Velra hesitated.
Her shackled hands twitched once before curling slowly into fists.
"Because," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper, "I don’t want to die."
The Duke blinked.
"...That’s your reason?"
She exhaled shakily.
"And because he is... interesting."
A beat of silence.
"Deeply, infuriatingly interesting."
That was the first moment the Duke’s expression cracked—
a faint, fleeting shift of the brow, a ghost of curiosity—
And then it vanished, replaced once more by the cold, carved calm of a Draken.
He spoke bluntly:
"Still, ending your life remains far more acceptable than sparing it. At the end of the day, you are a demon."
Velra’s reaction at those words was...
deliciously revealing.
A full-body flinch.
A slight rise in her mana—then immediate suppression.
Her eyes widening, throat tightening, breath stalling just a little too long.
The Duke took every detail in, analyzing her with the quiet cruelty of someone who had interrogated monsters for decades.
Good. Very good.
’It should be easy enough to negotiate nullifying her contract with Julies,’ he thought.
’Offer her life as the bargaining chip, and she’ll fold.’
But outwardly?
He merely stood there.
Silent.
Immovable.
Unreadable.
He expected her to beg for herself again.
He expected threats, false bravado, or desperation.
But instead—
Velra raised her head.
Her eyes trembled, not with fear for herself...
...but for someone else.
"Save Julies," she said, her voice steadying around the words. "His abilities will be of great use to you. He is not someone who should die here. Not like this."
The Duke froze.
Just for a breath.
It was subtle—
too subtle for most to notice.
But Velra noticed.
And the Sword Saint behind her noticed.
Because the Duke Draken, for the first time in the entire conversation, was caught off guard.
The vampire’s frantic struggle—
her panic, her humiliation, her desperation—
It wasn’t for her own survival.
It was for Julies.
The realization gnawed at him, uncomfortable and unwelcome.
Velra’s head bowed again, golden hair spilling like a curtain, catching the lantern light like a fractured halo.
Her normally cold, aristocratic red eyes were filled with something painful, unfamiliar, and strangely human—
Worry.
Earnest, unhidden worry.
Even kneeling on the ground, bound in suppressing chains, surrounded by enemies—
She looked dignified.
Not because of her lineage.
Not because of her pride.
But because she was terrified for someone else.
"Is this even possible?"
That thought flickered through the Duke’s mind like a sudden crack in glass.
Humans and demons had stood on opposite sides of history for as long as history had existed.
Two races that shared a boundary but never a bridge.
A lineage of hatred passed down like an heirloom neither side wanted to inherit yet both stubbornly clung to.
They never understood each other.
They never tried.
Sarcasm and slaughter—their only shared language.
So now, sitting face-to-face with a demon who spoke calmly, politely, almost... sensibly?
The Duke felt something he rarely experienced.
Awkwardness.
A strange, foreign discomfort—like wearing armor that didn’t fit.
He folded his hands atop the desk.
"What is your purpose here?"
Velra didn’t hesitate.
"Purpose? I owe a debt."
Her voice held no tremor.
No defiance.
Just simple fact.
"And I am here to repay it. That is all."
The Duke exhaled slowly.
As troublesome as my daughter... that boy is not simple either.
Julies was talented, yes.
But to make a demon—much less one this powerful—speak of debt?
Impressive didn’t begin to cover it.
The vampire before him, even shackled and suppressed, still radiated an undeniable dignity.
A kind of innate authority, as if she stood above the room rather than in it.
His intuition—the same one honed through a lifetime of battle—whispered one simple truth:
She is extremely high-ranking.
A monster whose strength could rally a horde, whose power could turn tides.
A creature equal to thousands of trained soldiers...
perhaps greater.
And yet—
She was here.
Wounded.
Bound.
Restrained both physically and by her own words.
What skill did Julies use?
What circumstance had forced such a being to lower her head?
And more importantly—
what kind of debt was powerful enough to drag a demon noble into the heart of human territory?
The Duke’s voice hardened.
"I understand you owe Julies—my servant—a debt."
He leaned back slightly, gaze sharpening.
"But if you believed I would simply accept your presence in my home, you are gravely mistaken."
Velra lowered her eyes, her crimson irises glinting faintly under the magical restraints.
The Duke continued:
"A demon defector is unheard of. Your arrival alone throws both political and military risks onto my doorstep."
His jaw tightened.
"Naturally, demons are not a race we can trust. For the safety of my people—execution remains the most reasonable course."
There was no threat in his tone.
Just... clarity.
The kind of clarity only a man responsible for countless lives could have.
Velra did not flinch.
Instead, she lifted her chin by a hair’s breadth—enough to show pride, not arrogance.
"...If you truly are a descendant of warriors," Velra continued quietly, "you would brave the smaller risks and guard against the greater ones."
The Duke gave her a thin, humorless smile.
"That’s a cryptic statement."
"You must have heard it from your daughter already," Velra said, eyes narrowing with a seriousness that stripped away every trace of theatrical pride.
"Beware of the Demon King."
That struck home.
A slow breath escaped the Duke’s lips as his posture straightened.
The playful irritation, the weary sarcasm—gone.
In their place: the solemn caution of a man who had stood on too many battlefields.
"...The Demon King," he repeated, voice low. "Explain further."
Velra didn’t hesitate.
"A being who claims to unite all demons under one throne... and possesses the power to make good on that arrogance."
The Duke’s jaw tightened.
This wasn’t a rumor.
Not the vague whispers that traveled between nations.
Not the exaggerated tales that common soldiers recited around campfires.
This was a statement from someone who had seen him.
"As much as I detest agreeing with demonkind," the Duke murmured, "that is not something we can dismiss so easily."
A bitter truth followed that thought—
If the demon world truly united, even temporarily...
the North would be the first to burn.
The Duke’s homeland.
His people.
His family.
Velra’s voice softened—but did not weaken.
"I have fought him," she said, each word slow and deliberate.
"The false Demon King. The one every clan bows to out of fear. If you wish, I can provide more information about him."
The Duke narrowed his eyes.
"Are you betraying your own kind to repay a single favor?"
Velra’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a painful smile.
"No. Favor alone is not enough to make me turn against my own."
Her gaze lowered, shadows flickering behind her irises.
"I lost everything for rebelling against the Demon King."
The Duke paused.
"...Revenge, then."
Velra didn’t answer with words.
She didn’t need to.
The grief and fury in her expression were clearer than any oath.
The Duke’s mind began to move—calculating, measuring, evaluating.
A high-ranking demon.
A noble, by her own admission.
One who had defected not out of ideology...
but because she had been crushed by the very force he feared most.
’A valuable asset,’ the Duke thought, fingers tapping the desk.
’A chance that may never appear again.’
A demon noble turning against her king.
A source of firsthand intel on demon politics, factions, power struggles, vulnerabilities.
A living weapon... even if sealed.
But—
The Duke’s eyes flicked toward her shackles, then to the magic collar that hummed with golden runes.
That woman—
even now, even bleeding and sealed—
radiated power enough to warp the air if she tried.
Just one spell of hers could tear down the manor.
One misstep could cost hundreds of lives.
’She’s useful.
But she’s also a disaster waiting to happen.’
Risk and reward.
Death and opportunity.
A razor’s edge.