'Has the God of War gone soft?'

Clothed in an olive-green tunic tucked in brown trousers fitted from below the knee to the rest of his calf, and an elegant silk robe adorned with gold threads, Vance's guest wore high leather boots. His sword-less belt was laughable; why even bother to wear one?

The advisor cleared his throat. After what happened, he barely had any sleep—matter-of-factly, he didn't want to sleep. He wanted to resolve everything as soon as possible. He already lost track of how many cups of coffee he's had over the days. Seething with madness was an understatement of how he truly felt when he found the letter in one of the boy's pockets when he seized them—it felt like hell rose and claimed him as the guardian. If he could call upon the wrath of everything and everyone, he'd do so.

When Arabella knew about the poisoning, she lied to the Duke of House Clement about not knowing who the Root was and went straight to him—she's the Whitt family's prodigy, a Leaf who was a member of the Order when she was but ten and her brother just turned sixteen. She was so pissed off when the duke referred to her as a Butterfly that she couldn't stop nagging about it to him and her brother. The smirk she had on her face when she smeared the blood on Alexander's white shirt was a scene to be applauded; even Ancel couldn't hold a stick against her.

"Was that man the Duke of House Clement?" the man made himself comfortable at the same spot Alexander vacated. "Alexander, was it? I've heard of the rumors of his proposal from here and there. Especially the young nobles who swooned at his act towards Lia."

"How was she?" Vance's eyes softened and mouth slightly curved downward.

"She is stable," he nodded, "The swelling on her face is almost gone, as well as the bruises. I am afraid, however, that the cuts she attained might scar a little, but I'll write up a list of herbs to make as a salve to help lighten it."

Vance nodded. He took a deep breath and ran his palm across his face. He couldn't fathom losing the only family he had left in Creador. Correct that, the only family he's left.

"Don't worry. I might be a mercenary, but I am the best doctor for these kinds of things—even worse. I'm tested and proven. I am heaven-sent." Dehstun tried to humor the old advisor but to no avail.

The old advisor sighed and massaged his temples, "Because of him, people against the Florence's are acting all brave and motivated. They'd probably use the duke to incite conflict between the two Houses, and when it does, they'd be killing two birds with one stone—two strong and influential Houses will be gone from their side. It'd be complete freedom for them."

Vance leaned over with his elbows propped on the tea table; his gaze distant as his intertwined fingers covered his mouth.

"But are they capable of it?"

"That's why they're using underhanded tricks. I don't want Lia to witness the horrific side of power, but I'm left with no choice." Vance lowered his head and stared at the marbled table. He was made aware by Ancel, who secretly followed the duchess into the dungeon after seeing her with Alexander's knight, that Alexander made her plunge her own dagger into the boy's chest. He didn't think the duke would do such a thing, but he understood why he did it.

From the outside, House Florence and Osmea looked like a peaceful place to live in, but little to many's knowledge, the late Duke and all the dukes before him struggled to keep attackers from all sides from overpowering the Florence's. And things got even more difficult to contain when the news broke that Amelia was alive; that's also the reason why Duke Mulford took her in as soon as he heard and personally picked her from Osmea with his sons and a number of his trusted knights.

Vance asked Vernon to teach the duchess everything that she needed to know to protect herself. House Mulford did, but Amelia was too kind and considerate on many things—much like her late mother, Priscilla.

"So, what have you gathered so far?" Vance straightened up and leaned back in his seat, his fingers lightly tapping the table.

"Walton's not home, that's for sure. My men are still gathering information if he deliberately left Osmea so he could use that as an excuse, or he doesn't really have any idea."

Vance nodded along; his eyes darted in the direction of the Western Garden.

"It could easily be forged, though," the man added, shrugging his shoulder. "We know George Walton doesn't have the balls to do that. If he did, he'd have his brother-in-law killed sooner."

George Walton was from a Baron family from House Robina. He married the late duke's sister, who died two years after an unknown illness. Walton's family doctor claimed that the disease was probably from the foreign country they visited to celebrate their anniversary and didn't manifest early. Hence, the late duke's sister was beyond help.

Since then, rumors have circulated that Walton poisoned his wife so he could have a chance at the seat as heir since House Florence has a law that dictates, 'No other than the ruling family's sons and daughters shall inherit the seat as duke or duchess. In the absence of both, the people of Osmea will choose who will rule over them.'

Walton screamed and wailed at the news of his wife's death—but a lot of nobles felt like they were witnessing some kind of theatrical act, over-exaggerated and grand. His grief didn't even last a week, and he was out on the streets of Osmea, announcing to commoners that his late wife wanted to do so many remarkable things and help so many people in need. He used her death as leverage to get people's sympathy.

It's true that Osmea's lands were since blessed with fertile soil and flourished with many practical innovations from the past rulers, but it couldn't be denied that other people still struggled to make a living—Osmea wasn't perfect. And that gap was what Walton ventured into. He gave people small earnings by employing them for a brief time in his different business ventures inside and outside of the duchy. It came to the duchess' attention that some of his businesses were illegal and have summoned him about it. There were reports of bribes and smuggling items between borders to neighboring kingdoms and back—they couldn't get past the strict port protocols laid by House Clement, so they've become quite creative. But there was no profound evidence even with Dehstun involved, and it's getting on the nerve of Vance Thomson.

The duchess laid the matter aside to pick up when there's enough proof about it, so she could focus on more pressing issues that needed her immediate response.

"I know you're thinking of killing him already," the man kidded.

"Shut it, Dehstun," Vance reprimanded as he stood from his seat and into his table. "I would if I could. But I—We—still don't know who he's working with."

Dehstun chuckled, "Has the War God gone soft? Let's just do it, like old times," the man chided with a grin.

Vance threw a glare towards Dehstun, and he quickly raised his hands, but the smug on his face grew even more apparent.

"This is not like the old times, Dehstun. We're not there anymore; we're here now."

Shrugged shoulders were all Vance received when his guest stood from his chair.

"Well, as you say so, Mr. Vance Thomson. I shall take my leave now. Thank you for the entertainment last night. I still have more patients to attend to."

The advisor flicked his hand towards the door.

"If you change your mind though—you know, about…" Dehstun ran his thumb across his neck, "Call for me. It's been a while since I strangled someone."

**********

The clock chimed when it turned six in the morning, and Amelia blinked slowly a few times, adjusting her blurred eyesight. She looked around with half-opened eyes, but no one was there. With a short groan, the duchess tried to sit down but she felt pinned down on the bed. She didn't want to waste any energy, so she brought her gaze back up.

As the clock ticked, Amelia noted roughly fifty butterflies on her intricately carved and painted canopy. Maybe staring too much at the bodies of their captives wasn't the best idea she had, but she felt terrible for them. None of their families would know the truth.

Amelia tried to raise her hand, but it was held against her chest with a cloth. She then realized what had happened; what happened in the dungeon came into her consciousness like she was still standing with a trembling hand around her dagger.

She remembered something warm, thick, and deep red trickled down her hands from the blade. The intricate design of her own dagger scorched her palm. Beads of glistening sweat trickled through the dirt and whatnot on her face. Amelia was alone in a room with a fainted maid and the unmoving boy whose every splat of blood that reached the floor seemed to ring in her ears. She had just plunged her own prized dagger, one that she's very fond of, into a person who didn't even receive a fair trial. Someone she didn't even know, and her fiancé called it just.

Just? Killing a person because he did something to feed his starving family? Where's the just in that?

Only one fact lay in front of Amelia—she killed a person. But something inside her opposed her feelings of grief and melancholy.

She somewhat felt triumphant. Something inside her screamed and huddled and chanted joyously.

It was confusing.

She had just killed a person, but there wasn't a trace of limping sadness or creeping madness—she felt nothing just like that time where she stared blankly at her burning home. The fire that swallowed her home also devoured something inside of her that she denied acknowledging so long ago. There was a massive wall between her and that side of her being.

Killing was so easy.

-----

Amelia stood there waiting. Maybe Alexander's just messing with her; perhaps he's behind the door waiting for her next move, or perhaps he's trying to teach her a lesson. Maybes crowded her mind, but the deafening silence from behind the stone walls was answer enough.

Stepping back, the duchess stared at her stained hand once again. She looked around and saw the handkerchief the duke tossed. Quickly, she grabbed it with shaking hands and wiped the blood off her blade, then her hands—she didn't want any trace of what happened on her clothes. Amelia thought she'd be hysterical, but she was nothing but calm when she pushed her dagger back in her belt. She winced as she struggled to wipe her face with the hem of her shirt and brushed her disheveled hair to a bun, she tucked in her hair to secure it.

When she finished, the duchess wiped her blurry eyes with the base of her palm. She looked back at the bodies sitting still and offered a short prayer to the boy.

It was the least she could do.

-----

Amelia shook her head and turned to lay on her side. She winced and quickly returned to lying on her back.

"Great, just great." She murmured between gritted teeth. She wanted to flail her arms in annoyance, but it hurt too. Then a knock on the door sounded. Amelia struggled to draw her blanket over her before telling the person from the other side to come in. The last people she wanted to see her in such a weak state were Vance or Constance and Laila. The two were delicate ladies. Indeed, when they get word that she's awake, there'd be a flood in her room soon enough; and that would make her feel even worse for worrying them.

"Duchess?" the familiar voice of her lady assassin filled the room. Arabella peeked at the entrance, and her mouth gaped when she saw her duchess leaning against the headboard.

A breath of relief escaped Amelia. She straightened her back and told her lady-in-waiting to come in. If anyone knew about what happened, it would surely be Arabella. Not a single thing got past her.

"Did you know that there are about fifty butterflies in this painting?" Amelia pointed at the ceiling of her canopy, and Arabella shook her head as beads of tears fell down her cheeks.

"You're awake," Arabella entered, sniffing, her hands full of the tray with a teapot and some snacks.

"And you look ugly," Amelia tried to laugh, but her throat was dry. "Water would be nice."

Arabella nodded vigorously, then gave her a forced half-smile and turned the other way. Amelia could hear cutleries and teacups sound through the wall. When her lady-in-waiting was finished, she quietly entered and handed the glass of water. The duchess closed her eyes and looked away the moment Arabella dragged the drapes to one side to let the sun in.

"Don't just stay quiet. I know you know what happened in that dungeon."

"How are you feeling, your grace?" Arabella's voice was shaking. In her hand was a small pouch made from woven fabric.

"I am—sore, to say the least. What happened?"

"Ancel was the one who alerted us," Arabella started.

Yes, Amelia remembered. It was Ancel who came to her when she was out of the dungeon. She didn't know if he happened to see her or if Alexander informed the knight of her whereabouts.

The duchess had her hand on his shoulder, limping. Ancel offered to carry her, but she was too embarrassed. Instead, she let him support her, and before her knight left her room, he managed to pop every dislocated bone in her body—making her bite on one of her smaller pillows in the process.

The ordeal was her second hell.

It was still dark when she got out, and for sure, Ancel couldn't assess her bruises and wounds aside from the utterly visible one—her face. The heavy hand that landed on it made a part of her cheek swell. The small cut on the side of her mouth wasn't one to leave unnoticed either.

Amelia remembered her head suddenly felt heavy, and she couldn't move her body no matter what she did. Her eyes were blurry; she couldn't see anything. The pain in her ankle was unbearable. Her breathing became so ragged that her consciousness left her right after.

"Was it you and Ancel who found them?" Arabella didn't answer; instead, her eyes slowly looked up at the duchess with a furrowed brow.

"Are you mad?" the lady-in-waiting peeked through her lashes as she kneeled, her behind on her heels and her hands on her lap.

"Well," Amelia took a deep breath and looked at the distance through the window. The dancing leaves at the Western Garden seemed too peaceful, without a hint of what happened. The knights, she realized, were suspiciously absent from their posts that night too.

"How long has it been?"

"A week and a half," Arabella answered.

Amelia sighed and returned her gaze to the butterflies on her canopy. Indeed, when she looked through her window, they were there—her knights. A number of them paced back and forth, but when the duchess got out, she only dodged two who were both guarding the halls and could see the outside. The fight she had with that man didn't even alert anyone.

Amelia looked at her lady-in-waiting.

Could it be possible that they somehow managed to take everyone out because of the matter in the dungeon? It was as if they wanted Amelia to find her way to the duke—and the duke's personal knight didn't put out much reasoning why she shouldn't be there. He even saved her from that man.

And who was that man to begin with? She's never seen him, and she trained with all her knights.

"The man who attacked me, do you know him?"

The duchess jolted when Arabella's blazing eyes quickly turned towards her, "Attacked?! I thought the bruise in your face was—" her voice rose, and Amelia could only blink. "Who attacked you? Where else? How much are you really hurt? That bastard Cleme—Ancel! He knew, didn't he? That's why he's been keeping me busy all this time so I wouldn't see you! That—I'm going to kill him when I see him!"

"No—ouch!" Amelia winced at the sudden pain that cruised through her body when she unknowingly reached her hand to grab Arabella's.

"Oh no, duchess, I-I'm so sorry… Where does it hurt?" Her lady-in-waiting was frantic.

'So, Arabella wasn't informed about the attacked,' Amelia thought as she comforted the crying lady in front of her. She wondered how much information was divulged to others in the palace and if her advisor knew about it.

"Did Alexander tell you to find them? And did he interrogate them himself?"

Silence covered the space between the two; it struck Amelia odd because, though the duke's knuckles were bruised, it didn't look like something he'd get from punching a person, maybe except if that person were made of something harder, like a rock or hardened clay. The boy didn't look like he was punched enough. The bloodied handprint on his shirt was the most suspicious since neither of the two suspects' hands was covered in blood.

"Yes, he did. He asked me to look for them, and when we did, he asked if there's a dungeon or a place where he could take care of his business. Ancel showed them, him and his knights, the dungeon."