As Castor stepped out of the hall, Lazarus' final words echoed in his mind like an itch he couldn't scratch, no matter how many times he tried to dismiss it. "Be careful of Samuel, lest you accidentally die." The phrase sounded absurd, melodramatic, even but it clung to him, tugging at the corners of his thoughts with a persistence that unsettled him.

What exactly had the Grand Scholar meant? That Samuel would kill him? No, surely not. That wasn't possible.

Yes, he and Samuel fought often. Their personalities clashed more than they meshed, Castor, brash and straightforward, brutally honest even when it hurt; Samuel, calm and calculating, always two steps ahead, his thoughts hidden behind a polished, pleasant smile. And yes, Samuel could be cold, his cruelty carefully wrapped in silk and grace, but he was still Castor's brother. He wouldn't kill him. Right?

Then why couldn't he say that with confidence?

Why was it that when Castor tried to picture his brother's face, the first thing that came to mind wasn't a fond memory or a shared joke, but that grin, sharp and thin-lipped, stretched too tightly across a face that always seemed to be performing?

He couldn't answer, and the not-knowing gnawed at him until, without even meaning to, he made up his mind. He would follow Samuel.

He didn't know what he expected to find, maybe proof that Lazarus was wrong, maybe something to quiet the unease building inside his chest but if nothing else, he could learn something. Anything. And if it turned out to be nothing? He would drag Lazarus out by the beard and demand an apology.

Knights were blessed with heightened senses, sharper hearing, better instincts, faster reflexes. It wasn't difficult for Castor to trail Samuel quietly, keeping his distance while following the faint sound of his footsteps and the lingering scent of his cologne through the palace corridors. Samuel didn't seem to be doing anything unusual; he walked slowly, passed a few guards without stopping, and didn't speak a single word. His route took him past the residential wing, toward the door of his own quarters.

Castor almost gave up there, he couldn't exactly follow Samuel into his room but then he froze.

Samuel didn't enter.

Instead, Castor heard a loud bang, followed by Samuel's voice, muffled by the door. "Shit, shit, shit… fucking Lazarus. You were meant to leave me be."

Another crash, louder than the first, rang down the hallway splintering wood and bending hinges, like the door had been struck hard enough to break. And then came footsteps again, swift and angry.

Castor followed, trailing Samuel all the way to the towering mahogany doors of the royal library. He entered a few moments after his brother, walking confidently now. The library was a public space; there was no longer any need to sneak.

Inside, the atmosphere felt different, tense, like the air had thickened in Samuel's presence. Castor noticed it immediately: the way people moved aside as Samuel passed, how they lowered their gazes or clutched their robes, afraid even to make eye contact. He'd expected them to show deference, after all Samuel was a prince but this wasn't respect. This was fear. Raw, quiet fear.

Castor received no such treatment. A few scholars even nodded politely to him as he passed. Which meant it wasn't the crown they feared. It was Samuel.

The implications settled heavy on his shoulders as he watched his brother browse the shelves with deliberate, almost mechanical movements. Eventually, Samuel pulled a thick, leather-bound tome from the shelf and took a seat near the window. The table was already occupied, but the moment the other scholars saw him approach, they scrambled to vacate, tripping over themselves in their haste to flee.

Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

From where he stood, Castor finally got a full view of Samuel's face and for a brief, stomach-churning second, he forgot how to breathe.

Samuel was smiling, he was always smiling but now it stretched too far, unnaturally wide, as though his skin might tear. His lips were torn and bleeding, red trickling down his chin in steady drips, but still he smiled. His eyes were bloodshot, veins bulging around his temples like they were trying to claw out of his skull. And somehow, through all that, he looked calm. Focused.

Terrifying.

Samuel activated the sound-barrier device on the table, a rune-based tool that created a small dome of silence.

The machine functioned by activating a silence barrier rune, a precise construct that prevented any sound from entering or leaving the sealed space, creating an artificial quiet that swallowed even the subtlest breath. Castor, however, was not so easily shut out. He understood how to bypass this kind of magic, though it wasn't something just any knight could manage.

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His aura, unlike others, could reject the foreign mana in a confined space, forcing a narrow path of sound to leak through. As he pushed a portion of his golden aura against the edge of the barrier, the muffled quiet fractured slightly and Samuel's voice slipped through.

"It's okay. It's okay. This doesn't ruin anything," Samuel muttered, his tone low and frayed as he flipped through the pages of a worn book, his fingers curled tightly around the corners. "Just a setback. Setbacks happen. As she said, I just have to smile through them."

Castor leaned closer without meaning to, not because the words were particularly shocking, but because of how calm and at the same time, how disturbingly rehearsed they sounded. Then, to his surprise, Samuel's already unnatural smile grew even wider. It stretched past comfort, past humanity, until it seemed to consume his entire face in something that was no longer an expression but a mask. Castor found it repulsive, not because it was evil or loud, but because it was too quiet, too practiced, too eerily genuine.

"Jacob is still within my hands," Samuel continued, the pages now forgotten as he pressed his bloodied fingers together behind the book, folding them tightly until his nails cut into the skin. "So is Castor. And the others. Leah's more cautious, smarter, maybe but even she's still under control. Mother wants to intervene, but Father… Father has convinced her to simply observe."

As he spoke, blood began to dribble down his chin, seeping from the corners of his lips where he had, at some point, bitten deep into the skin. He didn't seem to notice or care. His voice remained level, thoughtful, as if he were merely piecing together an equation on paper.

"Father will wait," he said, voice quieter now. "He'll wait until I go too far. But by then, it'll be too late. And Lazarus…" His voice trailed, his jaw tightening.

Then, suddenly, his grip closed into fists, blood streaking across the pale birchwood table in thick, dark lines. The veins at his temple throbbed visibly, pulsing beneath the skin. "He promised not to interfere," Samuel hissed. "And yet, what was that earlier? Was that not interference?"

The book hit the table with a soft thud just before Samuel slammed both fists down with a sharp crack that echoed faintly despite the barrier. He shouted, though the volume felt detached from his face, which was still smiling.

"He ruined everything! All that planning wasted! He let Jacob get away!" His voice cracked now, no longer calm, no longer in control. "I need Jacob to crack. I need leverage. I need something I can use against Skydrid."

Castor stepped back. He didn't fully understand the implications of what Samuel was saying, but what little he did understand was more than enough to leave him frozen in place. What kind of plan was Samuel trying to execute? What was he after? And more importantly why was Father allowing this to continue?

He took another step, then paused. A thought gripped him, not a noble ideal or a grand purpose, but a simple reminder of who he was and what he stood for.

'Why am I retreating? I'm a knight. I cannot stand by and watch him manipulate Jacob.'

He took a slow breath, gathering his resolve. Then, in a single practiced motion, he drew his broadsword from its sheath. The golden aura wrapped around the blade, flickering softly at first before stabilizing into a steady, pulsing light. It shimmered with quiet strength, not rage or desperation, but clarity.

Castor stepped out from the shadows of the corridor and walked into the open section of the library, his boots making a hollow sound against the polished floor.

"Prince Castor, please," the librarian called out from behind one of the nearby shelves, her voice strained but polite. "Weapons are not permitted in the library."

He didn't answer. The words didn't matter anymore. His focus was locked on Samuel, who had finally noticed him.

The grotesque smile faded slightly. Though Samuel still wore a grin, the strain in his cheeks was visible now, and the dried blood smeared beneath his mouth made it look more like a wound than a smile.

"Brother," Samuel said evenly, "do you intend to resume our little sparring match? Even after the Grand Scholar was kind enough to intervene last time?"

Castor didn't stop walking until he was standing directly across from Samuel's table. He didn't raise his sword, not yet. Instead, he stared directly at him.

"What are you planning with Jacob?" he asked, voice quiet but firm.

Samuel blinked, caught off guard. For just a second, the confident facade slipped. He muttered something under his breath, something that sounded like, "Stupid divine aura…"

The change was immediate. His expression remained the same on the surface, he still smiled but his eyes no longer matched it. They were sharp now, calculating, and cold. His aura shifted too, becoming heavy and taut, as if a single wrong word might trigger an explosion.

"You're not going to defend yourself?" Castor asked, raising his sword now, the golden light wrapping more tightly around it as he prepared to strike.

Samuel didn't flinch. "Poking your nose where it doesn't belong," he whispered, and a rune appeared in the air above him.

Castor's blade came down fast, but just before it struck, the rune shattered into dozens of sharp fragments. They scattered like glass in reverse, flying not outward, but inward, racing toward Castor in a blur of motion too quick to follow.

He barely had time to react before the shards hit him, sinking into his body not like weapons, but like ink poured into water. They moved beneath his skin, writhing, twisting, embedding themselves somewhere deep inside. At first, he felt nothing. No pain. No wounds.

Then the weakness set in.

His knees buckled. He dropped to the ground, his sword clattering beside him. A groan escaped his lips as his stomach twisted violently, not just empty but hollow, like it had turned against itself. His body shook. The world blurred.

His vision began to blacken at the edges. The pressure in his chest and gut made it almost impossible to breathe. And just before he passed out, he looked up and saw Samuel standing over him, waving gently, as if saying goodbye to an old friend rather than a fallen brother.

"Bye now," Samuel said softly, his voice almost kind. "You should be back just in time for your birthday."

And then Castor's world went dark.

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