The Duke’s fingers traced lightly over the hilt of his sword.
It was an old-style Imperial officer’s saber, the hilt wrapped in dark brown leather polished smooth from years of use, with a shallow old scratch on the guard.
He didn’t raise the blade, merely unclasped it from his belt and set it on the desk.
The lamplight slid along the metal edge of the scabbard, casting a long, thin shadow across the tabletop.
“You want me to authorize you to capture Pavlov?”
He lifted his eyes to look at Hui.
Hearing the son of an enemy he hadn’t seen in five years claim that his own son was a suspect—how absurd was that?
A man sitting in his own study, being asked to authorize the arrest of his own son.
Anyone else’s first reaction would be to throw the speaker out.
But Vishkov didn’t.
He simply looked into Hui’s eyes, as if flipping through an old file.
Then he quietly waited for Hui’s response.
Hui only stared back at him in silence.
From his gaze alone, the answer was already clear—it was a no.
“Hindo, you don’t want me to act, so that everything doesn’t spiral into the worst-case scenario.”
The Duke tapped the scabbard twice with his index finger.
His nails were trimmed short, and his knuckles bore thin calluses worn from years of gripping a pen.
“But really, you’re just trying to buy a favor—to secure trading rights with Akhamatova and with me?”
Hui lowered his head slightly.
“I can’t hide anything from you.”
“Hindo, compared to your father, you’re still far too green.”
There was no mockery in the Duke’s tone, nor disappointment.
He was simply stating a fact he had long since written in his heart.
He nudged the saber on the desk half an inch aside, freeing an elbow to rest on the tabletop, like an elder admonishing a junior who had done something wrong.
“Capturing Pavlov—if it were Princess Olivia, then certainly, she could do it. But that wouldn’t solve the problem.”
He paused, his murky eyes fixed straight on Hui, still silent.
This kind of standoff was the hardest to endure.
You don’t speak, I don’t speak, and everyone just drags it out.
“Besides, why should I trust you? On the merit of your father’s kindness?”
The study fell silent for about the span of one breath.
Then the Duke stood.
The leather chair scraped backward with a dull, grating sound.
His hand closed around the hilt, drawing the saber.
The thin rasp of the blade leaving the scabbard cut through the quiet study with startling clarity.
The lamplight’s warm yellow glow reflected off the blade, pulling a slanted streak of light across his face.
“I forgot to ask you something.”
He pointed the tip of the saber at Hui.
The motion wasn’t fast—every angle was strictly controlled.
A standard Imperial officer’s opening stance.
“You… bribed Harod’s men, didn’t you? That one, Black Hat. All these years, he’s been working for Harold right under my nose.”
The collar of Hui’s dark overcoat wrinkled slightly, but he himself didn’t move an inch.
The blade tip stopped a mere inch from his collar.
“Someone who’d use connections to get close to me—Hindo, aren’t you the most fitting candidate?”
Before the final syllable faded, the door burst open.
Not a gentle knock.
It was slammed open.
The oak door crashed against the wall with a thunderous bang.
The flames in the fireplace flickered violently from the rush of air.
The brass lamp’s light wavered, illuminating the armored guards filling the doorway.
Pavlov was shoved in, held by two guards.
His hands were bound behind his back, one shoulder board of his black Imperial uniform hanging crooked.
The fur on his bear ears was soaked with sweat, plastered messily beneath the brim of his cap.
His service cap was nowhere to be found.
One guard pressed down on his shoulder while the other gripped his bound wrists.
“Stay still!”
The guard holding him let out a low growl.
Pavlov stumbled, then abruptly steadied himself, shrugging his shoulder to throw off the hand pressing him down.
The guard behind him immediately clamped down again.
Vishkov stood in place.
The saber was still in his hand, the tip still pointed at Hui.
His white hair was stirred by the draft from the door, a few strands drifting across his temple.
He didn’t turn to look at his son.
His gaze remained fixed on Hui’s face.
Then he slowly lowered the saber, its tip dropping toward the floor, and turned to face Pavlov.
The lamplight illuminated the Duke’s face from the side.
He clasped his hands behind his back, the saber’s point resting on the dark carpet beside the desk.
He looked down at his son, who had been dragged in, his gaze so calm it betrayed no emotion at all.
“Pavlov, you’ve come at just the right time.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but every word was carved out like stone.
“Now that your assassins have been dealt with, caught red-handed, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Pavlov lifted his face.
The lamplight caught his thick black brows and the muscles along his jaw, twisted with fury.
His bear ears stood straight atop his head, the tips flushed slightly red from the rush of blood.
He took a deep breath, his chest swelling violently.
“Vishkov, you deserve to die anyway!”
“You’re just like those pests of the Empire! Greedy beyond measure!”
He strained against the ropes binding his hands, twisting his wrists half a turn.
The guard immediately yanked his arms back, and a joint popped with a soft crack.
Pavlov let out a muffled grunt but didn’t stop.
He was like a caged beast, struggling without cease.
“Your so-called dukedom—nothing but a hypocritical farce!”
His voice echoed throughout the study.
The fire in the fireplace seemed to jump from the force of his roar, sparks spattering against the fire screen with a crackle.
The oil painting of Saint Sergey Mountain on the wall seemed to tremble with the sound.
Vishkov lowered his head, looking at the furious young war-bear before him.
The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepened, but his spine didn’t bend.
“Pavlov, your way of doing things went out of style long ago.”
His voice formed a strange contrast to Pavlov’s roar.
One low, one high, but neither lighter than the other.
“Brute force will only ever solve surface problems.”
Pavlov lunged forward a step.
The guards strained to hold his shoulders, but he still pushed ahead a few inches, his boot heels gouging a deep furrow into the carpet.
“Before I was granted my title in Froststone City by His Majesty the Emperor—you will never know what I went through!”
“Vishkov, shortsightedness is only a small part of who you are.”
He stopped struggling, his shoulders heaving violently under the guards’ restraint.
His bear ears drooped halfway down from the top of his head, but the fire in his pupils hadn’t gone out.
“Do you truly see the future of the Empire?”
“All I see right now is a rotten nobleman. Using his military status to swindle a fief from His Majesty the Emperor, and building railroads behind His Majesty’s back.”
The Duke didn’t answer his son’s words.
“But tonight, everything will return to its proper course.”
He looked into Pavlov’s eyes.
Pavlov didn’t avert his gaze either.
Between the two of them lay a desk, a saber pointing at the floor, and the motes of dust drifting in the lamplight’s glow.
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