The Military Princess Won’t Fall in Love with a Magic Scientist

Chapter 245. Dorg and Nevira

However, ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍paper could never wrap fire forever.

An ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍army was a vast and precise machine, and its commander was the center of its gears.

Once ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍the center was gone, the machine would sooner or later begin to make a harsh grinding noise.

“Where ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍is the seal?”

“The ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍adjutant said His Highness took it with him into seclusion.”

“Seclusion ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍my ass! Is this your first day in the army? Since when does a wartime commander disappear with the command seal?”

Rumors began to breed in the dark corners of the military camp. Some said the Second Prince had run off with the military funds. Some said he had been assassinated. Some said he had been seized by demons from Hell and turned into a sacrifice.

Even more absurd rumors claimed that he had been a fake prince all along and had now been secretly executed.

Amid this chaos, with everyone on edge, a logistics quartermaster who looked drunk staggered into a blind corner where fodder was piled up. After confirming that no one was around, his originally bleary, drunken eyes instantly became clear and cold.

He pulled out a gray crystal no larger than a fingernail from a hidden layer inside his boot, one completely dull and without any sheen. Lightly rubbing it with his fingertips, he fed in an extremely obscure mana frequency.

“The eagle’s nest is silent. The commander is missing. Confirmed... abnormal.”

With a faint flicker of mana, that message instantly crossed thousands of miles of wilderness and mountain ranges.

...

Half an hour later, in the lower district of the Royal Capital, inside a pawnshop that stayed open all night.

An old shopkeeper who had been fiddling with an abacus suddenly paused. The seemingly ordinary oil lamp in front of him abruptly gave two jumps of dark blue flame.

Expressionless, the old shopkeeper took out a specially made sheet of parchment and lifted a feather pen, rapidly decoding the rhythm of the flame into neat lines of writing.

A moment later, the intelligence report, its ink still wet, was sealed inside a pitch-black message tube and stamped with red wax signifying the highest urgency. Then it vanished into the deep night of the Royal Capital through the relay of several Shadow Guards who had long been standing by.

Its destination was the Redleaf Manor outside the city, a place so quiet it was nearly deathly silent.

Deep within the estate, the door to the study opened soundlessly.

That intelligence report, still carrying the chill of the borderlands, was finally placed lightly on a velvet-covered desk by a well-kept hand, set between the thick medicinal scent and the ever-present odor of decay.

“Cough... cough, cough...”

Dorg Van Astrelia, the First Prince of this nation, was currently curled up in a wide armchair. His pale, slender fingers were clutching a silk handkerchief so hard that his knuckles had gone bluish white.

Only after a long while did the coughing gradually subside.

He lowered the handkerchief. At the center of the pure white silk was a shocking smear of red.

Dorg stared at the bloodstain for a while, and unexpectedly, a self-mocking smile curled at the corner of his lips. He casually tossed the handkerchief into the fireplace.

“Your Highness, it is time for your medicine.”

A soft hand, warm and smooth as jade, extended out from the shadow behind him, practiced and gentle in its movement.

It belonged to a woman dressed in close-fitting black leather armor, a woman named Nevira. She was like a vine grown from Dorg’s own shadow, silently circling around the desk and lifting the bowl of medicine.

First, she lowered her head and took a light sip at her lips to test the temperature. Only after confirming it was fine did she naturally bring it to Dorg’s pale lips.

Dorg did not reach out to take it.

He merely tilted his head back slightly and drank from the woman’s hand with perfect naturalness. The bitter, fishy liquid slid down his throat, barely suppressing the churning blood qi in his chest.

“Is it bitter?” Nevira asked softly, her voice husky, carrying an intimacy and laziness that did not belong to a mere subordinate.

“When life is bitter, the medicine no longer feels bitter.”

Dorg chuckled softly. Then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned the back of his head against Nevira’s lower abdomen, clad in leather armor, and let out a long breath.

Nevira did not dodge. Instead, she stretched out one hand, her fingertips gently massaging Dorg’s taut temples, while with the other she opened the pitch-black message tube and unfolded its contents before his eyes.

“Something interesting just happened in the south.”

As she eased her master’s headache, she spread the parchment open before him and whispered in a low voice, “According to the message sent back by the ‘eyes’ we planted in Scream Fortress, His Highness Carlisle and his personal guard... have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Dorg’s eyes, always carrying a sickly weariness, narrowed slightly.

“Yes. No sign of him alive, no sign of him dead,” Nevira added. “Along with that sixth-tier knight, Balton, he has vanished from the face of the earth.”

Dorg said nothing.

The expected ecstasy did not appear.

On the contrary, he remained silent for a long time, his gaze as calm as stagnant water. And beneath that still water, there was unexpectedly a faint, very faint trace of sorrow.

“Missing without certainty of life or death... then he is dead.”

Dorg let out a soft sigh and reached out with his pale fingers to lightly stroke the back of Nevira’s hand where it rested against his temple. His fingertips were icy cold.

“Although he was a fool—arrogant, overbearing, and useless except for a somewhat passable swordsmanship—he was still my younger brother, one I watched grow up.”

“Your Highness, is that not a good thing?”

Nevira’s fingers paused for a moment, and there was a trace of confusion in her voice. “No matter who did it, one less rival means your road becomes much smoother. Could it have been those people from Valeria or Tyrenia? The border has not been peaceful lately, after all.”

“Foreign powers?”

Dorg shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into a bitter, playful curve. “No, Nevira, you do not understand politics. If it were those greedy foreign wolves, they would never let Carlisle die this ‘quietly.’”

He struggled to sit up straighter, and Nevira immediately and wordlessly placed a soft cushion behind his back.

Pointing to several keywords in the intelligence report, Dorg spoke in a light voice, yet his logic was cold and sharp as a blade.

“If it were an enemy nation, they would want us dragged into war as well. The best method would be to grievously wound Carlisle and hang him from the city walls, or torture him to death in the most public fashion possible. That would provoke Father into a mad war of revenge and exhaust Astrelia’s national strength.”

“Or they would keep Carlisle alive, letting him continue to occupy that position like a useless waste, squandering resources while the three heirs tore each other apart fighting for the throne.”

Dorg coughed twice, cold intelligence flashing in his eyes.

“A disordered, internally exhausted, leaderless Astrelia is what the neighboring nations most want to see.”

“But now, Carlisle has merely ‘disappeared.’”

“There is no corpse, no declaration of war, not even a distress signal. That means the person who made the move did not want to provoke war. They only wanted to kill him swiftly, precisely, and cleanly.”

Dorg’s fingers tapped lightly on the tabletop, producing a soft, measured sound.

“The causal lines were severed. The diviner corps has been turned blind and can observe nothing...” Dorg murmured to himself. “Though there is no evidence at all, there should be only one person with the motive to get rid of Carlisle, no?”

He closed his eyes, and in his mind there appeared the image of a silver-haired girl stubbornly swinging her sword in the wind and snow.

“Who else could it be but my dear younger sister?”

Dorg gave a low laugh.

There was a trace of admiration in that laugh, along with a chill that reached the bone.

“Sylvia... tsk, tsk, how ruthless.”

At that point, Dorg seemed to remember something amusing. His pale fingers lightly tapped the edge of the bed, and his tone turned quiet and distant.

“Still, she cannot really be blamed for it. After all, it was our impatient second brother who broke the rules first.”

Nevira thought back for a moment. “Your Highness means...?”

“Have you forgotten? Not long ago, when Sylvia had just set out to take up her post in the Northern Territory.” Dorg’s gaze deepened. “On that Magitech Train, Carlisle spared no expense. He could not wait to snuff her out before she even arrived.”

Dorg coughed twice more and used his handkerchief to wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth. Looking at that streak of red, he shook his head in mockery.

“Since he was the one who drew his sword first, then he has no right to blame Sylvia for driving her blade into his heart now.”

“After all... he was the one who started it all.”

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