Location: The Astrea Estate – Private Dining Hall.
The soup was excellent. It was a rich, creamy mushroom bisque garnished with truffle oil.
Unfortunately, nobody was eating it.
The dining hall of the Astrea family was a cavernous room of dark mahogany and ancestral portraits. Usually, the only sounds were the clinking of silverware and the polite, boring discussion of border skirmishes.
Tonight, the silence was heavy enough to crush a goblin.
I sat at the end of the table, buttering a warm roll. To my right sat Alaric, the Heir and General of the Vanguard. He was staring at his spoon like he wanted to challenge it to a duel.
To my left was Isabella, the Third Child and High Mage of the Spire. She was vibrating. Literally. Her silverware was floating an inch off the table, trembling in sync with her emotional instability.
And next to her was Cassius, the Second Son and Imperial Diplomat. He looked calm, but he was drinking his wine a little too fast.
And at the head of the table sat Duke Valerius Astrea.
The Lion of the Empire. The man who had held the Northern Wall against the Orc Tides for three days without sleep. A man who supposedly had a heart of iron.
Currently, he looked like someone had shot his dog.
'Look at them,' I thought, taking a bite of the roll. 'The Five Stages of Grief, arranged by seating chart. Alaric is Anger. Isabella is Denial. Cassius is Bargaining. And Father... Father is Depression masquerading as National Security.'
"The bisque," the Duke finally said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that usually signaled a declaration of war. "It tastes like ash."
I swallowed. "It's actually quite good, Father. The cook used fresh thyme."
"It tastes like betrayal," Alaric muttered, stabbing a mushroom with unnecessary violence.
"It tastes like a plot hole," Isabella corrected, her voice high and tight.
The Duke slowly lifted his eyes. He didn't look angry. He looked... disappointed. It was the look he gave me when I was six and tried to ride the family war-gryphon.
"Julian," the Duke said softly. "We need to talk about Chapter 30."
"I thought we might," I said, wiping my mouth. "Is there an issue with the printing quality? Silas assured me the ink was—"
"Do not play the fool," Cassius cut in smoothly. He swirled his wine, his eyes sharp and calculating. "The issue is not the ink. The issue is the economy."
'Ah, here comes the gaslighting,' I noted, keeping my face neutral. 'Cassius always tries to make his personal problems sound like Imperial crises.'
"The economy?" I asked innocently.
"The Trade Guilds are reporting a 40% drop in productivity," Cassius lied. He was definitely lying; I saw the reports this morning, and productivity was down maybe 5%. "The workers are listless. The Duchess Valerica has been wearing a veil for three days. The Elven Ambassador cancelled our trade summit this morning because he needed 'time to process the tragedy.' You are costing this family political capital, Julian."
"People are sad, Cassius," I shrugged. "That means they cared."
"People are demoralized!" Alaric slammed his fist on the table. The soup bowls jumped. "My Lieutenant spent the entire morning drill staring at the horizon! Do you know how hard it is to lead a cavalry charge when your men are debating the 'Futility of Immortality'?"
Alaric leaned over the table, his eyes blazing.
"He surrendered, Julian! Dracul surrendered! He had the Shadow-Blade! He had the Blood-Mist! He is the Apex Predator! Apex Predators do not drop their swords because they possess feelings! It teaches my men cowardice!"
'Alaric, you muscle-brained idiot,' I thought with a suppressed sigh. 'You missed the entire point of the redemption arc. But sure, let's make it about cavalry tactics.'
"It wasn't cowardice, brother," I said calmly. "It was sacrifice. He realized that the war was keeping him from the one thing he actually wanted."
"That is scientifically inaccurate!" Isabella snapped.
She stood up. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor. She pulled a scroll from her sleeve—it looked like a dissertation.
"I have analyzed the mana-vectors in the final scene," she said, her glasses flashing. "Structurally, Dracul had enough Aether reserves to cast a Tier 8 Kinetic Barrier. Even with his injuries, his regeneration factor should have kicked in within seconds. For him to die from a wooden stake... it defies the Laws of Magic! It creates a logical inconsistency in the world-building!"
She slammed the scroll on the table. It was a diagram of Dracul's heart.
"You broke the magic system, Julian! Just to hurt us!"
'She spent all night drawing that,' I realized, glancing at the complex equations. 'I almost feel bad. Almost.'
"Bella," I said gently. "He didn't die because he ran out of mana. He died because he ran out of will."
"That is not a metric!" she shrieked. "Willpower is not a quantifiable resource!"
"Enough."
One word from the Duke, and the room froze. Isabella sat down instantly. Alaric stopped murdering his mushroom.
Valerius Astrea dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. He looked at me with the weary weight of a man carrying the world on his shoulders.
"Julian," he said. "I am not speaking as your father. I am speaking as the Hand of the Emperor."
'Oh, this is going to be good,' I thought, taking a sip of water to hide my smile. 'Whenever he says "The Emperor," he means "Me, but I don't want to admit it."'
"The Emperor," Valerius continued, keeping his face perfectly stoic, "sent a courier this morning. He is... concerned. He feels that the ending sends a message of hopelessness to the populace."
"The Emperor reads Dracula?" I asked.
"He glances at it," the Duke said quickly. Too quickly. "To keep abreast of cultural trends."
The Duke cleared his throat. He looked at his wine glass, refusing to meet my eyes.
"His Imperial Majesty suggested that perhaps... there is a lost scroll? A hidden chapter? Perhaps the stake missed the heart? Or perhaps Dracul transferred his soul into the rose, allowing him to regenerate in a... let's say... a beach house in the Southern Isles?"
'A beach house,' I repeated internally. 'Dad, you are literally writing fix-it fanfiction at the dinner table. This is adorable and pathetic.'
"You want me to retcon it," I said flatly.
"We want you to correct the record," the Duke said, his voice firm. "For the stability of the Realm. If Dracul returns, the soldiers will cheer—" Alaric nodded eagerly. "—the trade deals will resume—" Cassius nodded sagely. "—and the magic system will remain consistent." Isabella nodded vigorously.
They looked at me. The most powerful people in the Empire, united in their desperation. They were trying to bully me into giving them a happy ending because they couldn't handle the emotional damage of a paperback novel.
I put my glass down.
"No."
The silence that followed was terrifying.
"Excuse me?" the Duke whispered.
"If I bring him back," I said, "he becomes a joke. His sacrifice becomes cheap. The pain you are feeling right now? That Ash in your mouth? That is the product, Father. That is what you paid for."
"I paid for entertainment!" Valerius roared, his stoic mask slipping for a second. "Not for a mid-life crisis!"
'Aha,' I thought, hiding a smirk behind my goblet. 'So you admit it. The "National Security" excuse just went out the window. This isn't about the Realm, Dad. This is about you missing your fictional best friend.'
"You aren't angry because it was bad," I said softly, driving the point home. "You're angry because you loved him. And you can't save him."
The Duke stared at me. For a moment, I saw the cracks. I saw the man who had lost friends in the war, the man who saw himself in the lonely, powerful Count.
Then, he walled it off. He became the Duke again.
"Very well," Valerius said coldly. "If you refuse to serve the Realm, then the Realm has no use for your scribblings. I am confiscating the printing press."
"Wait," I said.
I reached under my chair.
"I expected this. So I brought a peace offering."
I slid the heavy, grey manuscript across the polished table. It spun slowly and stopped right in front of the Duke's plate.
Project Title:The Investigator of the Mist District
The Duke stared at it. He didn't touch it. "What is this? Another monster? Are you going to make me love a Werewolf and then shoot him with a silver bullet?"
"No," I smiled. "No monsters. No magic. No Aether-Swords. No crying."
Alaric picked it up, flipping through the pages with deep skepticism. "No magic? Julian, don't be absurd. How does he fight? Does he use a siege weapon?"
"He uses his brain, Alaric. And a magnifying glass."
"A what?"
"He solves crimes," I explained. "He looks at a muddy boot and tells you where the murderer has been. He smells a letter and tells you who wrote it. He uses Deduction."
Isabella scoffed, crossing her arms. "Deduction? That sounds like guessing. Magic is absolute. Divination is the only way to solve truth."
"Is it?" I challenged.
I looked around the table. It was time for a demonstration.
"Bella, tell me... who stole the last raspberry tart from the kitchen yesterday? Cook was furious. She threatened to quit."
Isabella blinked. "I... I don't know. I would need to cast a Retro-Cognition spell. It would take an hour and three sticks of incense."
"It was Marcus," I said.
'Of course it was Marcus,' I thought with wicked amusement. 'I know because I left that tart on the counter with a note that said "For the Trash" in High Elvish. Marcus only reads Common. The poor man never stood a chance. It wasn't a mystery; it was entrapment.'
Everyone turned to Marcus, the High Steward, who was standing in the shadows by the door, trying to blend into the wallpaper.
Marcus stiffened. "My Lord?"
"How do you know?" The Duke narrowed his eyes. "Did you use a Scrying Orb?"
"No," I said, pointing. "I used my eyes."
'Time to sell the scam,' I thought.
"One," I held up a finger. "There is a microscopic crumb of raspberry crust on Marcus's left cuff, specifically the inner velvet, implying he wiped his mouth hastily."
'There isn't a crumb. But if I say it confidently enough, they'll believe they just missed it.'
"Two," I held up a second finger. "He has been favoring his right side all dinner, standing with his weight shifted, which suggests he is hiding a full stomach or a slight indigestion from eating rich pastry too quickly."
'He always stands like that. He has a bad hip. But they don't know that.'
"And three," I finished. "He is currently sweating. Not from heat, but from the specific, sour scent of anxiety."
'He is sweating because I am staring at him like a hawk. Works every time.'
The table went silent. All eyes fixed on the Steward.
Marcus's composure broke. He frantically brushed his cuff. "The... the tart was expiring, Your Grace! I merely... I didn't want it to go to waste!"
Alaric's jaw dropped. Isabella looked at me like I had just cast a Forbidden Spell without chanting.
'Hook, line, and sinker,' I thought. 'They think I'm a genius. I'm just a guy who knows his butler likes sugar.'
I tapped the grey manuscript.
"That," I said, "is what this book is. It's not about overpowering your enemy with a fireball. It's about outsmarting them. It's about seeing what everyone else misses."
The Duke looked at the manuscript. He looked at Marcus, who was bowing apologetically. He looked back at the title.
I could see the gears turning.
The Duke hated chaos. He hated the messiness of emotions (which was why Dracula hurt him). But this? A man who enforces Order through intellect? A man who cannot be lied to?
"A Detective," the Duke mused, running a thumb over the cover. "A man who turns Justice into a science."
"Precisely," I said. "The Empire is emotional right now, Father. They are grieving. They don't need another tragedy. They need Truth. They need to believe that the world makes sense."
Alaric was reading the first page, squinting. "He fights in a boxing ring... bare-knuckle... calculates the trajectory of the punch... hmm. He strikes the liver to incapacitate without killing. That's... actually solid CQC doctrine."
Isabella was leaning over, reading the description of the crime scene. "He analyzes the tobacco ash to identify the brand? That is basic Alchemy, but applied forensically... fascinating."
Cassius was already calculating. "A narrative about Law and Order? The City Guard will love this. We could secure a contract for 'Educational Materials.' It stabilizes the public mood."
The Duke sighed. The heavy, grey aura around him evaporated. He didn't look happy, but he looked intrigued. It was the look of a man who just found a new hobby to distract him from his heartbreak.
"Very well," Valerius grunted. He placed his hand on the manuscript, claiming it. "You may publish this... 'Detective'. But Julian?"
"Yes, Father?"
The Duke leaned forward. His eyes were hard, but there was a flicker of genuine vulnerability behind them.
"If this Detective dies," he said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper, "If you make me care about him, and then you kill him in a 'poetic' manner... I will not confiscate the press."
"No?"
"No," the Duke promised. "I will personally drag you to the training grounds and make you run laps in full plate armor until your legs fall off. Do we have an understanding?"
I smiled. I pulled my Fisher Space Pen from my pocket and clicked it.
"He won't die, Father," I promised. "He just... takes really long vacations."