Chapter 202: Agreement reached, and complications arising.

Morgana remained motionless for several long seconds, the folder still clutched to her chest as if it were the only thing keeping her anchored to reality. The silence in the room seemed heavier than any shout she had exchanged with Damon minutes before.

Elizabeth was the first to move.

“You’ll need time,” she said, crossing her arms again. “Denial, anger, disgust… it all comes in waves. You don’t need to answer anything now.”

Morgana let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Time?” she looked up, her eyes gleaming dangerously. “If half of this is true… I don’t have that luxury.”

She opened the folder again, turning the pages more carefully now. Not like someone in shock, but like someone trained to observe. Dates. Repetitions. Patterns. Routes that coincided with “diplomatic” trips. Names crossed out, replaced by others.

“He always said certain shipments were ’too sensitive’ for me,” she murmured. “That I didn’t need to know everything.”

Elizabeth nodded slightly.

“Control of information is the first shackle a tyrant places on his own children.”

Morgana closed her eyes for a moment.

The image of the father who had taught her to ride, to wield a sword, to speak with poise before the court… clashed violently with the figure described in the reports. The two versions coexisted, overlapped, and neither yielded space.

“If I side with him,” she said softly, “I become an accomplice.”

“Exactly,” Elizabeth replied, without softening her tone.

Morgana took a deep breath and, for the first time since arriving at the mansion, turned slowly to Damon.

He was still kneeling, slightly crooked, clearly exhausted, with purple marks beginning to appear on his abdomen and shoulder. His hair was disheveled. His expression… cautious.

“Did you know all this?” she asked.

Damon hesitated.

“Some things,” he admitted. “Not everything. But enough to know that Arven wasn’t… safe.”

Morgana gritted her teeth.

“So when you ran away…”

“I wasn’t running away from you,” he said quickly. “I was trying not to become a tool. Or an example.”

She looked away, annoyed with herself.

Elizabeth cleared her throat, drawing their attention.

“Before this turns into a belated confession session,” she said, “we need to make something clear.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

“Changing sides isn’t a symbolic gesture. It’s not some pretty political drama for a bard to sing about later. It’s dangerous. Irreversible.”

Morgana raised her chin.

“I’m not afraid.”

Elizabeth smiled slightly.

“I know. What worries me is what you’ll do when you realize you still love people you’ll need to take down.”

The impact of those words was palpable.

Morgana swallowed hard.

“What do you want from me?” she finally asked. “Exactly.”

Elizabeth stood up again and walked to a side table where a folded map lay. She unfolded it precisely and pointed to several marked areas.

“Arven isn’t an isolated case,” she explained. “But he’s a central node. Routes. Funding. Political influence. If he falls… others tremble.”

She looked directly at Morgana.

“You know the inner workings. The people. The unwritten codes. You can go where my agents don’t go without raising suspicion.”

Morgana followed the map with her eyes.

“You want me to be an infiltrator.”

“I want you to be a bridge,” Elizabeth corrected. “And, when necessary… a blade.”

Silence returned.

Damon felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Elizabeth…” he began.

She raised her hand.

“No,” she said. “This isn’t your decision.”

Morgana took a deep breath, carefully closed the folder, and placed it on the table.

“If I do it,” she said, “it won’t be for you. Not for politics. Not for revenge.”

She looked up, her gaze fixed.

“It will be because someone needs to end this. And because… I’m tired of being shielded from the truth.”

Elizabeth stared at her for long seconds.

Then nodded.

“Good answer.”

Morgana exhaled slowly.

“But there are conditions.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

“Naturally.”

“First,” Morgana pointed at Damon. “He’s not a disposable piece. Not bait. Not an ’acceptable’ variable.”

Damon’s eyes widened.

“Morgana—”

“Be quiet,” she cut him off, without looking at him. “You’ve already tried to die today.”

Elizabeth analyzed the scene with a curious glint in her eye.

“I agree,” she said. “Damon is too expensive an investment to waste.”

“Second,” Morgana continued, “if I find out you’ve omitted something as big as this…” she lightly tapped the folder “…I won’t be on your side.”

Elizabeth smiled, satisfied.

“Fair enough.”

Morgana hesitated for one last moment.

Then she extended her hand.

“Show me everything.”

Elizabeth shook her hand.

The handshake was firm.

Definitive.

“Then,” said Elizabeth, “welcome to the real game.”

Damon watched the two of them, his heart racing.

He had the strange feeling that, at that moment, something much bigger than all of them had just changed direction.

And, for the first time since leaving Arven…

He wasn’t running.

Elizabeth let go of Morgana’s hand and, with the same naturalness with which one ends a trivial meeting, sat back down in the armchair.

“Very well,” she said, her voice returning to its usual controlled tone. “I’ll deal with some… pending matters now.”

She glanced quickly at Damon, assessing him from head to toe.

“You,” she pointed with her chin, “can still walk without falling flat on your face?”

Damon blinked, surprised by the abrupt change of subject.

“I can,” she replied, straightening her back slightly, despite the throbbing pain. “I think.”

“Great.” Elizabeth turned her face to Morgana. “Then he’ll show you the mansion. Consider this… minimal hospitality.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow.

“You’re handing me over to him like this, without an escort?”

Elizabeth smiled slightly.

“If anyone tries anything under this roof without my permission, they won’t make it to the gate alive. Besides…” her gaze sharpened for a second, “…you two have too much unfinished business to try and kill each other again so soon.”

Damon cleared his throat.

“I promise to keep my head,” he said, somewhat awkwardly.

“Do that,” Elizabeth replied. “I’ll be back later. Don’t do anything that will force me to reorganize the medical wing.”

She stood up and walked toward the side exit of the room. Before leaving, she paused for a moment.

“Morgana,” she called, without turning around. “Think calmly. What you saw today doesn’t disappear. Not even inside you.”

Morgana nodded slowly.

The door closed behind Elizabeth with a soft… and final click.

The silence that followed was different from the previous one. Less oppressive. More strange.

Damon was the first to move. He stood carefully, making an involuntary grimace as his abdomen protested.

“So…” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Guided tour. Not exactly how I imagined our reunion.”

Morgana let out a short, tired laugh.

“Neither did I.” She stood too, smoothing her clothes with an automatic gesture. “You’ve always had a talent for absurd situations.”

“It’s a gift,” he replied. “Unfortunately, a recurring one.”

They walked together to the main hallway. The light stone floor reflected the light streaming through the tall windows, and the sound of footsteps echoed softly.

“The mansion is bigger than it looks from the outside,” Damon began, pointing ahead. “The west wing is administrative. Map room, archives, some strategy rooms. It’s not the most… cozy part.”

“I imagine,” Morgana replied, observing everything attentively. “Elizabeth doesn’t seem like the type of person who wastes space on useless decoration.”

“Definitely not.” He hesitated for a second. “The east wing is where the bedrooms are. Guests, apprentices, people important enough not to sleep in tents.”

“And you?” she asked, giving him a sideways glance. “Where do you sleep?”

“Second corridor on the right, on the second floor.” He pointed. “Nothing luxurious. But it’s quiet.”

Morgana nodded, absorbing every detail.

“You seem… different,” she commented suddenly. “Not just physically.”

Damon thought for a moment before replying.

“Here, nobody expects me to be anything specific,” he said. “Not a hero, not a political pawn. Just… useful. And alive.”

She remained silent for a few steps.

“I envy that,” she finally admitted.

They reached an inner courtyard where a small fountain murmured softly. The sound of the water broke the remaining tension.

“If you like,” Damon said, “we can start here. It’s where the staff usually relax when they’re not training or plotting.”

Morgana almost smiled.

“Sounds appropriate.”

They stood side by side for a moment, watching the water cascade.

Nothing was said.

But, for the first time since Morgana had crossed the gates of Wykes Manor, there were no blades between them.

Only questions.

…

Far from Wykes Manor.

The atmosphere was stifling, lit only by oil lamps attached to the jagged stone walls. The smell was heavy—old blood, sweat, rusted metal, and something else… something that didn’t entirely belong to the human world.

It was the old prison.

Broken chains hung from the ceiling and walls, some still marked by partially faded demonic restraint symbols. On the floor, marks of struggle: deep scratches, dark, dried stains, pieces of splintered wood, and a completely twisted iron latch.

A troop of assassins spread across the place with professional precision.

None of them spoke loudly. None made unnecessary movements.

They wore dark clothes, layers of supple leather and fabrics treated to be noiseless. The masks varied—some plain, others with runes engraved on them—but all concealed expressions, leaving only attentive and cold eyes visible.

In the center of the space, a man remained crouched.

He was… different. While the other assassins had tense, combat-ready postures, this one seemed too relaxed. His dark hair was carelessly tied back, and his eyes—a dull red—analyzed the surroundings with an almost academic interest.

He touched the ground with two fingers.

He closed his eyes.

He inhaled slowly.

The air around him seemed… to react.

“Hm…” he murmured, rising with a slow sigh. “Just as I thought.”

One of the assassins approached, his voice muffled by the mask.

“Did you find anything?”

The strange man ran his fingers along the broken chain, as if reading an invisible story.

“It wasn’t ordinary brute force,” he replied. “The restraints were neutralized by energy interference, not by attrition.”

He turned, his red eyes gleaming faintly in the flashlight.

“And there’s demonic residue here.”

The assassins exchanged silent glances.

“Succubi leave trails,” said another. “That’s no surprise.”

The man shook his head slowly.

“No.” He bent down again, touching a broken rune on the wall. “This isn’t a succubus’s signature.”

He closed his eyes again, as if “hearing” something the others couldn’t.

“It’s more… structured. More focused.” A crooked smile appeared on his lips. “Less instinctive.”

He opened his eyes.

“It’s an incubus.”

A heavy silence fell.

“An… what?” someone asked, incredulous.

“Incubus,” he repeated calmly. “Compatible demonic energy, but inverted in intention. High cognitive control. Low dispersion. Not a wild demon.”

He stood up completely now, wiping his fingers on his clothes.

“Someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.”

“Incubi are rare ” retorted another assassin. “And almost always linked to demonic nobles. What would one of them be doing meddling in the human black market?”

The strange man shrugged.

“Maybe he didn’t know what he was getting into.” He walked to one of the broken chains and lifted it slightly. “Or maybe he did… and still decided to act.”

He pointed to the ground.

“The succubus wasn’t forcibly extracted. There was no mental breakdown, no violent rupture of the containment link.” He smiled, almost admiringly. “She trusted him.”

That sentence made several of the assassins shift uncomfortably.

“So it wasn’t a common extraction” said the group leader, finally speaking. “It was an escape.”

“Exactly.” The strange man tilted his head. “Planned, quick, too clean to be improvised.”

He walked slowly through the place, like a predator sniffing out another’s territory.

“He came in here knowing he was at a disadvantage. He used intelligence, not force. He neutralized systems, freed the target, and left without causing a massacre…” he chuckled softly. “That’s irritating.”

“Why?” one of the assassins asked.

The man stopped and turned his face, his red eyes gleaming brighter.

“Because it means he’s not an amateur.” He paused. “And he’s not alone now.”

“You mean he’s protecting the succubus?” the leader questioned.

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. “And he’s probably already formed a psychological bond with her.”

He crossed his arms.

“Which makes recovery… complicated.”

The leader took a deep breath.

“The black market doesn’t like to lose assets.”

“I know,” the strange man replied with a cold smile. “That’s why you called me.”

He turned toward the exit.

“Gather everything you can about recent incubus movements outside the demonic realms.” His eyes gleamed. “Especially those who don’t like to be found.”

“And when we find them?”

He stopped at the door.

“Don’t underestimate them,” he said calmly. “If he was able to enter here and leave unharmed… then, when we find him, he’ll already be waiting.”

They didn’t even know that the incubus… actually had nothing to do with the demonic realm; in fact… this incubus only follows the orders of a countess.

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