A moment later his low, rich chuckle rolled after her—good-natured, unbothered, the sound of a man entirely too accustomed to being gently rebuffed.

 

He followed without protest.

 

Behind him trailed his two aides, footsteps measured and silent.

 

“What’s Theodore up to these days?” 

 

Karlheinz asked lightly as they walked.

 

Renata couldn’t bring herself to speak the brutal truth—He’s inside plotting shadowy treason, Your Highness—so she chose the safest half-lie.

 

“He’s taken care of all the urgent matters already. Right now he’s… just resting inside for a moment.”

 

“Hm. I see.”

 

They continued in companionable quiet—until suddenly a sharp, prickling awareness crawled up the back of Renata’s neck.

 

She glanced around instinctively.

 

And there he was.

 

Theodore.

 

Leaning against the frame of his office door, arms crossed tightly over his chest, posture deceptively casual.

 

How long had he been standing there?

 

Watching.

 

The stare he leveled at them wasn’t angry—not yet.

 

It was colder than that.

 

Possessive.

 

Hungry.

 

The air between the three of them thickened in an instant, charged with something unspoken and razor-sharp.

Renata’s pulse kicked hard against her ribs.

 

Karlheinz’s easy stride didn’t falter, but the warmth in his expression cooled by the smallest degree—becoming something more watchful, more assessing.

 

And Theodore…

 

Theodore never once looked away from her.

 

Not from his brother. Not from the papers clutched like armor against her chest.

 

Only from her.

 

As though the rest of the world had narrowed to the space between where she stood and where he waited—silent, coiled, and already claiming what no one had yet dared to name.

 

Let me know if you’d like the brewing jealousy sharpened, the silent power struggle between the brothers leaned into more heavily, or Renata’s growing awareness of being caught in the crossfire pulled even tighter.

 

Theodore’s face said he had a thousand things he wanted to throw at her — sharp, dark, possessive things — yet the moment their eyes met he simply turned on his heel and walked into the office without a word.

 

Karlheinz gave a soft, rueful sigh behind her.

 

“Looks like my little brother is in one of his moods today. I’ll come back another time.”

 

He offered Renata a gentle, almost pitying smile and a small wave that clearly meant you may go.

 

She slipped inside. Only after the door had closed did Karlheinz’s warm expression freeze over. He turned to his aides, voice low and ice-edged.

 

“That woman. There’s something about her. Find out what it is.”

 

🫧

 

The instant Renata stepped across the threshold she twisted the lock with a firm click, then swept the room with quick, wary eyes — old habits, new dangers.

 

Theodore was already behind her.

 

Close.

 

Too close.

 

His gaze dragged down the length of her body like a slow, deliberate caress, taking in every fold of fabric, every inch of her.

 

“…It’s Wednesday.”

 

Renata’s cheeks heated. 

 

“You’re checking my skirt again to guess the day?”

 

“I know,” he murmured, voice low and rough. 

 

“Wednesday is yellow. Tomorrow will be green.”

 

His stare lingered on the curve of her back, the nape of her neck, the soft line where her blouse met her waist — until the weight of it became unbearable. 

 

She edged sideways, trying to put half a step between them.

 

“You left your pocket watch somewhere, didn’t you? I can’t feel the concealment charm at all.”

 

Only then did she realize the small leather pouch that usually hung at her hip was missing — left behind in her haste that morning.

 

“You know that watch is the only thing that hides your alchemical signature, right?” 

 

His tone sharpened, but beneath the scold there was something raw, almost frightened. 

 

“Why are you being so reckless? Especially around the Crown Prince.”

 

She hadn’t known. She had simply obeyed her father’s old instruction — always carry it, never take it off — without ever understanding the true reason.

 

“I only revealed my real self to you because the situation is becoming that dangerous.”

 

Theodore stepped closer still, until she could feel the heat of his body against her back. 

 

“So pay attention. Don’t treat this like one of my games. You didn’t think I was joking, did you?”

 

She hadn’t known that either.

 

For weeks she had half-convinced herself his confession had been just another cruel tease — the same wicked prince who delighted in making her squirm.

 

But now he looked… tired.

 

Worn thin.

 

More serious than she had ever seen him.

 

So she stayed silent, letting his words sink in, letting the worry in his voice coil around her ribs like a living thing.

 

He exhaled, long and shaky.

 

“Anyway… just don’t cause any accidents. If something big happens, you’re the one who’ll suffer. Even I have limits on how much I can clean up after you.”

 

Renata’s lips parted before her brain could stop her. She threw his own words right back at him — the ones he had used on her so many times before.

 

“I can’t guarantee that, you know.”

 

The silence that followed was electric.

 

Theodore’s eyes widened, stunned, then narrowed into a fierce, blazing glare.

 

For one breathless second he looked like he might snarl, might grab her, might do any number of dangerous, beautiful things.

 

Instead the corner of his mouth twitched.

 

And Renata — heart hammering, cheeks burning, pulse singing in her ears — felt a bright, reckless spark of triumph bloom in her chest.

 

She had finally made the hunter feel hunted.

 

And she liked it.

 

Far, far more than she should.

 

Let me know if you want the tension in the locked room pulled even tighter, the jealousy from earlier carried forward, or the moment when she throws his line back at him stretched into something slower and more charged.

 

🫧

 

“Lord Marex… there is something I must tell you regarding Konrad Heinsbrun.”

 

Marex’s hand froze mid-motion—long fingers still threaded through the cascade of ink-black hair that spilled down his back, reaching all the way to the slender curve of his waist. 

 

Slowly, deliberately, he released the strands and turned his head.

 

Despite bearing the title of Archmage who had lived well over a century, his face belonged to a man in his mid-twenties, devastatingly beautiful, almost unfairly so. 

 

Pale skin, sharp jaw, and those deep crimson eyes that seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it.

 

“Speak.”

 

“I have continued tracking his whereabouts ever since he vanished from the capital thirteen years ago… but it appears we will not uncover anything substantial before the Hunting Festival.”

 

For a moment Marex seemed lost in thought. His blood-red gaze drifted slowly from left to right, as though searching invisible threads in the air. Then those eyes settled on his visitor once more—quiet, piercing, intimate in their intensity.

 

“Have you at least located even the temporary places he stayed? That boy… he would have left a message for me. Something. Anything. He was the type who never feared glaring straight into an adult’s eyes and talking back without hesitation.”

 

“Even that proved impossible. It’s as though… someone professionally trained erased every trace. Not the smallest remnant remains.”

 

“That boy did?” 

 

Marex’s brows lifted faintly, a flicker of disbelief—and something dangerously close to fondness—crossing his features. 

 

“From what I remember, he was never that meticulous…”

 

He rose from his chair in one fluid motion. 

 

The long hair he had just loosely tied back into a low, coltish ponytail swayed against his spine as he moved to the desk and began sorting through scattered papers with deliberate, almost caressing slowness.

 

“Even when the Tower its full investigative power… not even the faintest residue of the Heinsbrun family’s mana signature could be detected.”

 

Alchemists did not possess innate mana of their own like mages did.

 

Instead they gathered ambient, wandering power into their bodies, refined it, tamed it, made it theirs. 

 

They were the world’s silent purifiers—scavengers of magical impurities—and its most resourceful recyclers, turning raw elemental force into potions, artifacts, elixirs that kept entire kingdoms running.

 

Whenever they encountered a mage brimming with especially rich mana, alchemists would descend like starving researchers, eyes fever-bright, practically begging to be allowed to siphon just a little, just a taste. 

 

It was their greatest, most shameless weakness.

 

And among all alchemists, the one mages feared and avoided most viscerally—

 

—was undoubtedly Count Heinsbrun himself.

 

The silence that followed carried weight. Marex’s fingertips lingered on the edge of a document, unmoving. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, softer, almost private—like a secret shared only with the empty space where Konrad used to stand.

 

“…He really left nothing behind for me?”

 

The question hung there, fragile and raw, betraying far more than the Archmage probably intended.

 

He was born with such prodigious talent that even the simple act of breathing drew the surrounding mana toward him in greedy, intoxicating waves.

 

Any mage who dared approach his side—or even lingered for a moment in a place he had once occupied—would feel their body grow heavy, languid, almost melting under the overwhelming pressure of his presence.

 

The Count himself was painfully aware of it. 

 

He tried desperately to rein in that power, to fold it tightly away, yet he could never fully tame it.

 

For someone possessing such devastating strength to vanish so completely that not even a whisper of his aura remained anywhere in the world… no matter how one turned the thought over, only one merciless conclusion emerged.

 

“…It would be wiser not to harbor too much hope.”

 

“Anawin. While I slept, you led the Tower beautifully. Peacefully. Magnificently.”

 

Marex slowly lifted his gaze from the neatly stacked research materials he had gathered at the corner of the desk, letting his eyes drift across the laboratory with an air of profound indifference and faint, weary boredom.

 

“Not now, Lord Marex! You’ve only been awake for a mere fortnight. You promised—at the very least—you would rest until next month!”

 

Sensing something dangerous stirring in his calm demeanor, Anawin hurried to the desk, voice tight with urgency and unspoken fear.

 

“Whether it’s him or one of his bloodline, if any of them still draw breath, they’ll hear I’m entering the Hunt and come racing to the capital.”

 

“Then they’ll try to slip into the hunting grounds the moment the event begins. All you need to do is leave just enough of an opening… so he can approach you without too much difficulty.”

 

“And if that proves impossible?”

 

His expression remained listless, edged with irritation and faint disdain—yet the hand that rose to gently stroke the top of Anawin’s head who already stood at the threshold of middle age was achingly tender, almost reverent.

 

“The capital has already been bled dry of alchemists. In such a barren place, how could anyone of Heinsbrun’s line possibly set foot inside the palace? Annoying as it is… I suppose I’ll have to go lend a hand myself.”

 

“Wouldn’t it be better to protect the remaining alchemists together with the Tower’s mages…?”

 

A low, exasperated huff of laughter escaped him.

 

“How many times must I say it? My departure and participation in the Hunt are my decision alone—utterly personal, entirely divorced from the Tower. As the next Tower Master, you need only make it known that you opposed me.”

 

His fingers lingered a heartbeat longer in her hair, the touch soft yet weighted with something unspoken, something possessive and quietly desperate—before he finally let his hand fall away.

 

Marex cut her off mid-sentence, making his unyielding resolve unmistakably clear.

 

More than that, the words he let fall carried an unspoken directive: should everything go catastrophically wrong, the Tower was to wash its hands of him entirely—declare it the solitary whim of the Tower Master and step away unscathed.

 

“If the disappearances of the alchemists that are happening right now stem from what took place back then… then it’s my mistake. And cleaning up my own messes is my responsibility. That, Anawin, is what it means to carry the weight of adulthood.”

 

Recognizing the iron in his voice, Anawin slowly removed her glasses. She pressed the heels of her palms against her tired eyes and let out a small, fractured sigh.

 

“Lord Marex… you have to come back. I will wait. This Tower will wait for you—again. Just like always.”

 

Marex reached out and ruthlessly tousled her hair until it was a complete, hopeless wreck—then answered in that same maddeningly indifferent drawl:

 

“Stop saying burdensome things. Just manage the Tower properly while I’m gone.”

 

His voice and expression dripped with casual apathy, yet the eyes that lingered on his oldest, dearest disciple shimmered with something raw and unguarded—thick with worry, with the kind of tenderness he would never voice aloud.

 

A moment later he gave a light, almost careless wave of his hand in farewell. Then, with a casual snap of thumb and forefinger—

 

He vanished.

 

Anawin—the next Tower Master—stood frozen, staring at the empty space where he had been. 

 

Slowly, both hands rose to cover her face. Her shoulders began to tremble in quiet, uneven waves.

 

🫧

 

For days now Renata had been buried under relentless overtime; her body felt leaden, as though gravity itself had doubled. 

 

It was well past noon by the time she finally dragged herself toward the prince’s office.

 

She knocked. Waited. No answer.

 

She was already turning to leave when the door suddenly swung open with a rough creak.

 

There stood Theodor—his face every bit as ravaged by exhaustion as hers, shadows carved deep beneath his eyes, skin pallid, lips pressed into a thin line of fatigue.

 

She had been the one drowning in work. He, as always, had been putting things off until the last possible second. So why—why did he look just as wrecked as she felt?

 

“Look at your face. You look terrible. Haven’t you been sleeping?”

 

“Thanks to a certain someone who keeps dumping every urgent task on me.” 

 

His voice was low, edged with dry sarcasm. 

 

“And yet here stands Your Highness, looking like he hasn’t slept in a week either. Care to explain?”

 

“Are you just going to stand there in the hallway forever?” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Or should I close the door?”

 

The words hung between them—half challenge, half invitation—his gaze locked on hers with an intensity that made the corridor suddenly feel far too small, the air far too warm.

 

Theodor abruptly changed the subject, snatching the thick stack of documents from Renata’s arms and striding ahead as though suddenly decisive.

 

She had foolishly expected the work to fly by once he took charge—but no. 

 

He tossed the papers carelessly onto the desk and promptly collapsed onto the sofa like a man who had already finished a full day’s labor.

 

“Your Highness. I seem to recall you once saying you cared about your reputation.”

 

The remark was sharp, aimed straight at the same infuriatingly work-averse Theodor who had shown his true colors long ago and never once bothered to disguise them since.

 

“You ever hear the saying? People don’t change easily—and when they do, it usually means their time is running out.”

 

Renata stared at him—this man who so perfectly mirrored the petulant, irresponsible prince of old—and felt something inside her chest twist painfully close to breaking. 

 

Oblivious or perhaps willfully blind, Theodor began to ramble.

 

“Lately there are moments when I think… maybe it really is my time. I feel different. Like something inside me has shifted.”

 

“You haven’t changed at all, Your Highness. Not even a little. Truly. Not one bit.”

 

You were always this hopeless about work. Then. Now. Always.

 

“Is that how I look to you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

A faint, crooked smile ghosted across his lips.

 

“…That’s oddly comforting.”

 

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

 

“Who cares? I’m choosing to take it that way.”

 

She knew better than to try winning any verbal spar with him; the effort was always futile. 

 

So she surrendered the pointless argument and turned her full attention to sorting the reports by priority, fingers moving with practiced, almost desperate efficiency.

 

Theodor watched her in silence for a long moment, then spoke again—this time with a sullen, almost childish pout.

 

“Renata. I need to slip out on an undercover errand. I need an alibi. Which means I need your help.”

 

“I’ll submit a report saying it looks like Your Highness has once again disappeared toward the salons. Then I’ll leave the palace myself to ‘pursue’ you. We return together afterward. Like before.”

 

Just like old times—her playing the exasperated aide sent to drag the wayward prince out of yet another den of indulgence.

 

Theodor let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded more like a sigh.

 

“Ha… You’re only ever this cooperative when it’s about work.”

 

Before she could respond, he had already closed the distance—long, unhurried strides that brought him right up behind her. His voice dropped, quieter now, closer.

 

“If we finish these reports, can you leave early today? How late do you have to stay?”

 

Renata froze, pen hovering above the page.

 

“…You’re actually going to work?”

 

“Answer before I change my mind.”

 

His breath brushed the shell of her ear—soft, deliberate, dangerous in its casual intimacy. The air between them thickened, charged with everything they never said, everything they pretended not to feel.

 

These were the very documents Renata had deliberately brought in days—sometimes weeks—ahead of their actual deadlines, precisely because she had calculated Theodor’s inevitable laziness into the equation.

 

The stack was monstrous. Finishing it in a single day was flatly impossible.

 

“Review them all by tomorrow, if you would be so kind.”

 

She delivered the words with bright, razor-edged cheerfulness—practically daring him: go ahead, try me.

 

To her quiet surprise, he accepted without protest.

 

“Fine. I’ll do it. But afterward… come with me somewhere.”

 

Renata blinked. 

 

“Is there more work I need to handle?”

 

“Well… strictly speaking, yes.”

 

“Then why not simply order me to take care of it? Why go out of your way to make it inefficient by dragging me along…?”

 

His mouth curved downward, the easy humor fading from his expression the moment her response failed to align with whatever he had hoped to hear.

 

Renata caught the shift instantly and pivoted, voice softening into something dangerously sweet.

 

“Ah. So what you really mean is… you want to be with me. I’m so touched I might actually cry.”

 

Theodor studied her for a long, considering beat.

 

“Are you getting worse at hiding your expressions lately… or am I just getting better at reading you?” 

 

His tone was low, almost lazy, but the gaze pinning her in place was anything but. 

 

“Keep lying to me and see what happens.”

 

There’s an old saying, one doesn’t spit on a smiling face.

 

So Renata obeyed the ancient wisdom. She lifted her lips into the brightest, most dazzling smile she could muster—heartfelt in its artifice, radiant in its challenge.

 

“Where exactly should I meet you later?”

 

The sudden, disarmingly beautiful curve of her mouth caught him off guard. 

 

Theodor visibly flinched—only a fraction, but enough. A low, involuntary sound rose in his throat before he swallowed it back down.

 

“…Be at Fog by four this afternoon,” he managed, voice rougher than before. 

 

“I have to stop there after the undercover business to discuss something with the others.”

 

He didn’t look away. Neither did she.

 

The silence that followed thrummed between them—thick with everything unsaid, everything they both refused to name, everything that made the simple act of breathing feel suddenly intimate and perilous.