to be. Fire had been swallowed whole, drawn into the blood,an act both impossible and imperial. Technically, such a thing ought not to leave the grounds.

The steward flinched at the sight of the prince’s mouth curling upward into a grin, faintly crimson against the backdrop of platinum-white hair that caught the last light of day. A shiver passed through the man’s frame.

Madness…One wrong glance, and death would have followed.

“Consider the sky’s favor your salvation.”

With those parting words, the prince moved forward, steps unhurried, almost lazy. For all the regal blood that flowed through his veins, there was an almost languid rhythm to the way he walked,loose,limbed and unbothered. 

And yet, it detracted nothing from his presence. There was a strange dignity in the looseness, a kind of undisturbed majesty in the lack of rigid formality.

Not until the prince stepped into the carriage did the trembling steward allow himself a breath of relief. The sky, truly, had spared him. An absurd justification, perhaps,but one that made perfect sense where the Eleventh Prince was concerned.

From the carriage window, the prince observed the man’s faint exhale, and a similar breath escaped his own chest,small, near imperceptible. No signs of suspicion had been noticed. The secret remained intact.

The plush leather of the back seat accepted his weight, cradling him in muted comfort. Silence reigned,and then, the weight of a gaze drifted forwardn unseen, but keenly felt. The prince lifted his eyes toward the rear-view mirror and met Alfred’s.

His heart stilled for the briefest second, but not a flicker showed on his face. He remained sprawled in a posture of careless ease, his gaze cool and unreadable.

“You’ve saved a life. That makes three.”

“I’ve said nothing, Your Highness.”

“Your eyes are insolent.”

“My apologies.”

“Yes. You should be.”

Outside, the Steel Citadel was slowly swallowed by twilight. Towers and battlements bled into the sky, silhouettes carved in obsidian and smoke. White mana-lamps flared to life along the roads, casting sterile halos to push back the crawling dark. The entire city shimmered between scarlet, shadow, and silver light.

The prince’s gaze shifted slightly.

“Do you know anything of…a nameless scribe?”

The question was sudden, quiet,but carried weight. Memory had stirred. A figure had come to mind, someone bathed in that same strange light, the one who had first whispered the secret of Fate Devouring. The last image of that figure lingered in the violet twilight.

Now, in this life, he served somewhere as a scribe. Surely he must.

“The Nameless Scribe, Your Highness? I’ve never heard the name.”

“You’ve never heard of him?”

The prince’s brow tensed. Suspicion stirred again. Was this evasion? A deliberate obfuscation?

“…Is that the truth?”

“It is. There is no ‘Nameless’ among the scribes. Identities are strictly verified.”

Alfred’s face bore no deception. Only calm honesty, and that, perhaps, was more baffling.

The man who had once passed along a mystery powerful enough to rend fate,the ghost haunting one pillar of the Steel Citadel’s whispered legends,now simply did not exist.

And if Alfred, of all people, was unaware, then truly no one knew. Of course. There existed no servant in the Citadel whose name escaped Alfred’s registry.

“Shall I look into it? I can make an inquiry to the Imperial Records Office.”

“Do so.”

“You seem in good spirits today, Your Highness. Perhaps a particularly fine book?”

“Curiosity will cost you. Do you want another debt?”

“I shall say no more.”

The corners of Alfred’s mouth tugged upward, faintly amused. Then, as if recalling something inconsequential,

“While Your Highness was in the Archives, the Seventh Princess paid a visit.”

“…The Seventh? What did she say?”

“She appeared… in excellent spirits. Not unlike Your Highness.”

An unexpected report, tossed into conversation like a pebble into still water. It might have been dismissed, but a frown gathered across the prince’s brow. The question was unspoken, why would she be in high spirits?

Alfred’s tone carried a deliberate note. A hint embedded in silence. The answer was already known. The rest was a deduction. The conclusion, as always, came clean and sharp.

“Gather every servant. They will all attend dinner tonight.”

“Understood.”

Beyond the carriage window, the last color of day gave way to black. Beneath the canopy of the darkening sky, the prince’s violet eyes flickered,tinged now with blood.

The summons had been sudden. None understood the reason, but all obeyed.

Servants filed into the great dining hall, one after another, silent and stiff with unease. Whispers stirred between them,speculation, fear. The table stretched long enough to seat them all, though no one truly felt they belonged.

At the head, seated in solitary grandeur, the Eleventh Prince waited. His shirt hung open at the collar, platinum hair loose and drifting with every movement. 

Long legs extended beneath the table, careless yet poised. No gesture was made toward the others. No word spoken. He sat as though the room was his to command,and it was.

Food was served.

He ate with the slow precision of a man unbothered by hunger. Each bite taken with a strangely refined indulgence,never rushed, never crude. Even at his most relaxed, the presence he exuded rendered him untouchable. The servants, sitting like statues, formed the backdrop to his silent, effortless dominance. The scene resembled theatre, and he was its sole actor.

Then came the command.

“Bring me wine.”

The word alone stiffened every shoulder in the hall.The prince’s temperament under drink was a tale recited in hushed warnings. Volatile, sharp, and terrifying. The servants could feel it. Something was coming.

Alfred appeared, silent and grim, bearing a glass bottle filled with a dark amber liquid.

The prince examined it,and shook his head.

“Not this. Another.”

More bottles followed. Each rejected.

“No. Not that.”
“No.”
“Something else.”

The rejections grew sharper. The atmosphere tightened. Sweat began to bead along foreheads. Hands shook. A few maids, not yet touched, were already on the verge of tears.

Finally,when a bottle of dark wine, thick as blood, was brought forth,the prince gave a slow nod.

“Yes. Pour it.”

Wine trickled into a glass, deep red and dense. When the prince swirled the liquid, it left faint traces along the crystal rim,like blood about to drip.He inhaled the aroma with closed eyes. Then, at last, turned his gaze toward the servants.

One by one, he studied them.

Not quickly,no. Slowly, like a man choosing meat for slaughter. Each glance measured, cold, unblinking.His chin lifted slightly toward one shivering maid.

“You. Step forward.”

Another was chosen, a servant with clenched fists.

“You too.”

More followed. One after another.When enough had been selected, he spoke again.

“Bring out as many glasses as there are people here.”

Alfred obeyed. Wine was poured, precisely, deliberately.

“Pick up your glass,” the prince ordered.

The chosen ones lifted trembling hands.

“Drink.”

As they hesitated, the prince brought his own glass to his lips,smiling, that maddened smirk returning to his face.

“Refuse, and you’ll all die. Your families too. That is the punishment for defying a mad prince’s command.”

A heavy silence gripped the hall.

“But drink,” he continued, “and you may yet live. The rest… will depend on your answers.”

“Th-that… Your Highness…”

A whisper of protest tried to surface.

“Or,” he asked softly, “do you have something else to say?”

The question was velvet-wrapped steel. 

One maid broke. Then another.

“Forgive me! I only brought what I was told to!”
“I—I just passed along the message!”
“They said it would help Your Highness’s strength!”
“Please! Please spare me!”

They fell to the floor, bowing, begging, confessions spilling like blood,and then, with no warning, the prince raised the very glass believed to contain the poison,and drank.

A low gulp, then another. The sound of wine sliding down his throat echoed across the hall. Every eye locked on him. Not one dared to breathe, then, slowly, the prince lowered the glass. His lips were stained red. His gaze burned with fire.

“Speak,” he commanded.

“Tell me whose order it was.”

His smile was crimson, slow, and cruel.

“I need to see some blood.”