I can offer you a contract

In the carriage, Piccaron looked visibly weakened, fresh blood already trailing from his nose.

“You’re bleeding. Here.” Carmila held out a handkerchief.

“That ability of yours.” Princess Anastasia studied him. “Where did it come from?”

“As a child, I studied magic for a while. Never managed to conjure a single spell of my own.” Piccaron kept his answer honest — he had reasons to want this earned through truth, not lies. “Eventually I understood I could inject myself into someone else’s cast magic instead. I’ve never known why.”

Anastasia fell quiet, thinking it over.

“The Musk Blade Formation. How did you get around it?” Max’s voice stayed cold.

“I’ve seen the technique before. Enough to know where its weakness sits.” Piccaron kept it short.

“And your handcuffs, miss.” He turned to Carmila. “Curious craft. Some form of restorative magic, isn’t it?”

“Restorative magic can be turned to suppress certain bodily functions. Used correctly, it doubles as restraints.” Carmila’s tone stayed clipped. “The application’s difficult work.”

The carriage finally reached the palace of Luna Pienna. Piccaron was brought before the king. He carried himself with careful deference the moment he entered the throne room. Princess Anastasia laid out the situation for her father.

“Well then. What’s your defense, young man?” King Firenze’s voice filled the hall.

Piccaron kept his eyes lowered, and it was in that moment his gaze caught the queen’s face beside the throne. He forced himself to hold his tongue.

A southerner, he thought. The queen — dark-haired, striking despite her age — carried every mark of it.

Still bowed, Piccaron lifted his head just slightly.

“Your Majesty. I admit the killing I did within the capital was wrong. I have no authority here, no standing to justify it. To make amends, I can offer information of real value — if Your Majesty will permit it.”

“Oh?” King Firenze leaned forward. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“The Kingdom of Elmar.” Piccaron chose his words with care. “There’s political unrest brewing there. A crown prince has overstepped his bounds — planning an invasion of this region, working alongside mercenary companies and other forces best left unnamed.” None of this was information Piccaron could actually vouch for. This was a wager with his own life on the table.

“The crown prince of Elmar? You’re certain of this?” The king’s voice stayed calm, weighted with authority.

“Something this cunning, this ruthless, this carefully arranged — only a man of noble blood could orchestrate it.” Piccaron’s deduction was already half-formed in his mind: Hennesy had to be Elmar’s crown prince. Nothing else explained the precision of what he’d seen — the trap in the field, the coalition of mercenaries, the coordination with whatever ancient power had choked Baum Goldenir’s mana. Elmar had never shown this kind of boldness before. Someone had given them reason to believe they couldn’t lose. A beat too late, Piccaron realized his words might have crossed a line with the crown itself, and he was already reaching for an apology when King Firenze let out a short laugh instead. He called one of his generals forward.

“General Trieste. Your read?”

“He’s right, Your Majesty.” The general’s voice was grave. “Our own intelligence has flagged Crown Prince — General Hennesy of Elmar — moving against several border towns already. But mercenary companies working alongside him… that’s new information, Your Majesty. How would this man know that?”

“I was a soldier under Elmar’s crown once.” Piccaron let the lie settle into his voice like truth. “When I discovered what they were doing, they turned on me — meant to have me killed for it. I was fortunate enough to be found and saved by good people of this kingdom.” Now came the part where he had to bend the truth further. Whether this fabricated history would hold up under a court like this remained to be seen.

“A soldier with a conscience, unwilling to work alongside mercenaries, who then betrays his own crown?” King Firenze’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“They betrayed me first, Your Majesty. I only hope they answer for it in kind.” Piccaron kept his voice steady. “Beyond that — invading a neighboring region without proper consideration carries consequences far beyond what they seem to grasp. I never agreed with any of it.”

“Your Majesty, might I say one more thing?” Piccaron pressed on.

“Go ahead.”

“I know I’m nothing more than a former soldier of Elmar. But I understand, better than most, how they operate. I’d like to offer my service to your crown until tensions with Elmar have settled. Consider it my genuine effort to make amends for what I’ve done. I know I may not deserve such consideration — I ask only that Your Majesty weigh it.”

“Princess Anastasia. Your thoughts?” the king asked his daughter.

“He can stay.” Anastasia’s eyes didn’t leave Piccaron. “We need capable hands against whatever Elmar’s planning. But if he shows even a hint of treachery—“ her voice sharpened, “—I’ll be the one to execute him myself, Father.”

“Then it’s settled.” The king nodded.

Piccaron did want revenge — that much burned quietly in him. In his own mind, he’d never truly lost before this. He’d always found a way to answer, to even the score. This time he’d lost completely, stripped of every shred of pride he’d carried. And the ancient magic and poison that had choked Baum Goldenir that day — he wanted, more than anything, to know exactly who had made that possible.

The contract was offered, in the end, by Piccaron himself. Under its terms, he finally had an answer to the question that had left him speechless in Jonas’s house.

Who he was.