The rest of the count’s body was scattered across the room. His limbs had been flung haphazardly—one over the sofa, another behind it, and others atop the desk. His torso, detached from the head, lay crumpled by the table.
Every cut was rough, jagged, as if torn by sheer brute force rather than any tool.
“No human could have done this,” Gildbet muttered.
Even with superhuman strength, it would have been nearly impossible for anyone to rip a person apart with their bare hands. Yet the marks on the body suggested it had been done effortlessly, without the strain one might expect from such a gruesome act.
“Contact the Imperial Temple and the court magicians,” Gildbet ordered.
There were no known spells capable of producing such carnage, but Gildbet’s thoughts drifted to the realm of forbidden magic—dark arts spoken of only in hushed whispers. The scene was so otherworldly that such suspicions were inevitable.
“Have the servants been questioned?” Gildbet asked, steadying himself as the acrid taste in his throat subsided.
“The investigation is underway,” Hadel replied, his voice shaky as he tried to compose himself after his earlier vomiting.
“And the count’s son?”
“He was standing by earlier but stepped away to rest,” John croaked, his voice hoarse from retching. He looked utterly drained, as though there was nothing left in him to expel.
Gildbet’s jaw tightened. This investigation was only beginning, but one thing was clear: it wasn’t a simple murder. It was vengeance—vengeance of the darkest, most visceral kind.
“Where are the other family members?”
“The countess passed away long ago. He has a daughter, but she fainted upon seeing the scene and is currently in her room.”
The scene itself was enough to make anyone faint, Gildbet thought grimly.
“And who discovered the body first?”
“A maid named Lily, who was on the early morning patrol. She found him during her final rounds before sunrise. She’s currently in the drawing room being questioned by Bill. Oh, and…”
At John’s hesitant tone, Gildbet turned to look at him.
“There’s a young lady from the Ember Ducal Family here in the manor.”
“The Ember Ducal Family’s young lady?”
“Yes. She stayed the night after the debutante ball, as a guest of the count’s daughter. She’s still in her room, as we requested she remain there for the time being.”
An uninvolved noble, especially one from a ducal family, was a delicate matter to handle. It would be inappropriate to subject her to questioning without cause, but letting her leave the premises could be seen as favoritism.
“I’ll handle the duchess’s young lady myself,” Gildbet said.
If lower-ranked knights were sent, they might falter under the weight of her status and fail to conduct a proper inquiry. He decided it would be better to handle the matter personally.
Even as he left the crime scene, the images of blood and mutilation lingered in his mind, refusing to fade. It was the most grotesque scene he’d encountered in all his years with the Order. No ordinary human could have committed such an atrocity.
Gildbet wiped his face with a dry hand, trying to shake off the haunting images, and walked down the hallway. Behind him, his adjutant, still pale and unsteady, reported what he’d learned.
“The young lady from the Ember Ducal Family is staying on the third floor, in a room with her maid. She has not left since the incident.”
“Any complaints from her?”
“None so far. As for the count’s daughter, she has not regained consciousness.”
Gildbet nodded, descending to the third floor. He stopped in front of the room where the young lady was staying. A knight from the Third Order stood at the door and saluted him before stepping aside.
Straightening his posture, Gildbet knocked on the door. There was no response, but the door opened shortly afterward.
“I am Gildbet Febrice, Commander of the Imperial Third Order,” he announced.
“Please, come in,” a soft voice replied.
The door was opened by a maid—a plain-looking woman with brown hair and brown eyes. Her expression was visibly somber. She stepped aside to let Gildbet in.
Inside, Gildbet’s gaze was naturally drawn to the figure of a woman seated by the window. Her head was turned toward the glass, her jet-black hair catching the morning light.
What caught him off guard was her attire. She was still in a thin nightgown, albeit partially covered by a large shawl draped around her shoulders. The shawl fell to her thighs, but the pale fabric beneath it was unmistakably sleepwear.
For a moment, Gildbet hesitated, unsure where to direct his eyes. Before he could decide, the young lady turned her head toward him.
He was struck speechless.
Even bathed in the warmth of sunlight, her face was ghostly pale, her lips pressed tightly together, and her golden eyes dim and lifeless, as if she had died the night before. She looked more like a corpse than a living person.
“I’ve come to ask a few questions in relation to the investigation. May I have a moment of your time?” Gildbet finally managed to say.
“Not that I have the option to refuse, do I? Please, take a seat,” she replied in a dry, brittle voice.
Gildbet swallowed and sat across from her. Behind the young lady, her maid stood with a watchful, protective gaze.
Despite her apparent frailty, Gildbet could tell this young lady was no stranger to hardship. Unlike the members of the Buildrander family, who had seen the crime scene, she seemed to bear the weight of the news of death as if it had personally claimed her own family.
“This is merely a formality,” he began. “May I ask what you were doing last night?”
“I attended the Imperial debutante ball. I came to the manor around nine in the evening. I spent time in the countess’s room, chatting and drinking wine until about one in the morning. Then I went to bed.”
“And your maid?”
At this, the young lady glanced back at her maid, who nodded reassuringly before answering, “I tended to the lady’s bedtime preparations and then went to sleep shortly after.”
“Shortly after?” Gildbet pressed.
“We were both exhausted from three consecutive days of the ball,” the young lady interjected. “We’d had some wine as well. Neither of us was in a condition to stay awake long.”
“Was it just the two of you, the countess, and her maid?”
“The countess’s maid and her guard as well. There were five of us in total,” the young lady explained. “It was a small gathering, just to show our appreciation for their efforts over the last few days.”
“I see. You’ll need to remain at the manor until the investigation concludes,” Gildbet informed her, standing up.
As he moved to leave, the maid stepped forward.
“Does that mean the lady cannot return home today?” she asked sharply.
“It’s a necessary measure,” Gildbet replied. “However, we can arrange for a message to be sent to the duchy.”
The maid’s dissatisfaction was evident, though she refrained from openly challenging him. She simply nodded, her face set in a reluctant frown.
As Gildbet turned to leave, the young lady spoke again.
“May I see the countess?”
“The countess?”
“Yes,” she replied softly.
Gildbet recalled that the two were said to be friends. Perhaps she wanted to check on her. The request seemed genuine enough.
It was natural to worry about a friend who had endured such a tragedy, so Gildbet paused to consider the young lady’s request. With Imperial knights stationed nearby and nothing to suggest the two women together would pose an issue, he saw no harm in allowing it.
“She has yet to regain her full composure after fainting,” he said.
“That’s all right. I only wish to see her face,” the young lady replied.
Gildbet nodded and led the young lady and her maid out of the room. The knight assigned to her followed closely behind. The two women walked silently, the young lady showing no curiosity about the unfolding situation or even the circumstances surrounding the count’s death. Her face was calm, almost unnervingly still.
When they arrived at the countess’s room, the assigned knight stepped aside, and the young lady’s maid knocked softly on the door.
“The duchess’s young lady and Commander Gildbet are here,” the maid announced.
Emily, the countess’s maid, opened the door, revealing Florianne. She sat on the bed, her complexion as pale as a corpse, her golden hair damp and disheveled with cold sweat. Draped in a large shawl, it was clear she had neither the will nor the presence of mind to change her clothes.
The young lady entered first, followed by her maid and Gildbet. The door closed softly behind them.
“Florianne,” the young lady called gently.
She moved to the chair by the bed, likely where Emily had been keeping vigil moments before. Taking Florianne’s hand in her own, she squeezed lightly. Tears that had long dried on Florianne’s face began to flow anew.
Without a word, the young lady stood from the chair and sat on the bed beside her friend. She combed her fingers gently through Florianne’s damp hair, offering silent comfort as though the two of them were alone in the room.
Gildbet began to feel like an intruder, unsure if he should remain.
“You may ask your questions,” Florianne said suddenly, her voice thin and strained. She leaned heavily on the young lady, as though drawing strength from her presence.
Gildbet hesitated but proceeded with the inquiry. “Can you tell me what you did last night?”
“I returned from the debutante ball with the duchess’s young lady around nine. We drank wine and chatted until about one in the morning. After that, I washed up and went straight to bed. That’s all.”
Gildbet nodded as he cross-checked her statement with what the duchess’s young lady and her maid had said earlier. The accounts matched seamlessly, with no sign of collusion. He concluded that these young women were likely uninvolved in the crime.
“The investigation will not be fully completed today, but we should finish the most urgent matters. However, you both will need to stay at the manor for another day,” he informed them.
“We understand,” the young lady replied calmly.
“As mentioned earlier, we’ll notify the duchy about the situation,” Gildbet added.
“Please ensure they’re not overly alarmed,” she said with a polite nod.
Leaving instructions for the knights to remain vigilant, Gildbet excused himself from the room. Emily and the duchess’s maid, Laura, hovered nearby, watching their mistresses with worry.
Florianne’s personal guard stood at a respectful distance, leaning against the wall, his face drained of energy. Florianne herself reclined on the bed, her body slack, as though the weight of grief had pulled her down.
Despite the luxurious furnishings of the room and the warm breeze flowing through the open window, the air felt as heavy as a tomb. If this were a grave, Florianne would surely be its occupant.
“Are you struggling?” The young lady’s voice was steady, almost devoid of emotion. Florianne turned her head to look at her.
Her face, pale and sunken, mirrored the young lady’s expression—a quiet, sunken grief. Nodding, she squeezed the hand she was holding.
“I hated my father,” Florianne whispered.
“My lady,” Emily interjected softly, warning in her tone. A statement like that could be damning with Imperial knights still nearby.
But neither Florianne nor the duchess’s young lady paid her any mind.
“Did you hate him very much?” the young lady asked.
“Very, very much,” Florianne admitted. Tears began streaming again, and the young lady gently wiped them away with her cold, pale hand. Florianne stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling with quiet sobs.
“There were days,” she continued, her voice trembling, “when I thought it might be better if he just died.”
“I see,” the young lady replied, her tone unchanging.
Florianne felt a pang of gratitude toward her. She wasn’t judging, nor was she trying to console her with empty platitudes. She simply listened, giving space for Florianne’s grief to spill over.
The sobs grew louder, and soon she was choking on her cries. No one in the room spoke or moved to stop her.
“But now that he’s dead,” Florianne sobbed, “I feel like I’ve died too.”
“Did you love him?” the young lady asked softly.
“Once… a long time ago,” Florianne admitted.
Memories long buried surfaced—of a time when her mother was still alive, and Gallet was just a strange, quiet boy. Her father had been different then, smiling and holding her when she reached out her arms. She couldn’t understand why those distant memories were surfacing now, after so much time spent fighting and resenting him.
“Perhaps he paid for his sins,” Florianne murmured bitterly.
The young lady didn’t respond, instead wiping away the tears that refused to stop.
Did he pay for his sins? Beatrice wondered. She hadn’t killed him out of a sense of justice. She had done it because Lily had wanted it, and because the others had begged for it. If that could be considered justice, then so be it. But to Beatrice, it felt more like convenience—a means to an end.
She brushed a strand of Florianne’s golden hair from her face. The memories of last night—the grotesque, mangled corpse of the count—flashed before her eyes. It wasn’t guilt that haunted her, but envy. Envy for the dead, and for the simplicity of their finality.
Beatrice’s desire for death burned hotter in her chest, a yearning that had only grown stronger after taking the count’s life. The expression Gildbet had seen on her face earlier—the face of a corpse—was a reflection of this all-consuming longing.
As Florianne wept and clung to her, Beatrice sat silently, her thoughts drifting. ‘Would you cry for me, Florianne? Would you mourn me if I died, as you mourn your father?’
Her pale hand caressed Florianne’s tear-streaked cheek.
“Perhaps he paid for his sins,” she said softly. “Or maybe… he was just unlucky.”
The words hung in the air like a curse. Florianne’s face contorted, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. Beatrice’s unspoken thoughts seemed to whisper cruelly in the silence: ‘Your father’s life alone could never atone for the lives he destroyed.’
Florianne let out a deep, guttural wail, clutching Beatrice’s wrist as she buried her face in the pillow. Her sobs filled the room, echoing until exhaustion claimed her and she fell back into unconsciousness.
Beatrice stayed by her side, stroking her hair, her expression calm and detached.
‘I killed your father and now sit here comforting you. I am deceiving you,’ she thought.
‘I am deceiving you, and yet you weep in my arms.’
* * *
Beatrice left Florianne’s room, where her friend had fainted from crying, and returned to her own. Just as before Gildbet’s arrival, she sat quietly in the chair by the window. Laura, her maid, sighed softly and moved her to the terrace instead.
Beatrice didn’t question the change. The warm breeze brushing her cheek wasn’t unpleasant, and she let her gaze wander to the distant horizon.
In the early hours of the morning, after killing the count, Beatrice had used the orb given to her by the duchess to clean the blood from her body and clothes before returning to her room. That was all she had done.
The five maids, however, acted swiftly after she left. They meticulously erased every trace, leaving behind only the footprints from the men’s shoes Beatrice had worn. Not even a strand of hair was overlooked.
The shoes were disposed of in the incinerator, already reduced to ashes. Even if fragments remained, no one would notice; servant shoes wore out frequently, and there were always a few pairs discarded by Lily and others.
Once the scene was cleared, the maids synchronized their stories. Lily, responsible for patrolling the fifth floor where the murder occurred, would claim she discovered the body during her final rounds and screamed, drawing attention. The others, who were stationed on different floors, would report hearing her scream during their patrols.
To fabricate a plausible entry point for an intruder, Samantha agreed to testify that a second-floor window with overhanging branches had been slightly ajar.
After setting their plan in motion, the maids returned to their posts and acted according to the script. So far, no suspicion had fallen on them.
Beatrice, meanwhile, paid little attention to these details. She trusted they would handle it competently. Even if suspicions arose, they wouldn’t lead back to her. The maids would confess to their crimes without implicating her, choosing to shield her even if it meant their own deaths. And if it came to that, Beatrice was confident she could extract Lily safely.
From the terrace, Beatrice noticed new carriages arriving at the manor. One bore the insignia of the Imperial Magicians, while the other belonged to the temple.
“It seems the temple has sent someone,” she murmured.
“It does. They must believe magic or a curse was used to kill the count,” Laura replied.
They’re looking in the wrong place, Beatrice thought quietly.
She considered the day ahead. As long as she stayed confined to the manor and avoided drawing attention, she could leave unscathed. With that thought, she crawled into bed.
Laura, watching her discard the shawl onto the floor and wriggle under the blankets, asked hesitantly, “Are you going to sleep, my lady?”
Beatrice didn’t reply, burying herself deeper under the covers and closing her eyes.
The exhaustion of a sleepless night pulled her into slumber effortlessly. ‘If only I wouldn’t wake up again,’ she thought as darkness claimed her.
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