Meanwhile, in the heart of the capital, the towering spires of the Duke Tyler Agro Compound gleamed coldly under the afternoon sun, gold accents catching the light like daggers aimed at the sky.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of polished marble, incense, and the faint, sharp tang of rare metals from the countless artifacts lining the walls.
But all the beauty and opulence of the mansion could not calm the storm raging in Duke Tyler's mind.
He paced the main hall, boots clicking on the polished floors, eyes blazing with fury. The news had reached him that his twin brother's western territory, the one he had written off months ago as a dying, insignificant patch of land, was now the talk of the entire kingdom.
Nobles whispered about it, merchants gossiped at court, even the Magic Tower scholars murmured about some mysterious rise in power and influence. And at the center of it all… his niece.
Seraphine. And he needs her brilliant mind, he needs her for his plan.
He clenched his fists, veins throbbing as he attempted to reach her. Communication scrolls, magical messages, even personal envoys—every single attempt had been ignored.
She dared ignore him, a child who should have been a mere speck in the vast empire of the Agro family?
"Who the hell does she think she is?" he spat, voice low and dangerous. "Ketchup? Shampoo? Soap?" His laugh was bitter, sharp as shattered glass. "The girl has no magic, no skill, no—nothing! If she wanted fame, she'd need magical items, teleportation scrolls, even a spell the Royal Court and the Magic Tower couldn't perfect. Or a healing potion powerful enough to cure wounds or fever in an instant. Something that matters, something that wields power. Not… this… trivial nonsense."
The duke's eyes burned with a mixture of disbelief and fury.
His luxurious mansion, designed to intimidate, to display his wealth and authority, suddenly felt stifling.
Gold-plated railings, towering crystal chandeliers, intricate mosaics—none of it mattered while his niece laughed in the face of his authority, building a name and a power he could not touch.
He retreated to his hidden sanctuary: a secret basement chamber no one knew existed, carved deep beneath the foundations of the compound.
The walls were lined with ancient tomes, forbidden grimoires, and vials of liquids that shimmered with dark, dangerous magic.
Here, he allowed himself the indulgence of what he truly was—a master of forbidden arts, a wielder of dark magic the kingdom whispered about but feared to name.
As he stepped inside, the temperature dropped unnaturally, and shadows seemed to coil and writhe along the walls, drawn to his presence.
The air sizzled with arcane energy, as if the very stones were humming with anticipation.
Duke Tyler's hands glowed faintly with black runes, pulsating as he muttered incantations, each word feeding the latent magic that surrounded him.
Sparks danced along the floor, curling into serpentine forms before vanishing into the shadows.
"Stupid whore," he hissed, each word dripping with venom. "How dare she ignore me? How dare she thrive while I am here, unmatched, supreme, and ignored?" His voice echoed through the chamber, distorted by the magic that clung to every corner.
The forbidden texts around him seemed to quiver, alive with his rage, absorbing it, amplifying it.
He slammed his fist on a stone table, the impact cracking the surface and sending a ripple of dark energy through the room.
Magical runes blazed to life beneath his fingers, etching themselves into the air, humming with potential devastation.
He could strike. He could crush her fledgling influence before it even grew further. He should.
And yet… the thought of her audacity, of her defiance, gnawed at him. She had become more than a child in the family's shadow; she was a thorn in his side, a spark that refused to be smothered.
That very defiance fueled his anger, and in his mind, the plan began to take shape: a careful, precise strike, a way to remind the girl of her place.
The chamber pulsed with power, shadows swirling tighter around him, responding to his fury.
The duke's lips curled into a sinister smile as he whispered, voice low and searing with malice, "If she wants to play at power, she will learn… the true meaning of fear."
And in the quiet hum of forbidden magic, deep beneath the mansion, Duke Tyler Agro prepared.
"She dares to rise while I am here," he muttered, voice low and venomous, "while the Agro legacy should be mine to command." The air sizzled with black energy, shadows curling around the edges of the map, reacting to his wrath. Sparks of forbidden magic flared and danced across his fingertips as he traced the path from the capital to the western town, each line a potential strike.
He had tried letters, envoys, communication scrolls—every polite, "reasonable" method of control—and each one had been met with silence.
That silence was worse than any insult. It was defiance. And defiance, he reminded himself, demanded punishment.
From a hidden drawer, he pulled a small obsidian sphere, smooth and cool in his hands. It hummed with contained magic, ancient and malevolent.
"Spies," he hissed, his grin sharp and cold. "I will see her every move. Every. Single. Step." He whispered incantations over the sphere, and the shadows around him writhed, splitting into countless tendrils that could slip through walls, follow merchants, and listen without being seen.
Agents would soon be in place, hidden in plain sight, observing the western town, watching the villagers, merchants, even her shadowy little CHUBBY.
But spies alone were not enough. He needed leverage, fear, a way to remind the girl and her followers that the Agro name still carried weight.
The forbidden tomes surrounding him whispered possibilities—potions that could sap the will of a town, curses that could twist luck, weather, even magic itself.
He selected carefully, his fingers brushing across vials of black liquid that shimmered with malevolence. A drop could ruin crops, poison trade, or make the very air of a street unbearable.
"Yes," he murmured, eyes gleaming, "let them revel in their little victories. Let them taste the illusion of power. But soon…" His voice dropped to a hiss, "they will kneel."
He stood abruptly, the chamber vibrating with the force of his magic.
Dark smoke rose in lazy curls around him, forming faces that whispered in half-heard tongues, promising obedience, destruction, and secrecy.
The chamber was alive with forbidden power, feeding off his anger, his desire, and his unrelenting obsession with control.
Tyler allowed himself a brief moment of cruel satisfaction.
He could imagine her: striding through the crowded market, merchants bustling, nobles gawking, the villagers praising her—completely unaware of the shadow creeping closer, the unseen eye that would test every step of her empire.
A smirk curved his lips. "Let them celebrate," he said softly. "Let her think she is untouchable. That will make the fall… more exquisite."
He began to outline his plans meticulously, marking points on the map where curses could weaken merchants, where trade caravans could be intercepted, and where spies could stir dissent among villagers.
Each action was calculated, precise, a silent storm that would slowly suffocate her triumphs.
And in the stillness, the chamber hummed with dark magic, shadows whispering his every intent.
Duke Tyler Agro, master of forbidden arts and seething vengeance, was preparing a game in which Seraphine would be the unwitting, defiant pawn. The game had begun.