Chapter 283: Kill the princess

Northern territory of the Regulas kingdom. En route to Rujgard.

Inside the cavernous tent, surrounded by the quiet hum of high-tier defensive spells, Emperor Cassian von Regulas sat alone at a massive command table sprawled with a topographical map of Rujgard—every broken gate, shattered border garrison, and smoldering district meticulously marked in red ink.

A thick cigar smoldered between Cassian’s fingers. His eyes remained fixed on the border chokepoints, not even moving when the entrance parted.

"Your Imperial Grace," a low, gravelly voice echoed through the tent, followed by the crisp metallic clink of a vanguard scout dropping to one knee in a deeply respectful bow.

Cassian took a slow, deliberate pull from his cigar, letting the rich tobacco burn down before blowing a plume of blue haze across the map.

"Did they spot that little brat?" he asked, his voice smooth, indifferent, and devoid of paternal interest.

The kneeling scout nodded without lifting his gaze. "We have positive confirmation, Your Grace. We have tracked Princess Seraphina entering the eastern valleys of Reodeo County. She and her party are currently residing within the Reedings family’s remote summer estate."

Cassian’s silver brows raised in sharp, mocking amusement.

"Reodeo?" he murmured, ash dropping onto the parchment map as a dry sneer touched his lips. "So she sprinted to the far east to woo that stubborn old isolationist Earl to her pathetic little faction. Truly touching. Who accompanied my dear daughter?"

"The contingent is small, Your Grace," the scout reported crisply. "Along with the Princess, the manor houses Lady Aria Reedings; Duke Alfric’s eldest son and Aria’s official fiancé, Eren Volsver; the young Swordmaster bound to House Volsver, Emma; and Professor Norelia of the royal Academy."

Cassian slowly pushed himself up from the table.

Standing at his full height in a tailored silver-and-black field plate, he turned toward the kneeling informant. His eyes burned with the cold, absolute malice of a tyrant.

"That little brat has crossed entirely too many lines," Cassian said softly, tapping the tip of his smoldering cigar.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke straight toward the tent’s vaulted ceiling.

"Kill her."

The informant froze. The air inside the heated tent turned instantly chilling.

The scout’s eyes snapped wide, his posture stiffening to iron as he reflexively looked up, unable to mask the horror cracking through his professional facade.

"Y-Your Grace...?" the scout stammered, his voice trembling. "She is... she is your blood. Your Imperial Highness’s only daughter—"

"I kept that insolent whelp breathing for years for one purpose," Cassian interrupted, his voice dropping into a flat rasp that brooked no debate. "A collar around Rosalie’s neck to keep that stubborn woman compliant while I cemented my reign. But Seraphina has grown fangs. The collar is beginning to bite back. Her usefulness has reached its expiration date."

Cassian took a slow step forward.

"Eliminate the Princess quietly," he ordered, his lips curling into a wicked, calculating smirk. "And stage the butcher’s work so the entire bloodbath lands squarely upon the shoulders of that Volsver boy. Treason, madness, a rogue fiancé turning on his betrothed’s inner circle... it will write itself. With one stroke, I purge that traitorous daughter and hand the imperial tribunal the perfect excuse to dismantle Duke Alfric’s dominion."

"Understood, Your Grace," the scout choked out, bowing his forehead all the way to the floorboards to hide his shaking breath. "I will mobilize the executioners immediately."

Cassian turned around, walking toward the tent exit to review the marching regiments preparing for the Rujgard front.

His hand was halfway to the heavy velvet curtain when he suddenly paused.

"You said Alfric’s pet Swordmaster is stationed at the manor?" Cassian asked, his tone tightening.

"Yes, Your Grace," the informant replied quickly. "The youngest master of the blade. Her combat prowess is reportedly absurd."

Cassian’s frown deepened into a scowl. A dark, twisted gleam flashed behind his eyes as he recalled the recent shipments delivered from the Syndicate.

"Then an ordinary execution team won’t suffice," the Emperor muttered, turning fully back toward the room with a smile. "Deploy the special unitI’m raising... and grant them That Weapon."

***

The warm afternoon sunlight filtered through the towering glass windows of the manor’s private study, casting long, lazy pools of amber across the polished floorboards.

The atmosphere around the massive round meeting table was filled with administrative boredom that even the clock seemed to be ticking at half-speed.

Seraphina sat rigidly in the high-backed master chair, her posture as sharp and immaculate as an imperial spear. Her silver hair caught the golden light as she meticulously cross-referenced entries, her fountain pen scratching rhythmically across books. Before handing the physical Rujgard logs to Cinon, she had personally photographed every page for the past four weeks, ink-stained border checkpoints and shipping receipts now spread across the table.

Directly across from her, Aria was engrossed in organizing corresponding trade manifests, her blue hair tied back neatly while Emma leaned over her shoulder, sorting through the glossy photographic plates with surprising patience.

And then there was the back of the room.

Norelia was thoroughly slumped in an oversized velvet armchair, her head lolled to the side, soft snores puffing out her cheeks as she hugged a pillow like a doll.

Eren was barely doing better. He slumped against the table, his arms crossed, chin resting lazily on his forearm. His blue eyes drifted aimlessly from dust motes to the high ceiling beams.

"Someone please end my suffering," Eren groaned, his voice muffled by the wood. "I survived lawless territory, abominations, and a near-lethal thigh lock from the Captain this morning... only to be slain by paperwork. This is a cruel, bureaucratic hate crime."

Aria didn’t even lift her pen, her manicured hand gliding smoothly across the ledger. "If you are so desperately starved for stimulation, darling, you could always stroll around and familiarize yourself with the estate grounds. After all, once we tie the knot, this property will technically be yours to neglect."

"I am on strike," Eren muttered. "We’re here for vacation, not for bookkeeping."

"Shut your mouth, Volsver," Seraphina cut in sharply, not breaking the rapid tempo of her pen. "We are not on a leisurely holiday. We are here on official state business. If we cannot draft an airtight geopolitical proposition, Earl Reodeo will laugh us out of his province before we can even ask him to pledge his banners to my mother."

"Except our grand audience with the Earl isn’t until tomorrow afternoon," Eren pointed out, tilting his head onto his other arm so he could stare unabashedly at her haughty, porcelain face. "Which means right now, we are officially procrastinating."

Seraphina’s jaw tightened. She gripped her fountain pen hard, her eyes snapping up from the ledgers to glare directly at him.

"If you possess such an absurd surplus of free time and energy," Seraphina hissed, her brows drawing tight, "perhaps you can use that twisted little brain of yours to devise a viable strategy. How, exactly, do you intend to crack that stubborn, isolationist old Earl? He has rejected every imperial emissary for three decades."

Eren let out a chuckle, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face.