SYMDF 27

Chapter 27

 

As the deputy commander scanned the room once more and turned back toward the staircase, word reached his ears.

“Deputy Commander! There’s a teleportation circle drawn in the rear gardens!”

His cloak flared as he strode swiftly to the back of the building. As reported, a glowing blue magic circle lingered faintly upon the ground. Its presence still visible meant the caster had only just departed.

He stared down grimly, while a knight beside him stammered:

“A… a circle alone won’t reveal where he’s gone, sir.”

Instead of berating him, the deputy commander replied coolly:

“If it were to somewhere ordinary, the viscount would never need such a circle.”

Indeed, Camillus’s ability had long since surpassed “ordinary.” They said he could manifest most magic without incantation at all.

And to need a circle implied one thing only: he had gone to the Imperial Palace, where the City Ward’s sacred barrier resisted silent spells.

“…So then.”

The deputy commander’s eyes narrowed. He recalled the words from the Crown Prince Vernian the previous evening.

“There’s something I’ll need you to prepare for.”

That Prince—known for his arrogance and vice. Yet at that moment, he’d revealed cunning worthy of the Emperor’s son. His analysis and predictions had been sharp.

The orders had been twofold: One, confine the viscount Camillus to his manor. Two…

Now was the time for the second.

The deputy commander barked forth: “To the Crown Prince’s palace, at once!”

Ion barely knew how to eat. Food rested heavy on his tongue, tasteless under the pressure in his chest. He reacted to even the smallest sounds—his eyes flicking automatically when Vernian’s silverware clattered.

Stress was seeping into his body, flushing his face pale. His chest heaved, a cough breaking free. Vernian, mid-bite, paused with a question:

“Why so tense? Is my company that unpleasant? You eat like a turtle.”

The garden lay peaceful, all golden light and autumn air. But nothing eased Ion—not while Vernian sat across from him.

Ion carefully steadied his voice, pausing, then shook his head.

“No, Your Highness. I… was only preoccupied. My hand slowed.”

“Hm. I know your health is poor. Then just take your time.”

“I thank you for your consid—”

Ion stopped as Vernian suddenly set down his fork and rose. The boy’s gaze lifted uneasily, watching him circle the table, hand brushing against its edge.

Startled, Ion quietly set down his own fork. Vernian propped himself on the table beside him, leaning close.

The mask peeled away.

“What is it? Do you think I’d harm you?”

“…Your Highness.”

Vernian smirked, tilting Ion’s chin upward with a firm finger. His whisper came low, intimate.

“Camillus treasures you, doesn’t he? I even heard he visited the Duke’s estate just to see you.”

Ion stiffened. That truth was supposed to remain private. The fact Vernian—and thus the Imperial household—knew so much chilled him.

Yet the Prince’s next words swerved unexpectedly.

“I want to be close to you, too. Tell me—how can I make you like me?”

Ion wanted to snarl nothing you do ever will. But he dared not. Instead, he forced his gaze up, green eyes steady.

“I do not dislike you, Your Highness. How could I dare?”

Vernian laughed softly. “You lie without even blinking.”

“What could you mean—?”

His bluff was met with a sigh. Roughly, Vernian seized Ion’s nape, jerking him forward until their bodies nearly touched. His whisper was a blade.

“You loathe me. Do you think I don’t notice?”

Loathe.

Ion recognized then: even in the erased memories, the original Ion Craiger bore this same wariness. He hadn’t been a fool.

“…Surely not.”

“And which ‘surely’ is that?”

Ion only smiled, lips sealed. When Vernian’s grip slackened, he retreated, dabbing his mouth with a napkin—and coughing again. The autumn air stung his chest; tears welled faintly in his eyes. He drew on that excuse.

“Your Highness,” he rasped, “I weaken in the outdoors. May I return to the Duke’s estate?”

The answer came immediately, as if rehearsed.

“Of course not.”

“…What?”

Ion’s hope had been foolish. He flinched as Vernian grasped his slender arm with startling strength.

“Ah—!”

Pain shot through him, making him struggle uselessly. Vernian did not relent.

“I’ve goals, Ion. Several. For one…”

His hand rose toward Ion’s neck. Ion realized with dread—it was the mana stone. He had expected it. Still, pinned, he could only watch the fingers advance—

SMACK!

A third hand clamped Vernian’s wrist. Shock shadowed his face as he turned toward the intruder.

“…What are you?”

Ion’s heart seized. He turned too, eyes widening.

Impossible.

“…Camillus?”

Behind Vernian, Camillus stood. At his feet, the magic circle still glowed blue before fading.

“I came for you, Ion.”

The voice made it real.

Ion had only dreamed of it—the faint hope his clandestine note would reach him. That he would come into the lion’s den. It had seemed impossible. And yet… here he stood.

Vernian snarled, trying to wrench free, but Camillus shoved him back with cool force. Stumbling, Vernian nearly toppled across the table, attendants crying out.

“Your Highness!”

But Vernian, regaining balance, snapped his hand up to halt them.

“Stay back!”

Breath ragged, he glared at Camillus. “You bastard… how did you—”

Then his eyes fell on the magic circle at Camillus’s feet. Appalled, he barked laughter.

“You dare break into the Imperial Palace with teleportation? You’ve lost your mind! Weren’t you confined to your estate?”

Confined.

Ion’s lips parted slightly. That explained it.

He looked at Camillus—worry swimming in green. But Camillus’s calm remained, jaw set.

“Don’t lay a hand on Ion again.”

Footnotes

Teleportation Circle: Forbidden within the Imperial Palace wards. Camillus’s use highlights his defiance and recklessness.