Günther : Chapter 9

Gunther's arms burned with the weight of her, but he dared not adjust his grip. Lady Seraphine lay cradled against his chest like a bride—except there was no wedding, only the aftermath of chaos. Her face pressed close to his collarbone, her breath warm through the fabric of his uniform. The scent of her perfume, something expensive and floral, filled his senses, a stark contrast to the acrid smoke still clinging to his clothes from the bomb he'd set.

She had orchestrated this moment, he knew. The way she'd gasped, the way her fingers had dug into his sleeve when she'd pretended her ankle gave out. "Carry me," she'd murmured, loud enough for others to hear. And now, with every step down the gilded hallway, he felt the eyes of servants and lingering nobles—especially Elyria's. Seraphine had turned him into a spectacle, and he had no choice but to play his part. The thought coiled in his gut like a wire. What game are you playing, my lady?

Gunther's arms ached, but Seraphine's weight was the least of his burdens. The mansion loomed in the distance, its spires cutting into the smoke-choked sky. He'd miscalculated—his crude, charcoal-laced bomb had done more than scatter the crowd. Shrapnel from noble carriages had torn through the Ironhold armored transport, drawing unnecessary attention. Stupid. Too loud, too messy.

And yet, none of that compared to the woman in his arms.

Seraphine shifted slightly, her cheek brushing against his chest as she studied him—the way his jaw tensed under strain, the faint scar along his throat, the warmth of his body even through layers of fabric. There was something unsettlingly real about him, a quiet strength that made her pulse hitch. Most men in her world were polished blades—sharp, predictable. But Gunther? He was the hilt, worn smooth by time, hiding the weight of a thousand unseen battles.

"Gunther… tell me about your wife," she murmured, her voice softer than she intended.

His grip stiffened. "That past has no bearing on your safety, my lady."

"So she wasn't important? Or am I unworthy of knowing?" A needle wrapped in silk.

The ghost of a smile flickered across his face—bitter, fleeting. "She was everything. A woman who could turn a wolf's carcass into a feast and still laugh when I tracked mud inside." The words came unbidden, sharp with memory. "She made duty feel like… living. Too short. But enough."

Seraphine's breath caught. For the first time in years, she envied a dead woman. "I see. Perhaps I could—"

CRACK-BOOM!

The world split open. A concussive blast ripped through the garden ahead, hurling dirt and splintered hedges into the air. Gunther twisted, shielding Seraphine with his body as debris pelted his back. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard it—laughter.

"HAHAHA! Lady Seraphine! I've turned the dome inside out for you, and here you are—letting some old war dog carry you like a blushing bride!"

A figure emerged from the smoke, clad in the jagged armor of the Jenuvian League, his grin wild beneath a dented visor.

Gunther's pulse roared. Why her? Was it her magic? Her influence? Or something darker, something even he hadn't been briefed on?

Gunther set her down carefully against the broken fountain, his calloused fingers brushing her sleeve for the briefest moment. "Excuse me, Lady Seraphine."

Then - movement.

The Jenuvian assassin barely had time to blink before Gunther's forearm smashed into his throat in a crushing clothesline. Not the showy kind from arena fights, but the brutal, elbow-first version soldiers used to collapse windpipes in trench warfare. The man's feet left the ground as he went horizontal, crashing onto the shattered cobblestones with a wet thud.

Before the assassin could gasp for air, Gunther's boot came down on his wrist with a sickening crunch, pinning his sword arm. His other hand closed around the man's throat - not for a dramatic chokehold, but to slam his head repeatedly against the stone in short, vicious motions. Three sharp impacts. Crack. Crack. Crack.

Seraphine's eyes widened slightly. This wasn't the measured combat of noble duelists or even the flashy brutality of arena fighters. These were the economical, ugly movements of someone who'd ended lives in back alleys and battlefield mud.

The assassin gurgled, one eye swelling shut. Gunther leaned down, his voice a gravel whisper: "You don't get to speak her title with that mouth."

With a final heave, he yanked the man up and drove him spine-first into the fountain's edge in a move that looked suspiciously like a powerbomb, but executed with the cold precision of someone snapping firewood over their knee. The stone rim shattered on impact.

Silence.

Seraphine studied Gunther's heaving shoulders, her expression unreadable. "I don't recognize those... techniques," she murmured. "They're not in any combat manual I've seen."

Gunther flexed his bloodied knuckles. "They wouldn't be."

Gunther adjusted his grip as he carried Seraphine through the mansion gates, her weight familiar now despite the lingering ache in his arms. The Ironhold priests would tend to her soon, but first—confession burned in his throat like cheap whiskey.

"Lady Seraphine," he began, voice rougher than intended. "There's truth you deserve to know."

Her fingers tensed slightly against his shoulder. "Oh?"

"Days ago, I caught scent of stalkers. Tracked them to the Jenuvian League." His jaw tightened. "Found their rune-bombs planted in the dome's skeleton. Couldn't defuse them—so I left them be."

Seraphine went still. "You knew? And didn't tell my father? His mages could've—"

"Too many eyes in the mansion. Even among the duke's own." The admission tasted bitter. "So I built my own bomb. Charcoal and shrapnel—just enough chaos to force an evacuation without triggering their main devices."

"Distraction through destruction," she murmured. Then, unexpectedly, her lips curved against his collarbone. Perfect. The word echoed in her skull like a prayer. My perfect, dangerous man.

When she spoke aloud, her tone was light as a poisoned needle: "I won't forgive this secrecy... unless you promise not to exclude me next time."

Gunther nearly stumbled. The demand shouldn't have disarmed him—yet warmth bloomed beneath his ribs, treacherous and bright. He'd expected fury, not... this sly complicity.

"Understood," he managed, voice gravel. The mansion doors loomed ahead, but the real threshold had already been crossed.

The Ironhold mansion's gates loomed before them, but it was the sight of General Aldric Voss' crimson-clad soldiers patrolling the courtyard that made Gunther's grip tighten instinctively. Their timing couldn't be worse—or more deliberate. With Duke Ironhold away at the capital, the mansion was a ripe target, and here stood the kingdom's most dangerous investigator, waiting like a spider in their web.

Seraphine's breath tickled his ear as she whispered, "Gunther, return to your quarters. That hawk-eyed general will tear you apart in interrogation before you can blink." Her fingers brushed his neck—part warning, part promise. "I'll handle this."

He set her down carefully at the servants' entrance, the shadowed archway hiding their exchange. "My apologies for not delivering you safely inside, my lady." The words tasted like sawdust—too formal for what had passed between them tonight.

Her lips curved as she adjusted his collar, the gesture intimate enough to make his pulse stutter. "Wait for me tonight."

Not a request. A decree.

Gunther barely nodded before melting into the mansion's underbelly, his mind racing. The general's presence changed everything. Those rune-bombs weren't just an assassination attempt—they were a political statement meant to coincide with the duke's absence. And Seraphine...

He shoved open his chamber door, stripping off the bomb-scented uniform. Her command echoed in his skull. Wait for me tonight. For answers? For punishment? Or something far more dangerous?

Outside his window, torches flared as General Voss' men began their search. Gunther smiled grimly. Let them scour the mansion. They'd find no traces of the chauffeur who fought like a war veteran—not until Seraphine decided otherwise.

The Ironhold mansion loomed before them, its grand doors flanked by Aldric's soldiers in full battle regalia. Gunther's grip tightened instinctively around Seraphine—this wasn't just routine security. The general stood at the center of the storm, his scarred face illuminated by the flickering torchlight as he reviewed documents with a stone-faced lieutenant.

Perfect timing. Duke Ironhold's absence at the capital left the mansion vulnerable, but Aldric's presence was an unforeseen complication.

Seraphine's fingers brushed Gunther's wrist, her whisper barely audible. "Go to your quarters. Aldric would peel the skin off a servant just to check for lies beneath."

He lowered her carefully onto a marble bench near the side entrance, his chauffeur's uniform now streaked with soot and blood—too conspicuous for questioning. "My apologies for not delivering you safely inside, my lady."

Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Wait for me tonight." The command slithered between them, weighted with unspoken plans.

Gunther gave a shallow nod before melting into the servant's corridors. The backway to his room felt longer tonight, every shadow potentially hiding Aldric's spies. He needed to burn his ruined uniform, scrub the gunpowder residue from his nails—

And decipher what game Seraphine is playing now that we're both complicit.

The mansion's grand hall felt colder than usual as I limped inside, my injured ankle act perfected through years of practice. General Aldric Voss sat at the head table like a vulture over battlefield corpses, Livia and his scouts hunched over dome schematics. I kept my breathing measured—just a traumatized noblewoman seeking medical aid.

"Seraphine!" Aldric's voice cracked like a whip. "A word."

I turned with practiced hesitation. "My apologies, General. My car was caught in the blast zone—"

"I don't care about your transportation." He stabbed a finger at the map. "During your duel with Elyria—did you sense anything unusual in the dome? Any suspicious individuals?"

I let my gaze go slightly unfocused, as if struggling to recall. "Nothing noteworthy, General. I recognized every attendee during the ceremony." My fingers twitched near my "injured" leg. "Though admittedly, I was rather... preoccupied."

Aldric's eyes narrowed, but Livia whispered something that made him grunt. "Fine. Get that ankle treated."

I offered a shallow curtsy and turned away, hiding the smirk itching at my lips. Too easy.

But as I climbed the marble stairs, a new thought slithered in: Why is he asking about the dome specifically? Does he know about the rune-bombs?

The priests' chamber door loomed ahead, but the real danger was behind me—in the war room where Aldric was piecing together truths I'd rather keep buried.

I shut the bedroom door behind me, back pressed against the wood as if barricading myself from my own thoughts. The uniform slipped from my shoulders like shed skin, replaced by soft silk—something casual, unremarkable. How ironic. I, who orchestrated tonight's chaos, now fumbling with buttons like some blushing maiden.

And yet.

Gunther.

The name stuck in my throat, thorned and sweet. That weathered face, those rough hands that carried me as if I were something fragile—me, who'd broken men for lesser insults. He'd confessed his sins so earnestly, as though I were a priestess and not the woman who'd weaponized his grief the moment she learned of it. "My wife made duty feel like living." Fool. Didn't he know duty was a cage? And yet… the way he'd looked at me after the killing, relief softening his edges—as if my approval mattered. As if I mattered beyond my name.

I pressed my palms to the mirror, staring at the woman reflected. Since when do you crave being seen? Not as Lady Seraphine, not as the duke's sharpest blade, but as… what? The answer coiled low in my stomach, treacherous. His. The realization should have disgusted me. Instead, I traced the memory of his warmth against my cheek, the way his pulse had jumped when I'd demanded his nights.

Pathetic. And yet—

A knock rattled the door.

I schooled my face into boredom. "Enter."

The maid entered with the folded garments, her gaze carefully averted from where my silver hair spilled across the dressing table like molten metal. "General Voss demands your presence, my lady. The war room. Immediately."

I selected a hairpin from the vanity, testing its point against my fingertip. "Wine and a bath first," I said, watching how my hair shifted like quicksilver in the lamplight as I turned my head. "The general can wait ten minutes."

"But my lady—"

The pin flashed as I twirled it. "Did I stutter?"

The maid fled. Alone again, I let the pretense drop. The casual outfit—deep blue velvet with silver fastenings—lay untouched. My fingers lingered at the last button of my damaged ceremonial dress instead, remembering how Gunther's calloused hands had brushed my waist when he carried me.

That memory burned hotter than it should have.

A knock. More urgent this time. Aldric's impatience was a physical force pounding at my door. Yet all I could think of was the way Gunther's voice had cracked when he spoke of his wife, how his arms had trembled—not from my weight, but from the weight of his confession.

I stood abruptly, my hair swirling around me like a stormcloud as I moved to the door. Duty called. But tonight...tonight belonged to something else.

The war room smelled of candle wax and cold steel, the massive oak table strewn with maps and shrapnel samples. General Aldric Voss loomed at its head, his gauntleted fingers pressing into the wood hard enough to leave marks. Across from him, my father—Duke Ironhold—stood like a storm given human form, his crimson cape still dusted with debris from the dome. Elyria hovered near the window, her usual arrogance tempered by something darker.

"You're certain the spies were eliminated?" Aldric's voice cut through the silence like a blade.

My father didn't flinch. "Their bodies fed the hounds days ago. Yet their reports had already escaped—details of Seraphine's routines, the dome's weak points." His gaze flicked to me, a silent warning. Play your part.

I leaned forward, letting my silver hair curtain my face as I added, "They timed the attack perfectly. Knew I'd be distracted by the duel."

Aldric's eyes narrowed. "Which suggests coordination between factions." He slammed a twisted piece of metal onto the table—charcoal residue flaking from its edges. "But this? No mage would sully their hands with crude black powder. This is gutter work."

The war room's crystal chandeliers trembled as General Aldric Voss slammed both fists onto the strategium table. "Explain this," he growled, shoving two pieces of evidence across the polished surface - one shimmering with residual magic, the other blackened with charcoal.

My father, Duke Ironhold, caught the second fragment mid-slide. His eyebrows knitted as he rubbed the soot between his fingers. "This isn't just primitive... it's impossible."

Livia stepped forward, her silver diagnostic lenses flipping down as she examined the samples. "The rune-bomb follows standard Imperial patterns," she confirmed, then hesitated. "But this charcoal device... there are no historical precedents. No records of anyone weaponizing raw carbon this effectively."

Aldric's scarred face darkened. "You're telling me someone invented an entirely new form of explosives tonight?"

Elyria leaned against the stained-glass window, the colored light painting her smirk blood-red. "How delightfully crude. Like attacking a symphony with a hammer."

I kept my breathing even as my father's gaze grew distant. He knew - just as I did - what this meant. Not a copycat, not a regression to older methods... but something new. Something outside all known tactical frameworks.

Livia's instruments whirred as she continued her analysis. "The charcoal mixture achieved concussive force comparable to a second-tier rune device, but through pure chemical reaction. No magic signatures whatsoever." Her voice dropped. "Whoever made this... they either stumbled upon an accident, or they're a tactical savant."

The general's eye twitched. "Savant or not, they nearly collapsed the dome's western sector with kitchen supplies." He turned to my father. "Your spies mentioned nothing of this?"

"Only rumors of rune-weapons," the Duke admitted, his thumb still smudging the charcoal absently. "This... this changes everything."

A muscle jumped in Aldric's jaw. "Two attacks. One sophisticated, one barbaric. Either we're dealing with allies testing different methods—"

"—or enemies pretending to be each other," my father finished. The unspoken truth hung between us all: Someone wanted this to look like a civil war.

Elyria's sudden laugh was glass shattering on stone. "How amusing. The great Ironhold Dome brought low by charcoal." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Tell me, General—does His Majesty enjoy being reminded his elite can't stop kitchen supplies from becoming weapons?"

Aldric's chair screeched as he stood. "Mind your tongue, girl."

The war room's heavy silence stretched like a noose. Livia's diagnostic tools hummed uselessly over the charcoal residue while Aldric paced like a caged wolf, his armor clanking with each furious step. Elyria had abandoned her mocking smile, now chewing her lip raw as she stared at the impossible evidence.

Only my father remained still.

I caught the minute twitch of his ring finger against the table - our old signal when he'd spotted a weakness in negotiations. His gaze flickered to me, then toward the servants' quarters where Gunther waited. He knows.

Aldric slammed his fist down, making the rune-bomb schematics jump. "This makes no tactical sense! Either we're dealing with an idiot savant or—"

"—or someone who understands exactly how we think," my father interrupted, his voice deceptively calm. He lifted the charcoal fragment to the light. "This isn't just primitive. It's elegant in its simplicity. No magic traces means no way to track the creator." His thumb rubbed the soot in a slow circle. "Almost like they knew our detection protocols."

The general's eyes narrowed. "You sound almost admiring, Ironhold."

A dangerous smile played on my father's lips. "I appreciate competent enemies, Aldric. It keeps us sharp." His boot tapped mine under the table - once, twice. I'll play along... for now.

Livia adjusted her lenses with shaking hands. "Whoever designed this... they'd need advanced chemical knowledge but also intimate understanding of structural engineering to—"

"Enough theorizing!" Aldric's gauntlet sent a water goblet crashing to the floor. "I want every non-magical explosive expert in the region arrested by sunrise!" His glare swept the room before landing on me. "Starting with your household staff, Seraphine."

My nails bit into my palms, but I kept my voice lazy. "By all means, General. Interrogate the scullery maids. Though I'd think the Mage-King's forces have better leads than my pastry chef."

Elyria snorted, but my father's gaze never left mine. In that moment, we understood each other perfectly - he'd recognized Gunther's handiwork, and I recognized his silence for the shield it was.

For now.

Duke Ironhold closed the iron lockbox with a decisive click, the sound echoing like a gavel strike. "General," he said, his voice smooth as polished steel, "this matter transcends a simple investigation. We stand at the precipice of a new threat—one that demands the Crown's direct counsel."

Aldric's jaw tightened, but after a weighted pause, he gave a stiff nod. "Very well. I'll delay interrogations until we've consulted His Majesty." His gauntleted hand flexed, betraying his frustration. "But mark my words—someone in this city knows how to weaponize charcoal, and I will have their name."

The Duke's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Naturally."

As Aldric turned to leave, he paused, his gaze sweeping over Elyria and me. "Anything to add? Either of you?"

Elyria tilted her head, her golden hair catching the light like a blade. "Only that I'll be revising my combat strategies. If kitchen supplies can rival rune-bombs, perhaps the Elite Academy's curriculum is… outdated." Her smirk was a challenge—to Aldric, to my father, to the entire established order.

Aldric grunted. "You'd do well to take this seriously, girl."

Then his attention landed on me.

I let my fingers trail along the table's edge, my voice deliberately light. "Nothing to add, General. Though I do wonder—if our enemy is as clever as you fear, wouldn't rushing into interrogations just give them more data to exploit?"

A muscle twitched in Aldric's temple. He knew I'd backed him into a corner—agreeing with the delay while undermining his authority. With a final glare, he stormed out, Livia scrambling in his wake.

The door slammed.

Silence.

Then my father exhaled, long and slow, his fingers drumming the lockbox. "Elyria. Leave us."

Her eyes flicked between us, curiosity burning, but she obeyed.

The moment the latch clicked, the Duke's voice dropped to a whisper. "We need to talk about your chauffeur."