The grand chandeliers hung from the ceiling, emitting a soft glow that cast long shadows across the regal study. The air was filled with the musky scent of candles, while the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the hoot of owls created a nocturnal symphony.
Seated behind his desk, Tristan withdrew a small, ornate box from his magical ring. Opening it, the container was filled with fine tobacco powder. Shifting his eyes toward a platinum-blonde middle-aged man standing next to the balcony door beside him, he asked. "Fancy a pinch of snuff?"
Gilbert bowed respectfully, "I appreciate the offer, Your Highness, but I'll pass."
Tristan shrugged indifferently and took a pinch of the powder. Bringing it to his nostrils, he inhaled sharply. A surge of cool menthol flooded his nasal cavity, followed by a gentle burn at the back of his throat. The bothersome thoughts clouding his mind dissipated into a soothing wave of catharsis.
He took another pinch and sniffed it, letting the numbing sensation wash over him. For a moment, the room seemed quieter, and the weight on his chest lighter. He set the container aside and leaned against the chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.
'This… didn't occur in the past.'
There was no such thing as assassination during Lucien's training, or a case where his brother had memory loss—those never happened.
He knew he had altered many events in the timeline, but never expected it would impact Lucien's life. Thanks to his very dear mother, she succeeded in severing his bond with his brother this time, just as she always wanted.
"Your Highness, it's not your fault," Gilbert's voice rang out.
Tristan chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "How could it not?" Straightening his back, he ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head in disbelief, "I swore to protect Lucien this time, yet I failed miserably."
"Your Highness, it is unjust to bear the blame yourself," Gilbert stepped closer and knelt, locking his golden eyes on him. "You did everything within your power, even rushing here despite the distance. Furthermore, the fact that the mercenaries you assigned to watch over Prince Lucien and his escort knights were wiped out suggests the perpetrators were far from ordinary."
Tristan sighed and brushed his face in frustration. Though Gilbert's words were logical, they did little to ease the knot tightening in his chest. "But his memories of me are gone. His trust in me is gone. How am I supposed to mend that?"
Gilbert smiled benignly at him. "You cannot fix it all at once, Your Highness. Trust is built over time. Perhaps this is a new start, a chance to prove to him, not just through words but through deeds, that you are someone he can rely on."
Truthfully, Tristan wanted to believe those words. He wanted to hope. But deep down, a fear lingered: what if it was too late? What if… no matter what he did, his little brother could never see him the way he once had? Especially when their factions were enemies.
Letting out a sigh for what felt like the thousandth time, he eventually nodded and offered him a faint smile. "You're right. It's still too soon to give up."
Gilbert returned the smile and inclined his head proudly at his response. However, the atmosphere shifted to serious when a presence appeared on the balcony. Rising to his feet, Gilbert approached and opened the balcony door, letting the figure in a black robe slide into the room.
Arriving before him, the man knelt. "Greeting, Your Highness."
Without beating around the bush, Tristan asked, "How is it?"
The man lowered his head further. "The one who carried out the assassination is from the Liberation Agency."
Tristan arched an eyebrow. "Them? Again?"
Previously, the mercenaries of the Liberation Agency attempted to assassinate Lucien several times, but his mercenaries easily thwarted them. What he didn't understand was: how they managed to wipe out his high-ranking mercenaries and Lucien's escort knights this time?
Where did they find those skilled assassins?
"Yes, Your Highness." The man's voice pulled him back to reality, "And just as you expected, the Vazquez family has become their primary sponsor secretly for the past few years. They carry out all Duke Vazquez and Her Highness the Consort's requests without question."
His jaw tightened, anger seething within him, fists clenched, "So, in other words, the Liberation Agency has become my grandfather and my mother's loyal dog, huh?"
Stillness enveloped the room as the man remained silent after his profane remark. Exhaling deeply to alleviate his rage, Tristan leaned against the chair, his fingers drumming the armrest impatiently. "How about the evidence?"
"The Emperor disposed of it all before the Marquis' heir, Lord Samuel, could start his investigation."
Tristan massaged his temples at the excruciating headache. 'Again, it has always been like this.'
It was an open secret that Cyrus—the Emperor—despised the Vazquez household, yet each time his family caused trouble, he covered it up without hesitation.
'Just… Why?'
Was it merely to maintain the Empire's delicate balance, or was there something else that he wasn't seeing?
After a long pause, Tristan broke the silence. "You've done a great job." He glanced at Gilbert, who nodded, stepping forward to hand the man in black a small pouch of gold. "Take it as a token of gratitude."
"Thank you, Your Highness," the man replied, accepting the bonus with a bow.
Tristan nodded and ordered, "Continue monitoring my grandfather and mother."
"Understood." The man bowed once more before disappearing through the balcony doors.
As Gilbert locked the door, Tristan let out a weary sigh and massaged the bridge of his nose. The desire to raze the Liberation Agency to the ground burned within him—anything to prevent another assassination attempt on his brother.
But he couldn't.
Any conflict between mercenary agencies had to go through arbitration; launching an outright attack was strictly forbidden. Violating that rule could lead to a permanent ban across the continent.
And more than that, the Liberation Agency had been established long before he founded his own. The gap in influence, connections, and reach was too vast to ignore. His mercenary agency was his lifeline; one of the few domains untouched by his mother or grandfather. If he lost that, he'd lose his only shield.
And without that shield, he couldn't protect Lucien.
Knocks echoed softly through the room, drawing their attention to the door.
"Who is it?" Gilbert asked.
A woman's voice answered, "Your Highness, I've brought the medicine you requested."
Gilbert opened the door and retrieved a tray bearing a tea set. Closing the door, he set it on the polished table. Tristan's eyes landed on a small glass bottle filled with black pills. He picked it up and studied the label.
"Will you be retiring for the evening, Your Highness?" Gilbert asked.
Tristan nodded. "Yes, I think I will. It's getting late."
"Understood." Gilbert poured the tea carefully into the teacup, then stepped back and bowed. "Then I shall take my leave. I wish you a restful night, Your Highness."
"Thank you. The same to you."
The door closed with a soft click. Silence settled over the room, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl. Tristan's gaze lingered on the bottle in his hand. His mind drifted—
—back to the moment his sword cut through Lucien's body diagonally. The warmth of blood splattering across his face. The horror of watching his brother collapse. The silence that followed.
His whole body trembled, heartbeat quickening before he realized it. With shaking hands, he uncorked the bottle and swallowed a pill dry. Exhaling slowly, he dragged both hands down his face.
Even now—despite turning back time—the memory of killing Lucien haunted him.
He couldn't sleep without the pills.
'Lucien, I promise you. This time, I will protect you no matter what.'