And then he looked at the bowl of strawberries they were fighting over.
It was ridiculous. It was entirely, absurdly, pathetically ridiculous. His elite vanguard had been compromised by a toddler.
"Explain yourselves," Kaelus said, his voice dangerously soft.
"Sir!" Lucas barked, standing as straight as he could while holding a silver platter of snacks. "We were preparing Lady Seraphina's rations! There was a... tactical disagreement regarding the chain of custody for the delivery!"
"Tactical disagreement," Kaelus repeated slowly.
He stepped up to the tray and smoothly, effortlessly lifted it from their combined grips. The sheer strength in his casual movement left both knights empty-handed and humbled.
"I will handle the delivery," Kaelus said, balancing the tray on his gloved hand. He looked at the spilt milk and frowned slightly.
"But Your Grace!" Gallahan protested weakly. "You should be resting. Or reviewing the maps. Feeding a child is... it requires a certain... softness."
Kaelus shot Gallahan a look that could have flash-frozen a volcano.
"Are you implying I lack the necessary competence to hand a bowl of soup to a child, Sir Gallahan?"
"N-no, Your Grace! Never!"
"Good." Kaelus turned his attention to Lucas. "Since you both seem to have an excess of energy and a desperate need to serve, I have a task for you."
Both knights stood at absolute attention. "Command us, Your Grace!"
Kaelus's eyes darkened, the brief flicker of domestic absurdity vanishing, replaced by the ruthless Archduke. "Count Rodhe is currently gathering his ledgers in his study. I want you both to go there and stand in his office. Do not speak to him, nor help him. Just stand behind him, rest your hands on your swords, and watch him sweat. Ensure he does not 'accidentally' drop any pages into his fireplace."
Lucas and Gallahan exchanged a look. It was a classic intimidation tactic, and they were the best in the business at it.
"With pleasure, Your Grace," Lucas smiled, his scarred face looking truly demonic.
The two knights bowed deeply and marched off down the hallway to terrorise the Count, their argument over the strawberries instantly forgotten in the promise of psychological warfare.
Alone in the hallway, Kaelus looked down at the tray in his hands.
It felt foreign.
He had carried severed heads, battle standards, and the dying bodies of his comrades. But a tray with a warm cup of milk and a ceramic bowl of soup? It felt bizarrely delicate.
He turned toward the heavy oak door. He didn't knock since he didn't want to startle her.
He pushed the heavy latch down with his thumb and pushed the door open with his shoulder, stepping inside silently.
The room was submerged in absolute darkness. The fire had died entirely. The heavy curtains blocked out even the faint light of the moon.
"Seraphina," he said softly, letting his voice carry just enough to reach the bed.
There was no answer.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom instantly, a byproduct of his high-tier mana. He looked toward the massive four-poster bed in the centre of the room.
She wasn't lying on the pillows. She wasn't tucked under the duvet where he had left her.
Instead, at the very foot of the bed, there was a lumpy, misshapen pile.
Kaelus walked over, placing the tray gently on the bedside table. He stepped to the foot of the bed and looked down.
It was his cape. The massive, fur-lined mantle of the Archduke was bundled into a tight, messy cocoon.
He frowned. Had she thrown a tantrum? Had she tried to hide from the ghosts she claimed were in the room?
He reached out with a gloved hand, pinching the heavy fabric, and slowly pulled the edge of the cape back.
What he saw beneath it caused a catastrophic system failure in the brain of the Northern Reaper.
Seraphina was curled into a tight little ball. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and her small hands were gripping the dark wool of his cape as if it were a physical lifeline.
But it was her face that dealt the killing blow.
Her cheeks were pale, but the tip of her small nose was cherry red. Her messy dark hair was plastered to her forehead with cold sweat.
And her eyes... those impossibly large, dark eyes, were wide open, swimming in unshed tears.
She had been crying. Silently, desperately crying in the dark.
When the cape was pulled back, she looked up at him. She didn't flinch away. She didn't scream.
She just stared at him with an expression of such profound, innocent grievance, like a stray kitten that had been kicked out into the rain and had finally, miraculously, found someone to open a door.
Thump!
Kaelus physically stopped breathing for a second.
It was as if an invisible archer had drawn a bow, bypassed his mythril-tier magical defences, bypassed his hardened, cynical heart, and shot a bright pink, disgustingly sweet arrow straight into the centre of his chest.
What... what is this? Kaelus thought, his mind reeling in absolute confusion.
He was intimately familiar with adrenaline.
He knew the cold, calculating thrill of the kill.
He knew the heavy, suffocating weight of duty. He even knew the dull, persistent ache of grief.
But this? This sudden, violent urge to wrap this tiny, fragile creature in cotton, burn the estate to the ground for making her cry, and murder anyone who dared to look at her funny? This was entirely new.
She looked so small. So ridiculously soft.
The oversized cape made her look even tinier, a vulnerable pearl hidden inside a dark, jagged oyster shell.
Her bottom lip trembled slightly, a microscopic quiver that hit Kaelus with the force of a battering ram.
How is she this cute?
The thought echoed in his mind, unauthorised and deeply uncharacteristic.
Is it magic? Is this a succubus illusion?
Outwardly, Kaelus's expression did not change. His face remained carved from ice. His posture was still rigid and regal.