Chapter 286 : Chapter 286
Chapter 286. Snow-mountain falcon
Nevira’s eyes, which had been half-narrowed all along, suddenly widened.
Damn it!
There had been no mana warning! It had not triggered any of the dozens of high-tier detection arrays around the manor!
Her body reacted even faster than her mind.
Almost the instant the Spatial Gate took shape, her entire figure seemed to transform into a streak of purple-black lightning, and the twin blades at her waist, which had drunk the blood of countless victims, were already out of their sheaths.
CLANG!
A piercing metallic scrape tore through the air, and the blades pointed straight at the core of that twisted space.
“Stop.”
A pale hand slowly rose from the sofa.
First Prince Dorg’s voice was still hoarse, even carrying a trace of sickly panting, yet it contained an absolute authority that could not be defied.
Nevira’s figure forcibly froze in midair. Immediately afterward, she twisted her waist at an unimaginable angle, tapped the tip of her foot lightly against the expensive carpet, and silently landed back at Dorg’s side.
The Spatial Gate dispersed.
Logaris and Sylvia stood steadily in the center of the reception room.
He seemed as though he had merely walked from his own study into his living room. He casually patted dust that did not exist from his sleeve, while his pale-blue gaze swept indifferently over the cold gleam of the blades in Nevira’s hands. His eyes were as calm as if he were looking at some boring decoration.
Sylvia, meanwhile, adjusted the hem of her long dress, raised her eyes, and looked directly at Dorg on the sofa.
At the very beginning, they had arrived with the precise descent of a Sixth-Tier spatial spell.
This was not only the confidence of the Northern Territory, but also Logaris’s naked deterrence through force.
The Redleaf Manor that Dorg had spent a fortune fortifying with layer upon layer of defenses was, before a genuine Sixth-Tier spatial mage, as fragile as if it were made of paper.
“Cough… cough, cough…”
Dorg coughed violently twice. His already sickly face flushed from the difficulty of breathing. He waved for Nevira to put away her weapon, then slowly said, “Count Logaris’s mastery of space is indeed… breathtaking. Please, sit.”
Sylvia did not stand on ceremony. She walked straight to the single sofa opposite Dorg, pulled it out, and sat down with a composed posture. Logaris, however, had no intention of sitting. With both hands in his pockets, he lazily leaned beside the enormous bookshelf behind Sylvia, looking like an attendant who had nothing to do with the matter.
“Your defensive arrangements are not bad, Elder Brother,” Sylvia said first, her tone casual, though her words carried hidden barbs. “It is just that the rune structure of the arrays is a little outdated. At least five years old.”
Dorg ignored the jab. He picked up his white porcelain teacup, moistened his throat with the rising steam, and let his calm gaze rest on Sylvia.
“Outdated or not, the supposedly impregnable Scream Fortress is now also a defensive zone of your Northern Territory.” Dorg set down the teacup. His voice carried the weakness of long illness, but his tone was gentle, like that of an ordinary elder brother.
“You have been in the Northern Territory for more than half a year. You look a little thinner, but your bearing has grown even stronger. The snowstorms of Winter City must be difficult to endure.”
“I would not say difficult to endure. They do, however, keep a person constantly awake.” Sylvia leaned against the back of the sofa, her posture relaxed, but there was no warmth in her eyes. “If Elder Brother finds the air in the Royal Capital too stifling, you are welcome to visit the snowfields of the Northern Territory for some fresh air. Logaris recently replaced the Governor’s Residence’s magitech heating system with a new one. You will not freeze.”
“With this broken body of mine, I had best not torment myself. Second Brother has only just left, and Father-King has withdrawn deep into seclusion. Someone must hold the Royal Capital together, inside and out.” Dorg sighed softly and wiped the corner of his mouth with a snow-white silk handkerchief.
Then his tone shifted slightly, as though he had casually laughed.
“But speaking of which, your actions in the Northern Territory over the past half year have indeed kept quite a few people in the Royal Capital from sleeping well. From establishing your authority with an iron hand at the Winter City conference, to the annihilation of the Tarassa family in White Harbor… You acted with swift and decisive force, uprooting many deeply entrenched old families cleanly. Now, not only do you command the heavy forces of the Northern Territory, but even military affairs in the Southern Territory have naturally fallen into your hands.”
He slowly raised his eyes. In those eyes, which had originally seemed somewhat cloudy from illness and pain, an extremely sharp dark glint quietly surfaced, like a crocodile lurking in a deep pool finally revealing itself above the water.
“Sylvia.” Dorg’s voice deepened, and every word seemed to carry weight. “Since there are no outsiders here today, why not tell me the truth? In your eyes, are Astrelia’s old nobles the cornerstone of this kingdom, or are they… a burden?”
Sylvia’s silver-gray eyes narrowed imperceptibly under the dim light, and a deep trace of doubt and scrutiny flashed in their depths.
Were the old nobles the cornerstone of the kingdom or a burden?
If such a heretical question had come from Logaris or some other rising reformist, she would not have found it strange at all.
But the one sitting opposite her was Dorg.
He was the First Prince, the most widely recognized and solid representative and protector of the deeply entrenched interests of the old nobles within the Astrelia royal family.
Why would he suddenly raise such a fatal question, one that sounded as if he intended to cut ties with his own foundation?
Sylvia’s gaze swept over Dorg’s sickly yet calm face without betraying anything.
Was he testing the true killing intent that she, the Governor of the Northern Territory, held toward the Royal Capital’s old forces, so that he could assess how great a threat the Northern Territory might become and set up precautions in advance?
Or could it be that… this elder brother of hers, who had always lain dormant on his sickbed and seemed able to rely only on the support of the old nobles, had actually long since developed other thoughts about those rotten colossi?
She could not see through Dorg’s true intention in asking this question at all.
But when facing this sort of probe from someone whose hand she could not read, blindly playing evasive games and retreating would only expose her own lack of confidence.
Sylvia’s long fingers tapped lightly and unhurriedly against the armrest of the sofa, producing soft taps. Tap. Tap.
Then she stopped moving and met Dorg’s gaze.
“Elder Brother, do you still remember the snow-mountain falcon you gave me when you were ten?”
Dorg’s eyes moved. “I remember. It was a fine bird, with fierce eyes and an untamable wildness.”
“Later, I looked into that falcon’s habits.” Sylvia’s voice was extremely cold, without the slightest trace of warmth.
“It can live for three hundred years. But every fifty years, its talons grow old and bent from excessive keratinization, leaving it unable to firmly grasp its prey. Its beak becomes long and curved, so long that it almost touches its own chest, leaving it unable to eat. The feathers on its wings also become heavy and rotten, weighing it down until it can no longer fly.”
Dorg’s hand, which was holding the teacup, paused in midair.
Sylvia finally raised her head. Under the dim light, her silver-gray eyes carried an undisguised, almost cruel coldness.
“At that time, it has only two choices. Either it slowly waits for death in hunger and weakness, or it must use all its strength to fly to the top of a cliff and use that long, curved beak to strike the rock hard, again and again, until the old beak, along with the flesh, falls off completely.”
“After the new beak grows out with great difficulty, it then uses that newly grown beak to pull those aged, curled claws from its flesh one by one. Finally, it uses its new beak and new talons to peck away and pluck clean all the heavy, decayed feathers on its body.”
She paused for a second, every word like a blade.
“Only after a full one hundred and fifty days of painful tempering, after being left bloody and mangled, can it obtain rebirth and fly into the blue sky once more. In other words—”
Sylvia leaned forward slightly and stared into Dorg’s eyes, enunciating each word.
“Those rotten feathers should have been torn out completely, flesh and all, long ago.”
Dorg stared at her.
He stared at her for a full ten seconds.
The air in the reception room seemed to freeze completely during those ten seconds. Only the mechanical mantel clock on the wall continued to tick monotonously.
Suddenly, Dorg’s thin back, which had remained tense all along, relaxed without warning.
He slowly let out a long, deep breath.
It was an extremely complicated sigh, as though an invisible guillotine that had hung above his head for many years had finally fallen, and also as though some deep shackle had been removed in an instant.