Torn threads

Sartor walked alongside Yasmin through the castle corridors. She led the way toward the stairs, while Sartor reflected on how he had always ignored the upper levels of the castle due to his frail body.

As he pondered, they reached the topmost point—where a large glasshouse awaited.

They entered, and Sartor was taken aback by the blooming garden inside—vibrant flowers of every color, and a stone-paved path leading to a glass table.

"Wait here for a moment, young master."

Sartor sat, murmuring to himself as he tried to make sense of it all.

"Yasmin's words align with what Tian said... If the one my curse protected was Aunt Afra, then it would also explain my weakened body—or rather, what used to be my weak body. But I can't ignore my curse, even if I can't resolve it. The real issue is…"

"The violet flowers... How strange."

He reached out to touch one of the blossoms, speaking softly:

"I read about them in a book... This species only blooms in cold climates—very cold ones, under specific conditions. How are they alive here? In a glasshouse with no visible cooling system?"

He paused, then continued:

"Their presence here—and in the outdoor garden as well—suggests external interference. Either supernatural forces, or some kind of unknown skill… This castle hides far more than it reveals."

After their tea session, Yasmin returned with a cart carrying a teapot and several pieces of cake. Sartor invited her to stay and eat with him.

He laughed with rare warmth as he enjoyed the food, then said,

"The cake is soft and delicious… but I liked yesterday's bread even more."

Yet behind the smile… something else stirred in his mind: Where do the ingredients come from?

Meanwhile, in the Kaiser's study, Bianca and the Kaiser sat in the two ancient chairs, deep in quiet discussion. As the meeting came to a close:

"So… we agree. Three years?"

"Yes, my dear. In three years, Sartor will be ready."

Bianca added after a pause:

"He'll need to face hardship… He needs real-life experience. Books won't be enough. I don't care what that ungrateful boy says. I believe a trip to the Dust Continent will give him that. A bit of pressure won't kill him. Besides… the Fenrir's Hair is there. I don't think they'll touch him. But he'll see life beyond the castle. He's no longer easily manipulated by the Cage."

The Kaiser nodded silently. Neither of them had any idea what Sartor would endure there.

That night, after dinner, Sartor brushed his teeth, changed into his nightclothes, and slipped quietly into bed.

He thought sleep might bring him peace… but the moment he closed his eyes, the eye returned, lurking in the shadows. This time, it was wider—alive.

"The darkness… it's that dream again."

He realized he could still think inside the dream. He searched the void, until his gaze found the abyss again. Yet this time… it didn't emanate cold.

It emanated… curiosity.

From the bottom of the abyss… an eye opened.

It closed again—only to reopen in the shadow of an old man.

"Please, sir… just kill me. Spare my son… He has a pregnant wife… The child is due this month…"

The old man wept, kneeling, begging for mercy from hooded men clad in red robes, only their cold, expressionless eyes visible. One of them ignored the pleas and drove his spear into the chest of the man's son. The body fell without a cry.

The massacre repeated itself without mercy… until only the elderly remained.

"You monsters! What did we ever do to you?! My child! You killed my child!"

Grief turned to hatred—to a curse rising from the wrinkled chests of the dying elders before the spears silenced them too, piercing their trembling hearts without hesitation.

But the horror didn't end there.

Once the masked men finished… each one plunged his own spear into his own chest, as if their death was part of the ritual.

Then… the eye closed.

And opened again to a more chilling scene:

Blood. Nothing but blood.

A single man stood amid hundreds of corpses. Silver hair, piercing blue eyes, and a face disturbingly handsome—his body strong and upright, as if his very presence sought to veil the horror of the massacre.

His beauty felt unnatural, like something sculpted too ancient to be human.

In the distance, a silhouette approached on horseback, galloping fast across the vast plain.

When he arrived, he dismounted and knelt, uncaring of the blood soaking his robe.

He spoke in a soft voice, head bowed:

"Lord Magnus… the next offering is due in three years. According to our specialists, the red moon will be fully visible… over the Golden Dominion."

Magnus smiled—a smile that could break even the most defiant woman into surrender… or devotion.

He whispered, as if speaking to the shadows around him:

"Sartor."

He awoke breathless, the shadow of the eye still lurking behind his eyes.