Her footsteps made no sound as she entered the Milverton estate—like a shadow that had just crossed the threshold between worlds. Her gown trailed behind her, stirring dust and darkness in its wake, and her burning red eyes swept across the room like the lanterns of hell. For a brief moment, the only sound was the ticking of a distant clock.

In the center of the room, Charles sat alone. His body was still wrapped in bandages in several places. The candles around him, long since snuffed out, seemed to reignite the moment Vespera stepped in.

In her hand, she carried an object wrapped in black cloth. She placed it gently on the old wooden table in front of him.

"I'm back," she said flatly. Yet her voice struck like thunder in Charles's chest.

Charles’s gaze dropped to the object on the table.

“That’s…”

Vespera slowly unwrapped the cloth. A thin blade lay beneath it. It looked plain—even dull. But the aura that emanated from it felt like an ancient whisper rising from the bowels of the earth. A metallic scent hung in the air, mixed with the damp, suffocating scent of freshly dug soil.

“The knife of the Dancing Lady,” Vespera said. “And the reason why you were hurt.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. His hand, still trembling from the attack that night, slowly clenched into a fist.

“A regular knife shouldn’t be able to wound you,” she continued. “But this... this is no ordinary blade. It can cut through anything—living flesh, spirits, even demons. Almost like my scythe.”

She looked at him—softly—but her eyes simmered with an anger that hadn’t yet cooled.

“If I had arrived even a minute later that night…” her voice faltered. “You wouldn’t be here right now.”

Charles exhaled deeply. On the table, his fingers hovered over the bandage on his abdomen—over the wound that still refused to close completely.

“I found something, too,” he murmured.

He pulled a sheet of paper from between the pages of an old book, half open beside him. A legend from Serbia, faded with age. But Charles had already copied the most important part.

“Long ago, in the Slavic mountains, there was a tribe that believed dancing for seven days and seven nights would bring prosperity. They would choose a young woman… prepare an altar… and this knife,” he said, nodding at the blade lying dormant on the table.

“But the truth is,” he continued, “the ritual wasn’t for prosperity. It was meant to summon a dark force bound to that knife. I believe… they were trying to use the dancer’s body as a vessel.”

Vespera was silent. Her gaze deepened.

“But the tribe vanished,” Charles whispered.

“Who wiped them out?” she asked.

“And how did that legend make its way to London?”

The question hung in the air like a noose in the middle of a dining hall.

---

The next morning.

For a while, only the soft ticking of the clock could be heard.

Then—BANG!

A loud crash from outside startled them both. It sounded like a crowd had gathered beyond the estate’s gates.

Vespera narrowed her eyes. “What is that?”

Charles gave a small, lopsided smile. He stood up, walked toward the window, and peeked through the curtain. Then—with an expression caught between amusement and exhaustion—he slowly turned around.

“Seems like… I may have gone a little overboard,” he said lightly, scratching the back of his head.

A smile.

For the first time, a real smile appeared on Charles’s face. Not a cunning smirk. Not a calculating grin.

But a human smile.

Vespera stared at him, still, her crimson eyes softening.

“…You smiled?” she whispered, almost too quiet to hear. Then she, too, smiled gently.

But before she could say anything more, the front door slammed open.

“CHARLES!!”

Hugo Ravensword burst in, half-running, breathless—his face flushed, whether from running or sheer emotion.

“Look at this!” he shouted, throwing a newspaper onto the table.

Across the front page:

“CHARLES AUGUST MILVERTON – SAVIOR OF LONDON!”

Vespera scanned the headline, her brow furrowing.

“…What is this?” she asked flatly.

Hugo laughed. “You’re a hero! Everyone’s talking about you! Even the nobles are starting to consider you… as the next Head of Council!”

Vespera hissed under her breath. Her eyes narrowed, and her breathing turned shallow.

“Charles…” she said quietly.

But there was no answer.

Vespera and Hugo turned at once—

Charles was no longer in the room.

Only the soft creak of an open door remained.

Only the echo of footsteps, already fading.

Only the breeze of the afternoon wind brushing across the wooden floor.

Vespera stared at the doorway, now wide open.

“…He ran.”

---