The sound of hooves echoed until it ceased completely in the stone courtyard. Guards and servants stopped what they were doing to observe the newly arrived pair—the cold, imposing figure of Ester Deathstriker, and the impossible-looking being at her side, with black wings and a smile that seemed to defy the very chill of the place.

The herald's eyes shifted nervously from one to the other, as if he expected one of them to devour him at any moment.

"Be advised that the Duke demands... discretion in his presence," he said, stumbling slightly over his words. "Please, follow me."

Ester dismounted from her horse with restrained elegance. The dark fabric of her cloak brushed the fine snow on the ground, and she handed the reins to one of the stables without even needing to give an order. Damon, on the other hand, jumped with an almost arrogant lightness, clapping his hands to shake the ice from his cloak.

"Discretion, do you hear that?" "I think he's talking to me."

"Or he's begging you to keep your mouth shut." She walked forward, not waiting.

"Oh, what a lack of faith." Damon walked beside her, his boots sinking into the snow. "I can be discreet when I want to be."

She glanced at him. "The day that happens, hell freezes over."

"You're almost there, look around."

Ester chose not to answer.

The interior of the Duke's mansion was an oppressive contrast to the cold outside. As soon as they walked through the doors, the heat of the flames and the scent of scented candles enveloped them. Silver chandeliers hung from the ceiling, reflecting the light off dozens of candelabras. Scarlet rugs covered the floor, and ancient statues lined the main hallway, all depicting warriors, falcons, and saints—symbols of power and faith.

But what was most striking was the silence.

Servants hurried through the corridors, their eyes fixed on the ground. None dared to meet the incubus's gaze as he walked among them. Some even muttered quick prayers as they passed Damon. He, of course, noticed—and smiled at each of them, just to see their reaction.

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Ester murmured.

"Oh, very much." He ran his finger along a golden tapestry and watched the dust glint in the light. "It's rare to be the center of attention without having to do anything."

"You're already too much attention."

"Thank you."

She sighed in exasperation.

They were led through a series of long corridors to a large set of double doors adorned with carvings of Paraphal's falcon. Two guards in full dress armor stood before them, motionless. The herald stepped forward, tapped the doors quickly, and announced loudly:

"Lady Ester Deathstriker, sent by Countess Elizabeth Valemont, accompanied by..." He hesitated for a split second, swallowing hard, "...her escort."

Damon arched an eyebrow in amusement. "'Sideshower.' Sounds fancy."

Ester muttered something that sounded dangerously like an insult.

The doors creaked open, revealing the main hall.

The ceiling was high enough to house an entire tower. Crimson curtains hung between black marble columns, and in the center, a massive carpet stretched to the gilded throne of Duke Reginald of Paraphal.

He sat, his body slanted in a gesture of mock casualness. His brown hair fell in short waves, and his eyes—a pale, almost translucent blue—assessed Ester's every move as she entered.

The Duke was not an old man, but there was something in his expression that betrayed the habit of power. The kind of smile that came from someone who knew they could command life or death with a word.

Behind him, a clerical-looking advisor watched Damon with open revulsion. Another man, dressed in the house colors, seemed to be taking discreet notes.

Ester stopped a few steps from the throne, bowing slightly. "Your Grace."

Reginald smiled, but did not rise. "Lady Deathstriker. I did not expect your presence here, much less without warning."

"Countess Elizabeth sent me urgently," she replied. "The matters I bring are delicate and cannot wait."

The Duke's gaze shifted subtly, assessing her words... and then shifted to Damon. The smile faded.

"And who is this?"

Damon gave a lazy smile and bowed deeply. "Just one companion, Lord Duke." Good humor, bad habits, and varied intentions.

The Duke's eyes narrowed. "He has horns."

"You noticed quickly," Damon replied, smiling.

A murmur ran through the hall. The advisor beside the throne stepped forward. "An incubus? On noble territory? Lady Deathstriker, you dare bring a hellish creature into the Duke's castle?"

Ester maintained her firm posture, her gaze impassive. "He is under my direct supervision. He is a temporary ally, in the service of the Countess."

"A demon... ally?" the cleric nearly spat the words. "That's blasphemy!"

"It's pragmatism," Ester retorted. "You've already saved my life."

The Duke raised his hand, interrupting the argument. The hall fell silent again. He leaned forward in his throne, watching Damon carefully. "Tell me, creature... what is your purpose here?"

Damon gave a half smile. "To accompany you. To breathe. To survive the judgment of others' eyes. Such trivial things."

The Duke didn't answer immediately. His expression, however, didn't hide his discomfort. He rested his chin on his hand, studying Ester. "Does the Countess trust you so much that she would allow you to bring something like this to my court?"

Ester held his gaze. "The Countess trusts me to know what I'm doing."

There was a long pause. Then the Duke finally stood. His golden robes trailed across the floor, and he stepped down a step from the throne.

"Well then, Lady Deathstriker. Welcome to the Duchy of Paraphal." His voice was cordial, but his eyes were sharp. "I hope you bring news that justifies... such audacity."

Ester nodded. "I do."

Damon, who had been watching everything as if watching a play, murmured quietly, just for her:

"He likes you."

She replied without moving her lips: "He is considering how to use me."

The Duke gestured, and the guards moved aside, leaving room. "We will grant a dignified reception. There are rooms prepared for honored guests." Her gaze slid to Damon. "In the case of... the companion, he will be housed in another wing."

Damon opened his mouth to protest, but Esther cut him off with a look. "It's all right."

The Duke raised his eyebrows, satisfied. "Good. I'll have a servant show you around."

The herald bowed and approached to lead them through the side corridors. As they left the hall, Damon let out a low whistle.

"Wow. I like him. He's the kind of man who stabs you with a smile."

"And you're the kind who digs his own grave by talking too much," Esther replied without looking at him.

He laughed, bowing slightly. "So you admit you would protect me if that happened?"

She didn't answer. The silence was enough to make him smile even wider.

As they walked through the corridors leading to the guest quarters, Damon glanced at the tall windows and stained-glass windows. Outside, the sky was beginning to tinge with gold and lilac—late afternoon was approaching.

"You know," he said, his tone more restrained this time, "this place smells of lies."

Ester nodded briefly. "Paraphal always has."

The herald stopped before a pair of double doors and bowed. "These are your rooms, Lady Deathstriker. The Duke wishes to meet you for dinner shortly after sunset."

She nodded. "Tell him I'll be there."

When the servant left, Damon leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Dinner with the Duke. Sounds like fun."

"It's not an invitation. It's a summons."

"Which amounts to the same thing."

Ester sighed, opening the door. "Damon, just... behave yourself."

He smiled, walking into the next room. "I promise to try. But I can't guarantee success."

Ester watched him enter the room and closed the door behind her. For the first time since arriving, she allowed herself to take a deep breath. The air was thick, heavy—and beneath all the formality and pomp, she could sense something else: tension.

The grand dining room of the Duchy of Paraphal was a spectacle of ostentation. The vaulted ceiling featured gilded frescoes depicting angels amid silver clouds; the walls were covered in heavy tapestries embroidered with scenes of hunting and military glory. The air was filled with the scent of expensive wine, spices, and freshly cooked meat.

In the center, a long black oak table—polished to the point of reflecting the light from dozens of candelabras—awaited the beginning of dinner.

Ester sat to the left of Duke Armand of Paraphal, a middle-aged man with clear eyes and a confident expression. The kind of nobleman who enjoyed hearing himself talk. Damon, on the other hand, had been purposefully placed at the opposite end of the table—"for propriety," the butler had said, though the truth was, no one wanted to be near him.

Still, Damon seemed amused. He twirled his wineglass between his fingers, studying the crimson liquid in the candlelight as if studying a riddle. When one of the servants approached, he merely smiled with that lazy, dangerous smile.

Dinner had begun a few minutes ago, but the atmosphere was already tense.

The Duke tried to maintain his composure, but his curious gaze fell on Damon more often than he cared to admit. It was clear the man was not accustomed to sharing a table with an incubus—especially one who smiled as if he were in his own castle.

Ester, for her part, ate in silence. Her movements were restrained, disciplined. Each bite seemed calculated. But behind that composure, there was vigilance. Her eyes discreetly scanned the guards posted at the doors, the servants who came and went with steaming dishes, and the Duke's face—every nervous tic, every glance.

Until he finally broke the silence.

"I confess I wasn't expecting such a... distinguished visitor." Armand's voice was polite, but there was a hint of irony. "Especially coming directly from Mirath. Countess Elizabeth usually prefers to conduct her business by correspondence."

Ester put down her cutlery, wiping her lips with her napkin before speaking.

"Indeed," she replied coolly. "But there are things that need to be said in person."

The Duke raised an eyebrow, resting his chin on his gloved fingers. "Oh?" And what sort of "things" require the presence of the famous Deathstriker in my hall?

The servants' soft murmurs ceased. Even Damon looked up from his wine, curious.

Ester stood erect, looking directly at the Duke—without arrogance, but with the firmness of someone speaking on behalf of someone more powerful.

"I have come to deliver a direct message from Elizabeth Wykes, Duke." Her voice was calm, but carried the weight of a sword about to be drawn. "A message... of courtesy."

Armand smirked. "Courtesy. That almost sounds like a warning."

"That's exactly it."

His smile faded, and the tension at the table was felt.

Ester continued:

"The Countess is aware of your proposals. Of your letters, of your 'gifts' sent to Mirath..." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "And of your insistence on a union between your houses."

The Duke straightened in his chair, his tone colder. "Insistence? I would call it a diplomatic offer."

"Call it what you will," Ester said calmly. "But, on behalf of the Countess, I am here to warn you… gently… that if you continue to pester her with these matters, her receptiveness may… diminish considerably."

Silence.

The Duke blinked, clearly not expecting such frankness. In any other context, a servant would have been removed from the room for daring to speak so to a high-ranking nobleman. But this was Ester Deathstriker—and there was something in her gaze that made any punishment unlikely.

Armand set the goblet down on the table with a small clink.

"'Gently warn you'?" he repeated, his tone a mix of incredulity and provocation. "Is that what they call threats in Mirath now?"

Ester inclined her head. "It is not a threat, Your Excellency." I'm just saying you're going to die if you keep bothering my mistress.

Ester spoke with a devilish smile, directly to his face.

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