Take Me Away, Dark Lord!

His massive, scarred hands, hands that had snapped the necks of trolls, gently offered her a tiny, woven basket filled with wild, perfectly ripe blackberries he had foraged from a thorny thicket, completely ignoring the scratches on his own forearms.

Even Sir Lucas, the stern and terrifying veteran commander, had tried to contribute.

He had proudly presented her with a beautifully balanced, wickedly sharp throwing knife, claiming it was ”essential for a lady’s foundational defense.”

Duke Kaelus had immediately confiscated it, threatening to demote Lucas to latrine duty, but Seraphina had hugged the scarred knight’s armored leg anyway, thanking him for the thought.

She was drowning in affection.

She had a mountain of toys, an endless supply of sweets, and a dozen heavily armed uncles who would gladly march into the Abyss to fetch her a glass of water.

But as wonderful as the knights were, it was the Duke who occupied the center of her world.

Kaelus von Nacht was not a warm man.

He did not smile often, he rarely raised his voice above a dangerous, commanding murmur, and he was perpetually drowning in the endless, mind-numbing paperwork required to run a territory the size of a small country.

He spent hours in the carriage reading reports, signing ledgers, and plotting military maneuvers.

Yet he was, paradoxically, the most attentive person Seraphina had ever known.

He noticed the tiniest details.

If the temperature in the carriage dropped by even a fraction of a degree, before Seraphina could even shiver, Kaelus would silently adjust the magical heating stone or pull his heavy cape over her lap.

If she stared at a complex word in one of the books he had provided for her, he would pause his own reading, define the word in simple terms, and return to his work without missing a beat.

When she fell asleep against the carriage window, her head bouncing slightly against the glass, she would always wake up to find herself lying flat on the velvet cushions, her head resting on a pillow he had magically summoned, with his heavy coat tucked securely around her shoulders.

He never made a show of it.

He never asked for gratitude.

He managed her well-being with the same flawless efficiency he applied to running a war.

’To him, I’m but a pawn,’ Seraphina would remind herself in the quiet moments when the carriage rocked her to sleep. ’He told me himself. I’m here to be a good bait. I’m just a political tool. I’m just a very valuable dark magic battery.’

Her adult, cynical mind tried to build walls, tried to brace herself for the inevitable moment when his cold pragmatism would override this domestic fantasy.

But every time she looked at him, those walls crumbled a little more.

Because even if she was a pawn, she was his pawn.

And the way he held her hand when he lifted her out of the carriage, the way his terrifying, death-soaked aura actively parted the shadows so she wouldn’t be scared, it felt more like love than anything she had ever experienced.

If this was what it meant to be a tool, Seraphina decided she was perfectly fine remaining in the toolbox forever.

”We are approaching the borders of the Myer territory, Your Grace.”

Sir Lucas’s voice cut through the quiet interior of the carriage, sounding muffled through the thick, reinforced wood.

Kaelus did not look up from the scroll he was annotating. ”Maintain the current pace. Ensure the vanguard’s standard is raised. We will not sneak into his domain like thieves.”

Seraphina, who was currently lying on her stomach on the opposite bench, meticulously lining up a row of candied pecans as if they were soldiers, perked up.

”Myer?” she asked, stumbling slightly over the pronunciation. ”Is that another bad man with a shadow monster on his back?”

Kaelus paused, dipping his quill into the inkwell.

He looked out the window.

The rugged, untamed forests that had defined the landscape for the past week were beginning to thin, giving way to meticulously cultivated farmland.

The roads were no longer dirt and gravel, but smooth, well-laid cobblestone.

The peasant farmers working in the fields did not look like the starved, hollow-eyed serfs of Count Rodhe; they looked healthy, robust, and unafraid.

”No,” Kaelus said, his voice carrying a rare note of genuine, albeit clinical, respect. ”Marquess Julian Myer is an anomaly among the Southern nobility.”

Seraphina sat up, popping one of her pecan ’soldiers’ into her mouth. ”An anomaly like me?”

”A different sort,” Kaelus replied, setting his quill down and giving her his full attention. ”The nobles of this Empire are, by and large, bloated ticks. They gorge themselves on the labor of their people, hide behind high walls, and concern themselves only with the shallow pride of their bloodlines. They measure their worth by the silk of their coats and the vintage of their wine.”

He gestured toward the window, indicating the prosperous fields outside.

”Marquess Myer does not care for shallow pride. He is a man who understands that a ruler’s true strength lies in the foundation of his territory. He is meek in the Imperial Court, often ridiculed by the more aggressive Dukes for his gentle demeanor. He does not boast or engage in petty duels.”

Kaelus’s violet eyes narrowed slightly. ”But his granaries are always full. His people are fiercely loyal. When the plague swept through the Southern territories three years ago, the other nobles locked their gates and let their peasants rot. Myer burned his own fields to stop the spread and opened his personal treasury to buy medicine from the Magic Tower. He earned the direct praise of the Emperor for saving the region.”

Seraphina blinked, thoroughly impressed. ”Wow. He sounds like a good guy. A real hero!”

”He is competent,” Kaelus corrected, the word ’hero’ clearly tasting foul in his mouth. ”And a competent man with a loyal populace is a dangerous man, regardless of how gentle his smile is.”