Built deep beneath the surface, the Royal Palace of the Kingdom of Crystia was a massive underground castle forged from high-grade steel, a gleaming monument to the unshakable authority of the crown.
“So… you’re telling me you haven’t actually confirmed Mimi’s death with your own eyes?”
Inside a lavish chamber reserved for the chancellor’s affairs, a dwarf sat behind a heavy desk, his expression twisted in fury as he listened to the report from his subordinates.
“We didn’t see Lady Mimi’s death directly, no,” one of the soldiers admitted, his voice tight with nervous tension. “But we struck a fatal blow to her attendant, Kuusha. The Great Frazes Forest is a deathtrap, and Lady Mimi has no means of defending herself. It’s nearly impossible for her to have survived.”
“Fool!” roared Chancellor Lazalit, slamming a heavy fist onto the desk. “That’s nothing but your guess! I want confirmation—absolute, indisputable proof that she is dead! A report that leaves no room for uncertainty!”
The soldier paled. In this court, a misstep often meant punishment. And sometimes, that punishment could be fatal.
“Listen carefully,” the chancellor hissed, voice low and laced with venom. “If that girl remains alive, there’s no telling what kind of disaster might befall this kingdom. She must be eliminated. That order comes from the king himself. Half-baked reports like yours are unacceptable.”
His rage echoed through the chamber, seizing the room in a chilling silence.
Then, hesitantly, one of the younger dwarves raised his hand.
“Chancellor, may I speak?”
“What is it?” the chancellor snapped.
“Lady Mimi has left the country. She’s no longer within Crystia’s borders. Even if she’s still alive… wouldn’t any calamity fall upon the land she’s fled to, rather than our own?”
It was a question whispered with genuine caution. None of them wanted to kill Mimi. Not truly. But when an order came from the king, and the chancellor backed it, disobedience wasn’t an option.
“Are you questioning the legitimacy of my orders and His Majesty’s?” the chancellor growled, his voice as sharp as a blade unsheathed in warning.
“N-No, not at all!” the dwarf stammered, bowing his head so low his beard brushed the floor. “I was merely… curious, that’s all.”
“Hmph.” Lazalit’s lips curled into a sneer, eyes glittering with cold disdain. “Listen well. That curse only brings ruin to this kingdom. So long as Mimi lives, no matter where she hides, disaster will strike soon enough. We must kill her before that happens. Or do you intend to sacrifice tens of thousands of dwarves just to spare one girl’s life?”
They’d all heard the stories before: the whispers of a curse, of a calamity that would befall the land. But truth be told, none of the soldiers had ever truly believed in it. How could they? They’d never seen it. Never felt it. They were being told to place blind faith in something intangible, unprovable. It was absurd.
Unfortunately, orders were orders. And obedience wasn’t optional. To defy command meant punishment—not just for the soldier, but for their parents, their siblings, even their children. No matter how many doubts gnawed at them, no matter how bitter the taste in their mouths, there was only one path forward: to do as they were told.
“Go now,” Lazalit said coolly, his gaze sweeping over the assembled soldiers like a blade. “And make absolutely certain Mimi is dead. With your own eyes.”
With reluctant nods and wordless grunts, the dwarven soldiers turned and filed out of the chamber, dread weighing on their shoulders like iron chains.
Once the door clicked shut behind them, the chancellor’s face shifted, his fury draining away, leaving behind a mask of perfect detachment.
“Well… I sent them,” he murmured, as if commenting on the weather. “But odds are, Mimi’s already dead.”
The words were quiet, almost casual, and beneath them lay a chilling calm.
Lazalit had never been a man ruled by emotion. Anger, panic, and grief were tools, not burdens. Masks to wear when the moment called for them. He could play the part of the righteous, indignant statesman; he had just done so. But true outrage? True wrath? Those emotions never reached him.
“That little scheme I cooked up on a whim… ended up working better than expected,” he mused, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Then came the smile. Slow. Crooked. Poisonous.
“Now then, dear dwarves…” he whispered, each syllable soaked in malice. “Become my magicite.”
Chancellor Lazalit spoke the words without a hint of remorse, his smile as cruel as the fate he’d woven.