Dramatist

"Don't worry. I'll be keeping a close eye on you from now on."

The words were spoken without emphasis, but Seven understood exactly what they meant:

Use that power if you must, but know I'll be watching everything you do.

And so, he smiled.

He expected this kind of answer from the very beginning.

He reached out toward the massive door that marked the boundary between the throne hall and the corridor outside, ready to leave now that the conversation reached its conclusion.

But before he could pull, the door creaked open from the other side.

Creak.

A familiar figure stepped in.

Long platinum hair flowed over her shoulders, and her clear, ocean-colored eyes remained sharp and composed as always.

Eden Hart.

She walked right past him without saying a word. 

In one hand, she was dragging a limp figure across the floor by the hair whose body trailed behind her like dead weight and his limbs flopped loosely with every step she took.

His eyes and hair were both jet black.

Lythian Ace.

His mouth moved as though he was trying to speak but no words came out. 

Because at the moment, his neck was still in the middle of reattaching itself as the torn skin and sinew crawled to close the gap like threads sewing a shirt back together.

"...Oh, right…"

Seven muttered under his breath.

Lythian was the assassin Eden killed multiple times for attempting to take her little brother's life, but failed as he constantly regenerated thus she locked him in the basement prison of the exiled mansion instead.

Now, not only her little brother came back to life, but even the assassin escaped the prison to take his life one more time.

Or so she thought.

Despite the grim situation, Seven had to force himself not to laugh.

He turned away quickly, shoulders twitching as he bit back the urge to chuckle.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lythian start to thrash more violently in Eden's grip, probably realizing that Seven was not going to help him.

Seven turned once more toward the exit and reached again for the large door but as his hand touched the door, he stopped.

He stood still for a second, as if reconsidering something.

Creak.

He closed the door shut and turned back toward the throne, facing the man who still sat there in silence once more.

"Father."

Eden knelt and slammed Lythian's head on the floor.

"This hideous thing infiltrated the Duchy grounds.

"He escaped from the reinforced holding cell below the exiled mansion— the same place where I left him restrained after his failed attempt on the youngest's life.

"I caught him near the western corridor on his way to the youngest's quarters."

The Archduke did not blink.

He let his eyes move slowly from Eden to Seven, then to the assassin twitching at Eden's feet.

The corpse-like figure sprawled across the polished floor with blood from his forehead slowly blooming into the velvet red mat. 

Step.

He stepped down the last of the throne's dais and now stood before Eden and Lythian.

Clang—!!

Slowly and without any sign of urgency, the Archduke drew his sword from its sheath and brought it down across Lythian's half-healed neck, slicing through the regenerating tissue.

Lythian's body jolted in pain as his limbs thrashed wildly on the floor as he grit his teeth in a futile attempt to suppress the agony.

But not even a full second had passed, the severed nerves in his neck began to twitch and crawl toward one another that locked the Archduke's sword on his throat.

The Archduke did not wait. 

He slashed his neck quickly.

Slash!

Then, he released a sharp burst of zaen that instantly cleansed the blood from the steel as he sheathed the sword back.

Lythian's head, now barely attached, dangled grotesquely by a thin strand of muscle and nerve that swung slightly with every small movement of his body.

"Regeneration at this level cannot possibly be natural."

His eyes were focused intently on the neck as it began to mend itself once more. 

For a moment, his fingers twitched as if he was calculating how many strikes it would take to permanently disable something that was trying so hard to remain alive.

"I see…"

He raised his chin.

'Maxvlque…'

There was only one person on the entire continent who possessed the kind of knowledge and madness needed to create something like this. 

Elyssia had been made this way too: Maxvlque's masterpiece.

A body that refused to die.

An abomination that endured not because of will, but design.

The Archmage. 

"Eden."

"Yes, Father. Elyssia's case was the same."

The two of them, father and daughter, were thinking of the same origin.

The Archduke lowered himself, crouching until he was nearly eye level and stared into Lythian's face.

"Eden."

The Archduke called her name again.

"What were his words when he fell into your hands?"

Eden's eyes flicked briefly toward Seven, just long enough to acknowledge him, then returned to the Archduke's gaze as she answered.

"He said… 'I am Seven's slave.'"

"...?!"

The Archduke was flabbergasted by the statement, just enough for Eden to notice. 

 Shock was not an expression he often wore.

But he quickly composed himself and dismissed the thought as he looked at a single white bracelet tattooed on Seven's wrist and two on Lythian.

"Impossible."

After all, it was a fundamental rule that no man may enslave another who has walked further along the path of power. 

Be it through the gates or the rings.

The Archduke looked at Seven. He did not say anything, but his gaze was more than enough for Seven to explain.

Step.

"Yes, Father…"

At that, Seven took a slow step forward, his gaze fixed on the barely conscious figure at the Archduke's feet. 

He raised his right arm, and in response, a dull groan escaped Lythian's throat as the mark on his forehead began to glow faintly.

"...He is my slave."

***

In the Academy

The afternoon sun spilled through the glass windows of the Headmaster's office.

The scent of dried ink and polished mahogany lingered in the air, interrupted only by the faint rustle of paper as Acting Headmaster Cylinth scribbled her initials at the bottom of yet another report.

Her brown hair was drawn back into a tight braid as the silver pins held it in place.

Knock. Knock.

Cylinth paused mid-signature. 

She glanced at the large brass clock ticking by the bookshelf and towards the door.

"Enter."

The door creaked open not in a pushed manner, but more like presented as a girl stepped through with the kind of posture one might expect of a stage performer making her grand entrance.

She was clad in standard lavender blouse, modified just enough to be technically acceptable: a ribbon tied at the collar, cuffs embroidered with faint lilac thread, and a dramatic blend to her movements that had no business being so practiced for a fifteen-year-old.

"Good afternoon, Most Resplendent Deputy of All That is Scholarly."

The girl declared, stopping dead center in the carpet's sunlit spiral and bowed.

"Acting Headmaster Cylinth dei Silverio, I presume?"

Cylinth blinked.

"Yes."

But she decided to go along… for now.

"And you are?"

"I am Aeloria. I come today to offer my unworthy self as your assistant."

There was a moment of complete silence as Cylinth only stared at the girl.

As far as she knew, the list of applicants who passed the examination was not even released to the public, and yet…

"...My assistant?"

"Indeed."

Aeloria nodded solemnly.

She spent days planning this entire scheme, as being her assistant would allow him to have access to the paperworks— specifically the application forms— where she would figure out the identity of the man who witnessed her little drama back then.

After that, she would, once again, dramatically act to quit being Cylinth's assistant.

"I understand the burden you bear and I thought, 'Can a lowly student help bear the weight of such titanic responsibility?' And the answer, dear Headmaster, is yes. Yes, I can."

"...?"

Cylinth pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long sigh.

"You do realize that being my assistant involves sorting correspondence, handling scheduling conflicts, drafting memos, and reviewing disciplinary reports. It is not a stage production."

"Oh, I know. But I can brew an excellent cup of tea."

"Tell me, Miss Aeloria."

Cylinth raised a brow.

"Are you always like this?"

"I am always… uhm… N-No! I… tone it down on weekends. "

"..."

Cylinth leaned back in her chair.

She began to weigh the pros and cons, as she originally reserved the assistant position for Seven Hart. 

Still, there was now an endless amount of paperworks to be done with even the elders of the council asking for her presence with a notion that the rumble days ago were the result of the Archmage and Archduke fight.

Of course, it was just a speculation as it was the only thing the elders could think of.

And if that speculation was right… it will undoubtedly destroy the balance between the two powerhouse, and the Academy would get swept up in the middle.

Sigh.

"Fine."

Cylinth said. 

There was no assurance that the boy whom she sent an invitation letter would attend the Academy, thus it would not hurt if she allowed the girl before her a chance to prove herself. 

"I will allow a two-week probationary period. If you fail to meet expectations, never bring drama into my office again."

Aeloria dropped to one knee dramatically with her hands on heart.

"My lady of logic and ledgers, I accept!"

"Dismissed."

Cylinth said dryly as if already regretting this slightly.

As Aeloria rushed out of the room, Cylinth pulled out an aluminum-covered snack from her desk, stared at the now-closed door, and muttered:

"Goddess, help me. …I've hired a dramatist."