"It’s a headache."
He muttered it under his breath, though the frustration behind the words carried the weight of years—no, generations.
The Duke of Draken rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a familiar pulse of irritation building behind his eyes.
For himself, yes.
But also for the entire Draken bloodline.
Since the founding of their house—since the very first pact with the heavens—he had never dealt with anything quite like this.
A demon defector.
Brought into his home.
By his daughter.
He gave a tired, humorless laugh.
"A demon race defector, huh... Alice, this child—she always brings trouble to the family."
He’d given the order to capture the demon, of course.
That was standard procedure.
But he never imagined anyone would actually succeed in subduing one—
alive—
let alone drag it back here.
"Honestly..."
His hand moved almost unconsciously to the blade at his hip.
He drew the sword a few inches from its scabbard.
Just enough for the steel to catch the light.
Just enough for the enchantments along the flat of the blade to shimmer faintly.
The Duke stared at his own reflection in the pristine edge.
And beneath that reflection—
the memory of that vampire’s eyes.
The hatred that rose in him back then had been primal.
Instinctive.
Vicious.
The same hatred his ancestors had felt.
The same hatred they had died for, killed for, lived for.
Even now, just thinking about the demon Velra made his grip tighten.
To be more precise—
When he first looked at her, he had nearly acted without thought.
A clean strike.
One motion.
Head removed.
Problem solved.
The fact that he stopped himself at the last moment said everything:
This situation was worse than troublesome.
It was unprecedented.
And the Duke hated unprecedented.
He slowly sheathed the sword, the faint click echoing through the quiet office.
A sound far too small for the weight behind it.
The Duke let out a long breath, one hand braced on the desk as if steadying himself.
"...A demon. In my house."
Saying it aloud didn’t make it feel any less absurd.
He walked toward the window, pushing aside the heavy curtains.
The manor grounds lay below—peaceful, disciplined, orderly.
A far cry from the chaos his daughter had just delivered to his doorstep.
He folded his arms.
"Trouble comes in many forms," he murmured. "But this... this is something else."
At that moment, Duke remembered the conversation he had with demon.
...And couldn’t help but chuckle despite his hatred towards the demons.
’It was intresting conversation.’
----
"The malice is quite sharp. Could you tone it down? I’m already covered in injuries and sealed in three different ways. I can’t even lift a finger to resist."
The vampire sat slumped in her chair, still bound by—
A magic-sealing collar.
Restrictive shackles around her wrists and ankles.
And, above all, the presence of a Sword Saint standing two steps behind her, expression blank and terrifying.
She wasn’t wrong.
In this condition, even a high-ranking demon had the combat potential of a soggy leaf.
"Do you truly grasp where you are to speak so brazenly?" the Duke asked, voice rigid.
"I do not," Velra admitted. "But if I were to guess... the home of the descendants of a very, very old warrior."
Her tone was casual—far too casual, considering the situation.
Yet despite her words, her posture showed no sign of rebellion.
No attempt to escape.
Not even a flicker of hostility in her mana.
It was... odd.
Odd enough to make the Duke’s simmering hatred hesitate for a moment.
"Descendant of a great warrior," Velra continued softly. "What judgment will you pass on me?"
And just then—
A strange, sharp malice glinted in her crimson eyes.
"I have already touched your people," she said, lowering her voice. "If you kill me here, the consequences will spread to them as well."
She smiled—wide, fanged, theatrical.
To anyone else, it would look like the smug threat of a cornered demon holding the Duke’s household hostage.
But...
The Duke had seen too much in his life.
And right now?
Her words were stiff.
Her posture too rigid.
A bead of cold sweat slid down her pale neck, disappearing beneath her golden hair.
Her pupils—normally calm and serpentine—trembled like a child caught stealing cookies.
"...Hm."
The Duke stroked his chin slowly.
This demon was hiding something.
Something she absolutely did not want exposed.
Let’s see how she behaves when the rope she’s clinging to snaps, he thought.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"Though he is a servant dear to my daughter, it seems far too small a price to capture a high-ranking demon."
Velra’s head jerked up sharply.
"...You—! Have you no shame as a noble!? To risk the lives of your own people so easily?!"
"Sometimes," the Duke said calmly, "one must learn to sacrifice the few for the greater good."
Of course he had no intention of sacrificing anyone.
He valued talented retainers far too much.
But her reaction—
Her panic.
Her slip in composure—
Was priceless.
Velra bit her lip hard, fangs pressing into soft skin.
Her gaze darted—once to the Sword Saint, once to the sealed door behind them, once to the magic-collar she couldn’t break.
Finally...
Her shoulders sagged.
Her head lowered.
And in a voice barely audible—
"...Please. Spare me."
The Sword Saint blinked.
The Duke blinked harder.
So she was begging.
Pathetic.
Shameful.
Comically undignified.
But above all—
Absolutely, undeniably convincing.
"...Demons truly are contemptible," the Duke muttered.
Velra swallowed hard, eyes glistening with humiliation.
Somewhere in the manor, Alice sneezed.
The Duke of Draken did not laugh.
But he did exhale very, very slowly—
a deep, weary sigh that only a man who had lived through four continental wars, three succession crises, and one runaway teenage daughter could produce.
"...Stand," he ordered.
Velra jolted like a startled cat.
The Sword Saint, still looming behind her like a granite statue with a pulse, lifted her effortlessly by the chain of her shackles.
The demon wobbled on her feet.
Still trembling.
Still humiliated.
Still very much alive.
The Duke studied her—not as a monster, not as prey, but as a puzzle with several missing pieces and a few that absolutely did not belong.
"...You begged," he said.
Velra stiffened.
Even the Sword Saint tilted his head minutely, as if confirming he did not hallucinate the moment.
Velra clenched her jaw.
"I am... adaptive," she said stiffly.
"Adaptive?"
"Flexible."
"Mm."
"Practical."
The Duke’s brow arched.
"I see. A very elegant way to admit to cowardice."
Velra hissed softly.
"I am not a coward. I simply know when the losing end is unavoidable. I am injured, sealed, outnumbered, and surrounded by an entire bloodline whose very existence is a natural disaster to my kind."
"Then why," the Duke asked, "did you not attempt any negotiation before resorting to begging?"
Velra opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"...Negotiation is a skill," she muttered. "And humiliation is... efficient."
The Sword Saint coughed politely into his fist.
It might have been a laugh.
Impossible to tell with him.
The Duke turned away, pacing back toward his desk.
"Velra Erzsebet."
Her eyes narrowed sharply—not at the name, but the way he said it.
Knowledgeable.
Old.
Wary.
"You are not just any demon," he continued. "Your clan’s activities have caused enough chaos across borders to keep three kingdoms awake for decades."
Velra swallowed.
"Correct."
"And you chose," the Duke said, tone flattening, "to bind yourself to a young human who passed out halfway through a mission."
Silence.
Velra’s ears twitched.
"...Yes."
"For what reason?"
Velra hesitated.
Her hands—still shackled—slowly clenched.
"Because," she said quietly, "I don’t want to die."
"...That’s it?"
"And he is... interesting."
A pause.
"Deeply, infuriatingly interesting."
That earned the first flicker of emotion on the Duke’s face.