Duke Wellington sat across from Tsar Pietro, the two men separated by a long polished table of dark wood. The chamber was quiet, almost unnaturally so, as if the walls themselves understood the danger of the meeting.
A maid approached carefully, her hands trembling slightly as she set two cups of steaming tea before them. The porcelain clicked softly against the table.
"You may drink, father-in-law," Pietro said, gesturing lightly toward the cup. His expression remained calm, almost courteous.
Duke Wellington did not touch it.
Instead, he picked up the cup slowly, studying the faint steam curling into the air.
"Oh my, child," he said mildly, almost amused. "I am not like your father… nor your siblings, whom you could kill with such ease."
Without hesitation, he tilted the cup and poured the tea onto the floor.
The liquid spread across the stone tiles.
"But I do hope you did not kill your father with such a cowardly tactic," he continued, setting the empty cup down. "Because if so… I might have to avenge him right here and now."
Pietro chuckled quietly. He had expected this.
From the moment he learned Duke Wellington would attend the banquet, he knew the man would see through anything. Pietro had mastered deception from childhood, but before this man, it meant nothing.
Duke Wellington read people like open books.
And Pietro despised that.
His only comfort was that Katherine had not inherited her father's mind. If she had… she would have been far more dangerous.
Perhaps dangerously enough that he would have been forced to remove her long ago.
"I don't know what you mean, father-in-law," Pietro replied calmly.
Then, deliberately, he picked up his own cup… and poured it onto the ground as well.
Duke Wellington smiled faintly.
"It seems to be the oldest trick in the book at this point," he said. "Poison both cups. Force the other to drink. A childish game."
He rose from his seat, rifle still resting casually in his hand.
"I wish to see my daughter," he added, already heading toward the door. "The one you married."
"There'll be no need for that," Ivan said, stepping forward quickly, trying to stop him.
He reached out—
And froze.
In the blink of an eye, Duke Wellington had spun, drawn his gun, and pressed it against Ivan's chest. The movement was so fast it barely registered.
"Boy," Duke Wellington said calmly, "I advise you to let go of me… unless you are prepared to meet your maker."
Ivan's grin faded.
"Don't test me, boy," Wellington continued, his voice still frighteningly level.
Pietro watched in silence.
He had seen many dangerous men. Warriors, assassins, generals, tyrants.
But Duke Wellington was different.
There was no rage in him. No excitement. No hesitation.
Only calm.
Terrifying calm.
"Oh my, father-in-law," Pietro said slowly, leaning back in his chair. "I truly admire your marksmanship. Within seconds, you spun your gun and pointed it at Ivan's chest. Remarkable."
He smiled faintly.
"But we both know you wouldn't dare kill him… unless you want Brettonreach to hand you over to Nordhavn for—"
The shot rang out.
Ivan collapsed instantly, clutching his leg as blood spread across the snow-dusted floor near the doorway.
Before anyone could react, Duke Wellington stepped forward, placing his boot against Ivan's shoulder and pressing him down. The gun shifted—now aimed directly at Pietro.
The chamber fell silent.
And for the first time—
Pietro stopped smiling.
The sound of the gunshot had barely faded when the doors burst open.
Armored guards rushed in, boots striking hard against the stone floor. Steel glinted in the cold light, swords drawn, formation tightening as they surrounded Duke Wellington from every direction.
He did not move.
Instead, his eyes swept across them calmly, counting.
"…Ten," he murmured.
His grip on the gun loosened slightly, almost disappointed.
"Only ten men?" he said, tilting his head faintly. "And you expect them to stop me?"
The guards hesitated.
Even Pietro remained still, watching.
"I could cut through them the same way a knife cuts butter," Duke Wellington continued, his tone calm, almost bored. "With practiced ease."
He exhaled slowly.
"How dare you insult me like this."
Before anyone could react—
He moved.
The gun fired once, the shot echoing violently in the chamber. One knight staggered back, collapsing instantly. In the same motion, Duke Wellington stepped forward, seized the falling man's sword, and turned.
The blade flashed.
Steel whispered.
A head fell.
The body remained standing for a fraction of a second before collapsing beside it.
Blood spread across the polished floor.
Silence.
The remaining guards froze, disbelief etched across their faces. No one moved. No one even breathed.
A man had just been killed—beheaded—inside the Tsar's presence.
No one dared.
No one ever dared.
Yet Duke Wellington stood there calmly, sword in hand, as if he had merely demonstrated a lesson.
He had used the man as an example.
A warning.
Ivan, still on the ground, stared upward, pain forgotten for a moment. Even he—who had faced battlefields and kings—felt the weight of the man's presence.
This was no ordinary duke.
This was something else.
Something colder.
Something far more dangerous.
The guards tightened their grip on their weapons, but none stepped forward. Fear crept into their posture, into their breathing, into the slight tremor in their arms.
Even so… they knew what this meant.
Even if he was the Tsarina's father…
Even if he was a legendary warrior…
He had crossed a line.
And in Velkarov—
Such lines were paid in blood.
Sooner or later, Duke Wellington would meet his end.
But judging by the calm smile still resting on his face—
He did not fear that outcome at all.
***
Katherine had barely begun to rest when hurried footsteps echoed beyond her chamber doors. Raised voices followed—sharp, strained, struggling to remain respectful.
Something was wrong.
She sat up slowly, her brows knitting together.
Then—
The doors burst open.
A guard stumbled inside, breath ragged, face pale beneath his helmet. His sword arm trembled, whether from exhaustion or fear, Katherine could not tell.
"Your Majesty!" he said urgently. "A guest is barging in. We can't hold him any longer!"
Katherine rose halfway from the bed, confusion flickering across her face. "What do you—"
A wet sound cut him off.
Steel whispered.
The guard's words died in his throat.
For a fraction of a second, Katherine did not understand what she was seeing. The man's body remained standing… then slowly separated.
His head slid from his shoulders and struck the floor with a dull, heavy thud.
Blood followed.
It spread across the polished stone, creeping toward the edge of her carpet.
Behind the falling body stood a man.
Long auburn hair. Fur-lined coat. A rifle slung casually across his shoulder. A sword in his hand, still dripping.
Duke Wellington.
Her father.
He stepped over the corpse without hurry, as if entering a drawing room rather than a royal chamber.
Blood stained his sleeves, dotted his face, and darkened the hem of his coat. Yet his expression remained calm—almost warm.
"Didn't I tell you to pick appropriate last words?" he said mildly, glancing down at the fallen knight as though disappointed in his lack of creativity.
Katherine froze.
Her heart pounded once. Hard.
"Father…?" she whispered.
He looked up at her.
And smiled.
"Daddy's here to see you, my dear."
He opened his arms slightly, as if expecting her to run toward him.
The gesture contrasted violently with the carnage behind him—blood smeared across the doorway, bodies visible in the corridor beyond, guards lying motionless along the walls.
The scent of iron filled the room.
Katherine stared at him, unable to move.
Six years had passed since she last saw him. Six years since she left Brettonreach as a hopeful bride.
He looked exactly the same.
Unchanged.
Untouched.
Terrifying.
"You look thinner," Duke Wellington observed casually, stepping fully into the room.
His boots left faint crimson prints across the floor. "Have they not been feeding you properly? Or has marriage in Velkarov proven… disappointing?"
Katherine swallowed.
"Father… what have you done?" she asked quietly, her voice barely steady.
"Oh, nothing too excessive," he replied lightly. "A few men tried to stop me. I corrected their misunderstanding."
From the corridor, distant shouting echoed—more guards gathering, more steel being drawn.
Yet Duke Wellington did not turn. Did not even acknowledge the danger.
His attention remained solely on her.
"I wished to see you," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "Six years is a long time, Katherine. A father grows curious."
Her eyes flicked to the blood on his sleeve.
"You killed them… just to come here?"
He tilted his head.
"They stood in the way."
To him, that was explanation enough.
Katherine felt a chill crawl up her spine. She remembered now—the stories, the reputation, the quiet fear even nobles in Brettonreach held for him.
He was not merely a duke.
He was a storm wearing a gentleman's smile.
"You shouldn't have done this," she whispered. "This is Pietro's palace…"
Duke Wellington chuckled softly.
"Yes," he said. "I noticed."
"And you still did this?" Katherine asked, her voice unsteady despite her attempt at composure.
She could hardly believe the sight before her—her father standing in her chambers, drenched in blood as though he had walked through a battlefield rather than a palace corridor.
She had heard the stories when she was younger.
Tales of her father's years as a knight—how he rode at the front, how armies broke when he entered the field, how kings treated him with careful respect.
But stories were one thing.
Seeing him like this… calm, composed, surrounded by death…
She realized she had never truly understood.
"How many did you kill?" she asked quietly.
Duke Wellington shrugged lightly, stepping further into the chamber as if discussing the weather. "Oh, just a few. About twenty… perhaps a little more. I lost count after the first dozen."
Katherine's breath caught.
Twenty.
Inside the Tsar's palace.
The corridor beyond her door echoed with hurried footsteps. Moments later, reinforcements flooded the hallway—more guards in heavier armour, swords drawn, crossbows raised.
They stopped abruptly when they saw the bodies, the blood, and the man standing calmly in the centre of it all.
Their disbelief was obvious.
Some tightened their grip on their weapons. Others glanced nervously at Katherine, uncertain how to proceed.
"There's no need to intervene," Katherine said, her voice firm despite the chaos. "Stand down."
The guards hesitated.
But only for a moment.
"With respect, Your Majesty," one of them replied stiffly, stepping forward, "we have direct orders from the Tsar. The intruder is to be captured."
The word intruder hung heavily in the air.
Katherine's expression hardened. "I said stand down."
Yet they moved anyway.
Steel shifted. Boots stepped forward.
Duke Wellington's eyes flicked toward them, his calm expression never changing.
"Your Tsarina speaks to you," he said quietly. "Yet you talk as if her words hold no weight."
The guard opened his mouth, perhaps to respond, perhaps to insist again—
He never finished.
Duke Wellington moved.
The sword flashed forward in a single smooth motion, piercing straight through the guard's chest. The blade slid out the man's back, crimson blooming across his armour.
The guard's eyes widened in shock.
Duke Wellington leaned slightly closer, his voice calm, almost conversational.
"Disrespect," he murmured, "should never be encouraged."
He withdrew the blade.
The man collapsed instantly.
Silence fell again.
No one moved.
The remaining guards stared, frozen between duty and fear. This was no longer simply an intruder. This was a massacre unfolding before them, one they seemed powerless to stop.
Katherine felt her pulse hammering in her ears.
"Father…" she whispered, but even she was no longer sure whether she was trying to stop him—or simply understand him.
Duke Wellington turned to her, his expression softening slightly, as though none of this were unusual.
"They should listen to you," he said gently. "You are their Tsarina."
"They shouldn't forget that," he added.