Beast Gacha System: All Mine

The Emperor’s chamber had been preserved in the exact state of interruption. Zircon Iondora lay upon the floor where he had fallen, his body fell awkwardly, completely unprepared to die, despite already being prophesied to.

His robes, the deep purple of imperial office, now saturated to black in places, were torn in three distinct locations. A large claw gash opened his neck from ear to collarbone, the edges ragged, the work of something inhuman.

Matching wounds scored his torso and his right arm, which had been raised, apparently, in defense or command or simple biological reflex.

Damon winced. The precision of the wounds suggested calculation, but their ferocity suggested hatred. Whether this was the clean work of a professional or personal, this was someone who clearly had wanted his father to see what was killing him.

The captain of the guard stood at attention near the door, his face carefully emptied of expression, his voice emerging in report.

"After you separated from the dinner, Your Highness, the Emperor proceeded with Prince Reginald, Princess Gertrude, and Prince Jove to his study, the room adjacent. Lady Vera joined them shortly after."

"The Emperor then brought her to this chamber to present a brooch that had arrived from the eastern mines. Prince Jove accompanied them. The other two children remained in the study."

Damon nodded, his eyes not leaving his father’s face. The eyes were open, violet filmed with the opacity of death, still holding the surprise that had been his final expression.

"It happened rapidly," the captain continued. "The assassin had concealed himself within the chamber, the Lady said, behind the tapestry near the window. He was waiting."

"When the Emperor entered, he attacked immediately. The Emperor defended Lady Vera and the Prince, but the assassin struck the child first—" the captain’s voice caught, recovered, "—and then turned on the Emperor."

"The wounds were mortal immediately. The assassin fled through the window when Lady Vera’s screams drew attention from the corridor. He had perhaps thirty seconds. He used them efficiently."

"Beastman," Damon said. Not a question.

"The claws suggest it, Your Highness. The speed of the assault. But we have not identified the tribe."

Damon looked at the window, still open, the curtains moving slightly with evening air that his father would not feel again. "And my brother?"

"Prince Jove’s wound was severe as you had seen. We believe the intent was to create chaos, to slow pursuit."

"Successful," Damon observed.

He stood. His father’s blood had soaked into the seams of the floor, would never be entirely removed from this chamber no matter how many scrubbings, how many blessings, how many years of other emperors sleeping in this bed, making decisions in this room, dying in their own time.

"Call the Saintess here," he said. "She will want to see what her prophecy has wrought. I will speak to her and discuss the prophecy itself."

"Your Highness—"

"In the meantime," Damon turned away from his father, "I’m going to the dungeon to tell my sister."

He walked through the chamber without looking back, through the door where Vera had screamed and the corridor where servants still pressed against walls.

Then, he saw them in the further corridor, awaiting for him.

Ivy stood with her back straight, but her hands were clasped before her in a posture that suggested she had been waiting longer than patience allowed.

Qinryc Lukas beside her, the vial in his hand now empty and partly concealed, his face composed neutrally.

Ivy saw him first. Her eyes, the blue shallow water over depths, found his face and read everything he had not said. She moved before he could speak, before he could assume the posture of control that the corridor’s length would have allowed.

She immediately embraced him.

The contact was sudden, her arms finding their position like she had calculated the exact pressure required.

She had seen him taking control of the situation, slapping Vera, commanding Qinryc, checking Jove’s coherence with desperate hands.

She had seen him hugging his half-siblings, these children he had never been close to, never permitted himself to be close to, afraid of losing them, and had become the extension of his father’s cooling body in a quarantined chamber.

She kissed his cheek as she embraced him. The press of her lips was brief, warm, located precisely where friendship and performance overlapped.

"Where are you going, Damon?"

"To tell my sister underground," he answered, his voice finding its level against her shoulder, his hands settling at her back, reciprocating every comfort she gave him.

It was all platonic despite how it looked to everybody else. To the guards in the corridor, to Qinryc, to the palace that would parse this embrace for political meaning. "The assassin had left and they’re not yet found. I’ll assign my own people to look after your security, is that okay?"

"Thank you," Ivy hugged him back, and her lips found his ear, her breath warm against the cartilage, her voice dropping when she whispered. "Did you notice the wound on your brother’s neck is too clean and straight?"

Damon shushed her gently to her ear, the sound barely audible, his hand pressing once against her back in warning and acknowledgment.

His eyes found Qinryc’s, knowing he might be the one telling her since he was one of the ones close enough to examine the wound when administering the miracle elixir. He was close enough to see what panic had prevented others from observing.

"Don’t let this spread."

He pressed his lips to her temple, the gesture completing their public performance of intimacy, and let go.

"I’ll see you again as quickly as possible."

Ivy nodded three times. Once for understanding, once for agreement, once for something else, perhaps concern, and pushed him away.

Damon turned. Behind him, Ivy and Qinryc remained, two figures in the corridor’s half-light, holding knowledge that could not be spoken.

It was all a blur. Before he realized, the dungeon stairs descended before him. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that moved independently of any breeze. But he had no luxury in registering it all, thinking Angela might’ve already known everything.

Still, he had to talk to her. For the sake of everything. For the sake of everyone.

He turned a corner—

BUMP!

He felt a sudden impact, hard, a body moving with speed that did not expect obstruction. Damon’s hands moved instinctively, catching, stabilizing, pulling, before his mind registered who he held.

Angela.

His sister, breaking free from her cell already, her hair unpinned and wild, her eyes wide, focused. She wore the simple dress of her imprisonment, but they were disarrayed.

Damon immediately caught her and pulled her to the shadows, pressing them both against the damp wall where the torchlight did not reach, where the guards’ patrol patterns left gaps.

"Why are you outside? Angela—"

Angela looked up at him. Her face was pale, flushed at the cheeks. But her eyes sharpened upon recognizing him.

"Brother," she clasped his tunic, "you’re here. Good. Now listen to me."

"I’m listening," Damon said, seeing her urgency, feeling it transmit through her grip into his own body. He held her steadily, one hand at her waist, one at her shoulder, and swiped her disheveled hair from her face.

He noted Stevan right behind her, the boytoy-warden-turned-accomplice, his handsome face full of tension.

"Call Arkai Dawnoro’s Luna," Angela said, her voice low and urgent. "Now."