Chapter 97

“If, by the time I delivered His Majesty’s letter, you were already married, she might have been protected as the Grand Duke’s wife,” Marten said, his voice low and cautious. “But right now, she’s nothing.”

Kennard’s eyes narrowed. “Protected?” he echoed, incredulous. “Why would she need protection when she hasn’t done anything wrong?”

He furrowed his brow, glaring at Marten through the veil of his long lashes. The tension in the room tightened. Something wasn’t right.

He had been wondering about the true reason Elena had been summoned to the castle. The letter from the Emperor had been suspiciously vague—just an urgent demand that she be sent immediately.

“Poisoning,” Marten said suddenly.

Kennard’s hand, which had been rhythmically tapping the armrest of the sofa, froze in mid-motion.

“What?” he asked sharply, his voice cold.

“Poisoning,” Marten repeated. “Word is that Lady Carmen of the Menelph family died… because of Elena.”

Kennard shot upright. “That woman—Carmen, or whatever her name is?” he snapped. “What kind of nonsense is that? She died because of Hazel’s mistake. Are they seriously trying to pin that on Elena?”

His voice rose with fury. “That’s not just clever—it’s vicious.”

He clenched his teeth so tightly that the muscles in his jaw stood out, a vein pulsing visibly in his neck. Even though Marten was his closest friend and bonded partner, Kennard didn’t care to hold back.

“How the hell did you end up bonded to someone like that?” he barked.

He was yelling now, anger spilling out in a way that made a mockery of what he’d once told Serin—that imprinting had nothing to do with character. 

Marten looked away, a bitter twist on his lips. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

“You think I knew?” he muttered. “I met her by chance while hunting in her father’s forest—back when she was still just a count’s daughter, not a duke’s. Who would’ve guessed my bond mate was hiding in some remote stretch of countryside?”

“Damn it,” Kennard growled, running a hand down his face.

“Anyway,” Marten said, his tone dark, “the sudden death of Lady Carmen of House Menelph has stirred up quite a bit of noise in the capital. They’re calling it an accident, but pointless rumors are spreading like wildfire.”

Kennard’s eyes narrowed. “Rumors?”

“She used to serve Hazel—your fiancée. The one His Majesty picked for you,” Marten replied. “Hazel and that woman went to see you, and then suddenly, the woman drops dead. Poisoned. Now people are saying some unidentified woman close to you tried to poison Hazel out of jealousy, and Carmen ended up dying by mistake. That kind of story.”

Kennard scoffed, his voice sharp with disgust. “People must have worms crawling in their brains to come up with that kind of insane nonsense.”

He sprang up from the sofa, fury blazing in his chest, and stormed over to the window. The air in the room felt too thick—he couldn’t sit still, not while his thoughts burned like fire.

Beyond the glass, the sprawling Terra Demorte Forest stretched out endlessly, the treetops swaying under the pale afternoon light. From the courtyard below came the distant clang of steel—knights sparring in the training yard.

As he turned his head, his gaze landed on the old stone tower with its barred windows—the same tower visible from the study. The one Elena would have seen every time she sat in that room.

Why didn’t I realize?

Why didn’t I see that you could look straight at that place from the study?

His gut twisted. Regret clawed at him, deeper and sharper than ever before.

If he could turn back time, he would have done everything differently. He would have never let Elena step foot in that room. He would’ve sent Hazel and her poisonous entourage straight back to the capital the moment they arrived.

No—before that.

If only he could go all the way back to the day he brought Elena, broken and bruised, into the castle…

If he had only pushed her to recover her memories the moment she woke up—

If only…

“I’d never let her out of my sight again,” he whispered, the words escaping like a vow—too late, and too full of pain.

“Unfortunately, people love that kind of story,” Marten said with a sigh, swirling the tea in his cup. “Something scandalous, something that makes them want to know more. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter.”

Either not hearing Kennard’s scathing remark—or simply choosing to ignore it—he continued calmly, raising the cup to his lips.

“And at the center of it all,” he went on, after taking a slow sip, “is you. The Emperor’s only sibling. The strongest pureblood among the Black Wolves. That’s exactly why His Majesty is showing interest and trying to get involved.”

“Interest?” Kennard scoffed, turning his gaze away.

“To someone who doesn’t know better, it might sound like affectionate concern,” he added with a bitter edge, his voice thick with mockery. The fury laced in his tone was unmistakable—and he made no effort to hide it.

Marten set his teacup down with a soft clink. “Either way, I came here under His Majesty’s orders,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, I plan to take Elena to the capital.”

Kennard’s head snapped around. His eyes burned as he glared at Marten like a wolf poised to strike.

“You really think I’ll just let you take Elena?” he asked, voice low and deadly, each word cutting through the air like a blade. “Don’t make me kill your woman with my own hands.”

Marten exhaled slowly, brushing his reddish-brown hair back from his face. The gesture was calm, even graceful—but his voice turned hard as stone.

Without another word, he slid his hand into the wide cuff of his sleeve and retrieved something from within.

He placed it on the table with quiet finality: a single envelope, its wax seal bearing the unmistakable mark of the imperial crest.

It had already been opened.

“This is a private letter sent to me directly,” Marten said, watching Kennard’s expression tighten.

“What?” 

“It was probably written in case things turned out like this,” Marten muttered. He paused, his jaw tightening before he added with clear distaste, “It says that if you oppose the order—I’m authorized to execute Elena on the spot.”

For a moment, everything went still.

Kennard stood frozen as if the words had struck him physically. Then the blood seemed to drain from his face, only to be replaced by a white-hot fury that surged through every vein in his body like fire.

As if it weren’t enough to send Marten—his closest friend—to take Elena, the Emperor had gone even further.

He’d given permission to kill her.

Kill her.

If Kennard refused.

The realization struck like a hammer. So this was the Emperor’s plan all along: manipulate Kennard’s loyalty. Bank on the fact that he wouldn’t raise a hand against his own friend. That he’d break—forced to surrender Elena without a fight.

Kennard’s fury surged so violently that his vision blurred at the edges. His grip on reason snapped like a fraying thread under too much strain.

Without warning, his pheromones burst forth—dark, suffocating, and absolute. They flooded the room like a crashing tide, pressing down on every surface.

The air thickened. Even the dust particles suspended in the golden shafts of light seemed to freeze. From somewhere beyond the windows, the birds fell silent, as if the entire world had gone still in fear.

Marten stiffened. His eyes widened as he instinctively swallowed hard, struggling against the invisible weight crushing down on him.

“Wh–what are you doing?” he gasped out, each word scraped raw from his throat.

His teal eyes shimmered with alarm, but even as panic bloomed across his face, he refused to flinch. He squared his shoulders and met Kennard’s gaze with defiance.

But it didn’t last.

Within seconds, a flush spread across Marten’s face—darkening rapidly to a bruised, purplish red. The whites of his eyes burst with red veins, blooming like cracks in porcelain. His skin pulsed with visible pressure; veins stood out grotesquely along his throat, his temples, the backs of his trembling hands.

Kennard didn’t move.

He stood like a statue carved in fury, fists clenched so tightly that his nails sliced into his palms. He watched as the man before him—his childhood friend, his bonded companion—began to crumble.

Marten’s face twisted in agony. A sound escaped him—a raw, choked sob—as he staggered and fell forward with a heavy thud, clutching at his throat.

He couldn’t breathe.

The air had been stripped from him.

The once-clear teal of his eyes turned murky, like stagnant water. Tears spilled freely as his body convulsed. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his lips frothed with saliva and mucus, strings of it trailing down his chin.

Then, broken and shaking, Marten curled into himself and pressed his forehead to the floor.

His ornate robe fanned out around his shuddering form, a mockery of dignity—now more like a burial shroud than courtly attire.

“Your Grace!”

The study doors slammed open with a loud bang as Serin rushed in, nearly tripping over himself. He had one arm clamped tightly over his nose and mouth, shielding himself from the suffocating air as he stumbled toward Kennard.

“Please… stop,” he gasped, voice raw. “At this rate… he really will die.”

His steps faltered, but he forced himself forward and threw his arms around Kennard, desperately trying to suppress the outpouring of pheromones with sheer proximity.

But his words didn’t reach him.

Kennard stood rigid, consumed by the murderous intent that radiated from his body like a storm—blinding, deafening, absolute. Nothing else existed.

“Your Grace… please,” Serin begged, tightening his grip. “You… you can’t do this. If you kill Count Remid… how will you live with the guilt?”

Even his voice began to fade. The weight of Kennard’s aura was dragging Serin down like a drowning man caught in a riptide.

“Your Grace, please stop…”

And then—

A voice rang out.

Clear. Steady. Cutting through the chaos like a blade.

In that instant, Kennard recoiled instinctively. His pheromones retracted in a sudden rush, as though someone had cleaved his fury in half and banished it from the room.

The murderous air dissipated. The pressure lifted. The study exhaled.

Marten collapsed with a strangled gasp, hacking violently as he dragged air into his lungs. He convulsed with each breath, thick strands of saliva spilling from his lips and hitting the carpet below.

Serin dropped to the floor with a dull thud, his limbs trembling, his chest heaving. Relief poured from him in a long, shaky breath.

Kennard didn’t look at either of them.

His head slowly turned toward the doorway.

Elena stood there.

Ashen-faced. Her hands trembling as they covered her mouth. Her gray eyes—clear, almost glass-like—were wide with disbelief, filled to the brim with tears.

The moment their gazes met, Kennard felt everything inside him collapse.

The fury drained from his body in an instant. His shoulders sagged. He turned his face away from her, unable to bear the look in her eyes.

So much sorrow. So much despair.

“…Damn it,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. He wanted to scream, to rage at the world, to curse everything—but those were the only words he could force out.

He heard her footsteps—light, careful—as she crossed the room.

The hem of her dress came into view, but still, he couldn’t lift his head. He was afraid his rage might still be clinging to him, might reach her too.

Then, gently, she wrapped her arms around him.

Her touch was warm. Soft. Steady.

Kennard’s hands twitched at his sides. Slowly, shakily, he began to raise them to return her embrace—

“…I will answer His Majesty’s summons,” Elena whispered.z