I Don't Need a Weapon to Fight

Evangeline wore an off-the-shoulder blouse tucked into a long, flowing skirt, her white shoes adorned with delicate bows and lace-trimmed popsocks. Over her blouse, she draped a light chiffon jacket, which subtly revealed the bandages on her arm from the knife injury. Standing at the door, she called out, "Magdalene, what's going on in there?" Her voice carried concern as she peered inside.

"I'm fine, My Lady. I'm just not feeling well..." Magdalene replied, though her sad tone was barely concealed.

"Alright... I just wanted to ask you for a favor. I'll be heading to the library. We'll talk later." With that, Evangeline left, and Magdalene sighed, sinking onto her bed as she stared at the ceiling.

"I don't want Evangeline to see my face. I can't tell her about Edward—not yet. It'll be dangerous. As for Dominic... he'll probably handle it. Edward has every intention of bringing Dominic down, and I'll do everything to protect them, even if it costs me my life," she thought, exhaling deeply.

"Even if I can't confess my feelings for Richard... I do love him. But he's in the arms of Lady Evangeline. What am I supposed to do?" She clutched the fabric of her dress tightly at her chest, feeling the weight of her unspoken emotions.

Meanwhile, Evangeline made her way toward the library, a book in hand. She paused to instruct a servant to send some soup to Magdalene, all the while wondering what might be troubling her.

As she continued, the sound of approaching footsteps caught her attention. Turning her head, she saw a man walking toward her, dressed in a neatly buttoned shirt and tailored trousers. His smooth, chestnut-brown hair was tied back in a stylish man-bun, and his striking green eyes gave him a warm yet regal presence. For a moment, the figure seemed to shift, and in his place, Evangeline saw the image of Dominic. She blinked, shaking her head to clear the illusion, then recognized the man before her.

"Hello, George," she greeted him, clutching her book closer to her chest.

"Ah, Evangeline, dear. It's good to see you. It's been a while—since your parents' memorial, I believe. I've been busy with my duties..." Prince George chuckled softly, bowing his head before looking back at her. "I'm here to see Dominic. Is he around?"

"Dominic's away on a business trip. He'll be back soon," Evangeline replied with a casual shrug.

"Oh, he didn't tell me. I suppose he left quietly for confidential reasons," George said with a knowing smile. "I had hoped to discuss some personal matters with him, especially about the tea Bethany imported from the Khardes and Bruswards families. Grandfather's been looking into it, and he'll be attending court in a few days." George shook his head, a hint of concern crossing his features.

Later, Evangeline and George sat on the veranda, the warm sunlight casting a golden hue over them. George delicately examined Evangeline's bandaged arm, his expression hardening. He pulled his hand away, clenching his fists in restrained anger. "That bastard will pay for this in jail. To lay hands on a member of the royal family is to seek death." His voice was cold as steel, and Evangeline calmly rolled down her sleeve, though her gaze drifted toward the tree near the veranda.

"The Bruswards are involved, as well as the Khardes family..." she said through gritted teeth, her anger simmering beneath her elegant exterior. George gently stroked Evangeline's hair, the gesture as if she were his younger sister.

"My grandfather will put an end to the Bruswards once and for all. We've spared them long enough. Everything will be settled in court, and Edward will lose his business and be sent to jail." George's fingers lingered in her hair, his voice filled with certainty.

"You have to get rid of Dominic as well," Evangeline snapped suddenly, her beautiful face hardening in frustration. George stopped stroking her hair and laughed, shaking his head in amused disbelief.

"Evangeline... why should we? Dominic has proven his worth. He's nothing like Edward or Victor. That's why Azielle and my grandfather approved your marriage. Dominic has exceeded our expectations. Removing him is out of the question. He's different, and don't forget—he cut ties with his family." George withdrew his hand from her hair, his gaze steady and composed.

"He's still a Brusward. How can you not see that? He's dangerous!" Evangeline's voice rose, her refined composure cracking as she snapped at him. Her eyes burned with frustration, lips pursed in fury. George merely chuckled, amused by her outburst, as if her anger was little more than an inconvenience to him.

"Dominic is doing his duty for the country—and for you—as any husband should. Unlike you, who spends time with your bodyguard and your art. Azielle has her reasons, and you should try to understand them." George's eyes drifted to the book she clutched in her arms. He reached out, running his fingers over its cover with a thoughtful expression, and Evangeline let out a small gasp.

"Don't worry. Your relationship with Richard is safe with me," George said with a sly grin, his posture elegant and regal. "Since the Royal Palace is far from here, in the outskirts of Verdaselles, nothing of that sort will ever reach my grandfather. If it had, Richard would be dead by now for lingering around your marriage." His green eyes sparkled mischievously as he added, "Send Richard my greetings. Tell him I said thank you for protecting you from that guard. I look forward to seeing you in court."

He rose gracefully from his seat, standing with an elegant pose, one hand behind his back and the other bent in front, his posture that of a handsome prince exuding power and charm.

As George's charming smile lingered, Evangeline's anger only grew, her beauty sharpened by the fury in her eyes. "Everyone is on that bastard's side, charming them all against me," she thought bitterly, clenching her fists tightly in her lap, her frustration barely contained.

Riyue Estate, Eardoznia.

Oliver and Dominic were taking a walk as the sky began to darken, the shadows lengthening as they headed toward the lodge. Dominic was deep in thought, his fingers absently playing with his wedding ring, his mind turning over everything Oliver had revealed about his mother.

Beside him, Oliver noticed the subtle movement of Dominic's hand and sighed, guilt weighing heavily on him. Keeping his true identity from Dominic had been gnawing at him for some time. Just as Oliver was about to say something, several figures emerged from the darkness, rifles raised and pointed directly at them, halting them in their tracks.

"Don't move! You're under arrest for treason..." one of the men barked, his rifle trained squarely on Dominic, while sparing Oliver from the same threat.

Dominic stood perfectly still, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the situation. The cold metal of the ring in his fingers became his focus for a moment, grounding him. Slowly, he bowed his head and chuckled, a quiet, dangerous sound escaping his lips as his mind began calculating every possible move.

"I knew this would happen," he thought, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "They've set me up. The Capulets are truly a pack of bastards—just like how they treated Mother."

His thoughts raced as he scanned the men's positions. There were five of them, and their rifles, while formidable, were at a distance that gave him a slight advantage. He had seen men hesitate before, their hands trembling ever so slightly when they thought they had the upper hand. His instincts told him these men were no different. They hadn't expected him to be calm, and that was his advantage.

Dominic's mind moved through the options, a sharp calculation running behind his cold, composed expression. He could feign surrender, luring them closer. The moment one of them came within arm's reach, he could disarm him with a swift, practiced move. The others might panic, and in the chaos, Oliver could make his escape.

"If I play this right, they won't know what hit them," he mused. But his calm exterior belied the subtle shifts of his muscles, readying for the moment.

His eyes flickered toward Oliver, silently signaling him to stay quiet, to trust him. Oliver, who had been frozen in shock, saw the calculated look in Dominic's eyes and knew what was coming. He could only hope Dominic's plan worked.

Dominic's voice finally broke the tense silence, low and mocking, as he raised his head to meet the gaze of the gunman in charge. "Treason, you say? You must be mistaken. Or perhaps... you've been misled by the same family that would sell out their own blood for power." His words dripped with venom, deliberately provoking them, but in his mind, it was all part of the game.

The gunmen shifted uneasily, just as Dominic had expected.

Oliver recognized the men immediately. "Mother must have acted quickly after receiving the DNA test results I gave her. But why attack Dominic? I'm sure I sent her the accurate results… unless I've been tricked," Oliver thought, sighing inwardly, frustration and doubt gnawing at him.

Meanwhile, Dominic's mind worked rapidly, calculating his surroundings. His sharp eyes landed on the Glock tucked into one of the gunmen's pockets. Without warning, he shot a cold glance at Oliver before springing into action. In one swift movement, he kicked the nearest gunman hard in the gut, sending him staggering back. Dominic followed up with a precise punch to the man's jaw, knocking him down and swiftly retrieving the Glock from his pocket.

The other gunmen, caught off guard by Dominic's speed, charged toward him, but Dominic was already two steps ahead. He moved toward Oliver with fluid precision, grabbing him by his silver hair and yanking him to his knees. With the Glock pressed firmly against Oliver's head, Dominic's icy voice cut through the chaos.

"Nobody moves, or you won't live to see the next morning," he threatened, his voice as cold as steel, halting the advancing gunmen instantly.

"Dominic, I can explain—" Oliver groaned, wincing in pain as Dominic tightened his grip, pulling his hair even harder.

"Save your words and pleading," Dominic hissed, his voice dripping with contempt. "I already know who you are. The Capulets are nothing but a bunch of bastards who would do anything to protect their precious reputation. What makes you think you're any different from the rest of a criminal family?" His eyes blazed with fury as he pressed the barrel of the gun harder against Oliver's head. "You all want to get rid of me because I'm Victor and Marie's son. Fine. Let me help you do it the hard way by getting rid of you first."

Dominic's finger hovered dangerously over the trigger, his expression cold and unyielding. He was about to pull it when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the remaining gunmen unsheathing their knives, preparing to pounce. His grip on Oliver tightened further, preparing for the inevitable violence.

But just as the hefty men were about to launch their attack, a commanding voice rang out, stopping them in their tracks.

"Stop! You fucking son of a bitch! Get your filthy hands off Oliver this instant!" A sharp, commanding voice rang out, cutting through the tension. It belonged to a silver-haired woman, her figure poised and regal in a dark green dress that shimmered slightly under the moonlight. The rhythmic clicking of her heels on the stone pathway accompanied her arrival. She was accompanied by several guards, her presence as cold and intimidating as her words. It was Nervile.

Her silver hair, striking against her pale skin, was elegantly pinned up, and her grey eyes gleamed with cold fury. She was unmistakably a Capulet, with an aura of authority and aristocratic grace that demanded attention.

"Today marks the last day you'll live," Nervile spat, her voice sharp as a blade. "You're nothing but a spy for Victor, another problem in the making. The Bruswards never change, do they? Being scum must be in your blood!" She pointed at Dominic, her words aimed at cutting him down, intending to strip him of his confidence.

Dominic, unfazed, looked up and studied her face. So, this was his aunt. The resemblance was undeniable, but he scoffed, lowering his head as a dry, cold laugh escaped his lips. Without a second thought, he released Oliver, tossing him aside with a brutal force that sent him crashing hard into the wall like discarded trash. Oliver groaned in pain, spitting blood as he slumped to the ground.

"Bring it, Lady Capulet. Do me the honors," Dominic replied, his voice low and deadly as his cold eyes locked onto Nervile's. For a brief moment, her composure faltered, a slight flinch betraying her surprise. But she quickly regained herself, narrowing her eyes at him in anger.

"Seize him!" Nervile commanded sharply, her voice echoing as the guards rushed toward Dominic.

In an instant, Dominic reacted. His movements were swift, almost too fast to follow. With perfect precision, he shot two of the guards in the head, the bullets slicing through the air before finding their targets. The guards dropped to the ground in lifeless heaps. Dominic, feeling the rush of an incoming punch aimed at his head, dodged smoothly, his body moving with the grace and agility of a seasoned fighter. He countered with a brutal kick, sending his attacker staggering backward before pulling the trigger once more. The shot hit the guard's chest, passing through his heart, and he collapsed dead.

Another guard managed to knock the gun from Dominic's hand, but Dominic didn't miss a beat. He instantly switched to hand-to-hand combat, his fists raised in a flawless fighting stance, his movements like that of a trained martial artist—quick, fluid, and deadly.

When another guard tried to attack him from behind, aiming for Dominic's neck, Dominic reacted with lightning reflexes. He seized the man's wrist in a powerful grip, twisting it as he yanked the guard forward, using his own momentum against him. With a sharp pull, Dominic flung the guard into the path of another attacker, causing the two to collide and crash to the ground, groaning in pain.

Dominic stood there, his breathing calm, his gaze cold as ice, ready for the next attack. His precision and lethal efficiency were reminiscent of a master assassin, a man who could turn any situation in his favor, no matter the odds.

Dominic continued fighting off the other guards, his focus sharp despite the flurry of punches that occasionally landed on him. One guard, seizing the opportunity, hurled a knife at Dominic's face. He barely dodged, but the blade grazed his cheek, leaving a thin, painful scratch. He ignored the sting, narrowing his eyes as adrenaline surged through him.

With a swift move, he grabbed another guard by the arm, twisting it violently until he heard the sickening crack of bones. The man screamed in agony, clutching his shattered hand. Without hesitation, Dominic flipped himself over the writhing guard, kicking him hard in the back. The force sent the man sprawling to the ground.

Just as Dominic landed, a blade pierced his shoulder. He groaned in pain as the knife dug deeper into his flesh. His vision momentarily blurred, but he fought through the haze. In one smooth motion, he pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, flicking open the metal tip with a lethal precision. Without a second thought, Dominic stabbed the pen into the eye of the guard who had attacked him. The man shrieked, releasing the knife from Dominic's shoulder, and Dominic gritted his teeth, pulling the blade out of his own wound.

Blood streamed from his shoulder, but Dominic's mind was already focused on his next move. He ripped the pen from the guard's eye socket, slashing it across the man's face with deadly accuracy. The guard collapsed, half of his face mutilated, lifeless before he hit the ground.

Dominic's heart pounded, his blood pumping with a terrifying intensity. His eyes burned with cold fury, the killing intent radiating from him almost palpable. Two more guards rushed at him, firing bullets in his direction. But Dominic was faster, his body moving with the fluid grace of a martial artist in his prime. He dodged the shots with ease, twisting and turning as the bullets flew past him.

In one quick movement, Dominic hurled his pen like a boomerang. It sailed through the air with deadly precision, slashing both guards across their throats as it arced back toward him. Blood spurted from their necks, and they collapsed, dead before they could even process what had happened.

Dominic strode toward their fallen bodies, retrieving his pen from one of the corpses with a swift, practiced motion. But just as he turned, two more guards charged at him, aiming to take him down while he was distracted. Dominic smirked darkly, his body dropping low as he slid beneath them with the grace of a predator.

Using his free hand, he struck each guard in the knees with his four fingers pressed tightly together. The impact was devastating. The bones shattered instantly, and the men's legs gave out as they fell forward, howling in agony. Their fibulas jutted grotesquely through the skin, leaving them crippled and bleeding out on the ground.

Dominic rose to his feet, his movements fluid and controlled, despite the blood still seeping from his shoulder. His fighting skills were nothing short of masterful—each strike, each motion, carried with it the lethal precision of a trained assassin. He stood amidst the carnage he'd created, the pen in his hand gleaming like a blade, his cold eyes scanning for the next threat.

Dominic caught his pen with a swift flick of his wrist, swinging it through the air like a finely crafted sword. He stood upright, his posture unshaken, as if the violent struggle moments earlier hadn't even phased him. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain began to pour, drenching him. Drops of water mixed with the blood staining his clothes, flowing down his shoulder where the knife had pierced him, and from the small cut on his lip. He stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he observed the lifeless bodies of the guards strewn across the ground.

The storm above seemed to echo the ferocity of the battle, lightning illuminating the dark sky as Dominic turned his cold gaze toward Nervile. She had once held the air of superiority, but now fear gripped her. She stared at him, wide-eyed, as he began to walk toward her with unhurried steps. The pen in his hand clicked, and a small blade was revealed at the top, catching the light as it gleamed in the rain. Dominic wiped the blood from his mouth with his other hand, his movements slow and deliberate.

"These fools made me resort to this," Dominic thought with dark amusement as he glanced at the tiny blade. The rain-soaked ground squelched beneath his boots, each step heavy with intent as he advanced on Nervile.

She stumbled back, her heart racing, unable to comprehend the cold brutality that radiated from him. To her, it was like the embodiment of death itself had come to life in front of her. His expression was unreadable, his eyes like dark, endless voids filled with nothing but raw killing intent. He was a nightmare made flesh, a harbinger of death, standing tall amidst the bloodshed he had wrought.

As more reinforcements arrived, guards surrounding him in a desperate attempt to bring him down, Dominic didn't flinch. His gaze flicked to the newcomers, his lips curving into a faint, chilling smile. He was no longer just a man in their eyes—he had become something far more terrifying, an apostle of destruction. With each step, the tension in the air thickened, his mere presence casting a shadow of dread over the battlefield.

Without warning, the guards lunged at him, but Dominic moved like a phantom. His pen flashed through the air with lethal precision, cutting down opponents as if their bodies were made of paper. He weaved between their attacks effortlessly, dodging bullets and blades as though they were in slow motion. The rain soaked his black suit, streaking it with blood, but nothing could stop his relentless onslaught.

One guard managed to throw a punch, but Dominic caught it mid-swing, twisting the man's wrist until the bones cracked. The guard cried out, only to be silenced by the swift plunge of Dominic's blade into his neck. Another enemy charged at him from behind, but Dominic sensed it instantly, spinning on his heel and driving the pen into the man's heart in one fluid motion. He fought like a deity of war, his movements so flawless, so precise, it was as if he had transcended mortal limitations.

The storm raged around him, lightning flashing across the sky, casting a sinister glow over the battlefield. With every guard that fell, the remaining ones hesitated, their fear palpable as they realized they were facing not a man, but a force of nature. Blood pooled at Dominic's feet, mixing with the rainwater, as the bodies continued to pile up.

Finally, as the last few guards stood frozen in fear, too terrified to move, Dominic flicked his pen one last time, sending it whirling through the air like a deadly projectile. It struck one of the guards in the throat, and the man dropped to the ground without so much as a sound. Silence descended, broken only by the soft patter of rain and the distant rumble of thunder.

Dominic stood amidst the carnage, his expression calm, his body still poised for battle. He wiped the rain and blood from his face with a cold elegance, the small blade glistening between his fingers. He cast one final glance at Nervile, who trembled at the sight of him.

His pose was regal, almost serene—his body straight, one hand behind his back, the other holding the bloodstained pen as if it were a scepter of death. His dark eyes gleamed with an unnerving stillness, and his aura radiated pure menace. To anyone watching, it was as though the grim reaper himself had come to life, standing tall amidst the death and destruction he had wrought.

The remaining guards, those still alive, dared not move, paralyzed by the sheer terror of what they had witnessed. Dominic was no longer just a man—they saw him now for what he truly was: a god of death, a master of the battlefield, whose cold eyes promised only bloodshed.

Terrified, they backed away, unable to comprehend how anyone could survive such relentless violence with such elegance. Dominic's killing intent lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, as if death itself had marked the place where he stood.

"You used a pen as a weapon? What kind of monster are you?!" Nervile exclaimed, her voice trembling slightly as she stepped backward, grabbing a gun and pointing it directly at Dominic.

Dominic raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening into something almost seductive, his beauty and charm radiating even in the midst of the chaos. His dark, cold eyes locked onto Nervile as if he could see through her soul, and his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, laced with mockery.

"A monster, you say?" he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. "I prefer the term 'efficient.' Your guards, on the other hand... they're the real joke here. Lacking the very essence of combat—clumsy, slow, like children fumbling with their toys. They couldn't outfight a man with just a pen. I don't even need a weapon to deal with people like you."

He raised the pen blade, its small tip gleaming in the dim light, pointing it at her as if it were an instrument of execution. His smile widened, a wicked grin that made the blood drain from Nervile's face. She felt the chill of his presence, like the air had become too thin to breathe.

Dominic took a step forward, eyes never leaving hers, his confidence almost intoxicating in its sheer brutality. "Go ahead, shoot me if you dare. I wonder, will you succeed where your guards failed, or will you fall just as easily?" His voice was a mixture of taunt and seduction, a devil's melody woven with cruelty.

But just as he prepared to advance further, a sudden sting pierced his neck. His reflexes were fast—he yanked the dart out in a single motion. His hand gripped it tightly as he glared at the object, feeling an unnatural dizziness cloud his vision. His smirk faltered for a moment, but he tried to resist, forcing his mind to fight back the darkness creeping in.

The pen fell from his hand, clattering onto the ground. Dominic stumbled, struggling to stay on his feet, his eyes still burning with defiance. "You... cowards," he muttered quietly, his voice growing faint as the tranquilizer took hold. His knees buckled, and despite his will to stay standing, his body gave in to the overpowering sedative. His vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was Oliver, standing a few feet away with the dart gun in hand, his face pale and conflicted.

Dominic collapsed to the ground, unconscious, his body limp amidst the rain-soaked earth.

Oliver gasped, his breath shaky as he watched Dominic fall, the dart gun still trembling in his hand. He exhaled heavily, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. With a brief nod to Nervile, he acknowledged her, though his thoughts were elsewhere, overwhelmed by what he had just witnessed. Dominic had been more than a match for them all—his fighting skills were extraordinary, almost inhuman. Oliver couldn't shake the awe he felt, mingled with fear.

Nervile's cold eyes moved between Oliver and Dominic's unconscious form. She lowered her gun, her stance still rigid as she ordered more guards to approach. "Take his body away. Bring him to the house. Make sure he's restrained tightly. No chances with this one."

The guards scrambled to obey, lifting Dominic's limp body while Oliver stood by, his mind racing. His hands trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket, feeling the lock of Dominic's hair he had secretly cut earlier. He stared at it, eyes narrowing with suspicion. The DNA test had come back negative, but after what he had just witnessed, doubt gnawed at him. Something felt wrong.

Nervile approached, folding her arms as she eyed Oliver. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice sharp. "The test has already proven he's a fake. He's using Marie to cover for him. The Bruswards are all liars. We're putting him in jail tomorrow. Go to his place now. Search his room, 109. Bring back anything useful—documents, people, whatever you find. I'll send more guards later."

Oliver quickly tucked the hair away, hiding his unease. "Yes, of course," he replied, though his mind was elsewhere. Nervile's words echoed, but Oliver couldn't stop thinking about the test—how it didn't make sense. Could he have been tricked? Was there something more to Dominic's identity?

As Nervile turned away, heading toward the waiting car, Oliver nodded once again, watching her disappear into the vehicle before it sped off, carrying Dominic's unconscious form away. Left alone in the pouring rain, he pulled the lock of hair from his pocket once more, staring at it with renewed determination.

Whatever truth lay behind Dominic's identity, Oliver was going to find it. There had to be an explanation for everything—his overwhelming combat skills, his defiance, the way he made even the most skilled guards look like mere amateurs. Oliver knew one thing for certain: this man, whether he was Victor's son or not, was far from ordinary.

As the rain continued to fall, Oliver made his way to the hospital, hoping to get another test done—this time, with no room for error.

Oliver was at the hospital, pacing back and forth in a fit of rage. He slammed his fist against the wall, startling the nearby nurses. His face twisted in fury as he yelled, "What?!! How did this happen? How come the hair was fake?" His voice echoed through the sterile halls, sharp and furious.

The nurse trembled as she explained, bowing her head repeatedly, "It was... it was horse mane, sir."

Oliver's mind raced, his thoughts spiraling into confusion and anger. "That maid... she scammed me!" He clenched his fists, the veins in his arms bulging as he gritted his teeth, furious at his own naivety. "I gave her money, trusted her, and this is how she played me!" He pulled out the lock of Dominic's hair, staring at it with a mixture of anger and betrayal.

The nurse eyed the hair cautiously. "Sir, this is just more horse mane. We don't perform tests on animal hair. Please bring proper human hair if you want a DNA test."

Without warning, Oliver lashed out, slapping the nurse hard across the face. She gasped, stumbling back, her hand clutching her cheek in shock as tears welled up in her eyes. People passing by paused, glancing at Oliver like he had lost his mind, whispering among themselves.

"Take this," Oliver hissed, shoving the hair back into her hands. "Do it again. Don't you dare mess with me, or I swear I'll have this hospital shut down." His voice was low, threatening, and filled with venom.

The nurse nodded, trembling, and quickly scurried away, tears streaming down her face as she disappeared down the hallway. Oliver stood there, fuming, still clutching his hands on his shirt . "How could I have been so stupid?"

Meanwhile, back at the lodge, Caleb glanced at the clock, his worry growing by the minute. He looked at the guards stationed around him, all of them tense, sensing something was wrong. "Dominic's not back yet..." Caleb muttered, frowning. "He should've been home hours ago. Something's happened... he must've fallen into one of Oliver's traps." He abruptly stood up, grabbing his coat. "I need to alert the police."

Just as he reached the door, his heart racing with anxiety, he swung it open—only to be greeted by two strangers. Before he could react, one of them threw a punch directly to Caleb's jaw. The force sent him crashing to the ground, his vision blurring as he slipped into unconsciousness.

The guards immediately sprang into action, charging at the two men, but they were quickly subdued by darts to the neck. Their bodies fell to the floor, one by one, collapsing in a heap of unconscious guards.

Oliver walked in calmly, surveying the room. His eyes lingered on Caleb's limp body for a moment before he sighed. "He's not going to be a problem," he muttered, motioning for the remaining guards to start searching the lodge. "Go through Dominic's belongings. Find anything useful."

The guards rummaged through the room, turning over furniture and opening drawers until one of them found a small bottle containing ashes and handed it to Oliver. Another guard approached with a leather-bound diary.

Oliver's eyes flickered with interest as he took the diary, assuming it was Dominic's. He sat down on the sofa, opening it to the first page. As he began to read, his expression changed—what started as casual curiosity turned into shock. His breath hitched, and tears welled up in his eyes as he read the truth.

"Marie... she's dead?" Oliver whispered to himself, his voice shaking. The revelation struck him hard, sending a wave of emotion crashing over him. He gripped the diary tightly, pulling it close to his chest as a few tears escaped, falling onto the pages.

The guards glanced at each other, confused by Oliver's sudden emotional breakdown. One of them shifted awkwardly, trying to avoid eye contact. Oliver quickly wiped away his tears, his expression hardening again as he noticed their stares.

Clearing his throat, Oliver barked, "Keep searching! There's more here—find everything." His voice returned to its usual commanding tone, but there was a heaviness in it now, as if the weight of what he had just read was bearing down on him.

As the guards continued their search, Oliver turned back to the diary, flipping through its pages. Each word from Dominic's writings pierced deeper into his heart. There was more to Dominic than he had realized—more than the cunning and ruthless man Oliver thought he had been fighting against.