The morning air was crisp as Roland tugged on the hem of his small coat, standing by the carriage steps with a mix of excitement and unease. Today was different.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, Carmilla had agreed to take him outside the castle. It was a reward for what she called his “week of behaving,” though Roland was sure she just wanted an excuse to watch him squirm under more lessons. Still, he wasn’t going to complain.

  The castle, as grand as it was, felt like a stone cage—its cold hallways, narrow windows, and suffocating silence made him feel trapped. He longed to see something beyond the fortress walls, something vibrant and alive.

  Flora, holding a warm shawl for him, smiled as she adjusted his collar. “There you go, my prince. Don’t slouch—you’ll be representing Inferna today.”

  “I know, I know,” Roland grumbled, though he straightened his posture. He turned to Carmilla, who stood a few steps away, already poised and elegant in a dark dress trimmed with crimson. Her expression was as unreadable as ever.

  Leon, dressed in a simple yet formal uniform, stood by the carriage door. His presence was as sharp as a drawn blade. “Try not to embarrass yourself, Roland,” Leon said with a smirk.

  “I won’t!” Roland shot back, puffing his cheeks in frustration.

  Carmilla stepped into the carriage first, followed by Roland, then Flora and Leon. With a signal, the driver cracked the reins, and the carriage began its slow journey through the capital.

  Roland pressed his face against the window, his breath fogging the glass as he took in the view. The capital was bustling—merchants shouting their wares, children chasing each other along the cobblestone streets, and carts filled with goods rattling along. For a moment, it felt almost… normal.

  Then the people saw the royal crest on the carriage.

  The chatter died.

  Merchants stopped mid-sentence, bowing deeply as the carriage passed. Parents pulled their children close, whispering hurried warnings. Even the dogs in the street seemed to shrink back.

  Roland’s excitement faltered. “Why is everyone so… scared?” he asked softly.

  Carmilla didn’t even glance outside. “They’re not scared. They’re showing respect.”

  “That’s not respect,” Roland muttered, watching as a young man dropped a crate in his rush to bow. His hands shook so badly that fruit rolled across the street. Nobody dared to help him while the carriage was in sight.

  Carmilla’s crimson eyes slid toward him, calm and sharp. “Fear and respect are two sides of the same coin. Fear keeps order where kindness fails. That is the law of Inferna.”

  Roland frowned but stayed quiet.

  Flora, sitting beside him, noticed his troubled expression and gave his arm a reassuring pat. “Don’t think too hard about it, my prince. The people admire you more than you think.”

  Roland wasn’t so sure.

  ***

  The carriage finally stopped in front of a tall, elegant building with polished wooden walls and gold-framed windows. A crimson banner above the entrance read: "The Scarlet Hearth – Finest Dining in Inferna."

  The owner—a plump man with a slicked-back hairline—hurried outside, practically tripping over himself to bow. His smile was so wide it looked painful.

  “Your Highnesses! A true honor—an absolute privilege! Please, please, come inside. Everything has been prepared for you!”

  Roland raised an eyebrow. Does he always talk like this?

  As they stepped inside, every patron in the restaurant rose silently, bowing low. The chatter and laughter that had filled the place moments ago died like snuffed flames.

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  Roland shifted uncomfortably. This isn’t admiration. This is fear.

  They were seated at the center of the restaurant at the largest, most decorated table. The seat was good, but Roland could feel all the eyes on him—people sneaking glances, whispering behind their hands, their movements stiff and careful.

  The owner handed them the menu with trembling hands. “We have imported delicacies today—white truffle boar, phoenix broth, and celestial wine—”

  “We’ll take flame-roasted lamb and wildroot stew,” Carmilla cut in, not even looking up. Her voice was calm but sharp, enough to silence the man immediately.

  “O-Of course, your highness! A most excellent choice!” The man bowed so low Roland thought his back might snap.

  Roland leaned toward Carmilla and whispered, “Do they always act like this? It’s… creepy.”

  Carmilla’s crimson gaze didn’t waver. “They know their place. You should remember yours.”

  The food arrived shortly after, carried by a young waitress whose hands shook as she set the dishes down. Her face was pale, her movements rigid. Roland noticed her nervousness but smiled politely, trying to put her at ease.

  Then it happened.

  The waitress’s grip slipped.

  Splash!

  Hot soup spilled onto Roland’s sleeve. He yelped in surprise, jerking his arm back. The girl dropped to her knees, her face white as chalk.

  “I-I’m so sorry, your highness! Please forgive me!”

  Roland waved his hand dismissively. “It’s fine! I’m not burned or anything—”

  “Death.”

  Carmilla’s voice cut through the restaurant like a blade drawn in silence.

  Everything froze. Even the distant clinking of utensils stopped.

  The waitress went pale, her hands clasped together as she bowed low, forehead nearly touching the floor. Tears streaked her cheeks. “P-Please, mercy! It was an accident!”

  Roland shot up from his seat. “What?! Carmilla, no! You can’t do that! She didn’t mean to—”

  “She disrespected you,” Carmilla said softly, her tone as even as polished glass, yet her words carried the weight of judgment. “Accidents do not absolve failure.”

  “That’s insane! You can’t kill someone over soup!” Roland’s voice cracked, desperation leaking through.

  Carmilla’s gaze shifted to him slowly, her crimson eyes unblinking, fathomless. “And you believe forgiveness has no consequences?” she asked, her voice calm, but each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “No, Roland. Forgiveness breeds weakness. And weakness invites death.”

  Roland clenched his fists. “Then why rule at all if you’re just going to terrify everyone? Aren’t we supposed to protect them?”

  Her silence stretched thin, taut as a bowstring. The entire restaurant seemed to shrink around them. Carmilla set her utensils down with deliberate grace, resting her chin against her interlaced fingers.

  When she spoke again, her voice was still quiet—but there was poison underneath, tightly coiled and contained.

  “Protect them?” She let the words hang in the air, almost mocking. “You are nine years old, Roland. You’ve spent your life coddled by walls, chasing books you barely read, skipping lessons you didn’t bother to learn from. And you think you understand what protection means?”

  Her words stung. Roland flinched but didn’t back down. “Then teach me. Don’t make me someone who punishes innocent people just to look strong!”

  Her crimson eyes locked onto his, cold and endless. For a moment, neither moved, neither blinked. The tension pressed into his chest like a weight, stealing his breath.

  Flora’s hands twisted in her lap, but she didn’t dare speak. Leon, leaning lazily against the wall moments ago, now stood perfectly still, watching like a soldier awaiting orders.

  Seconds stretched into eternity. Roland’s gaze wavered first. He hated himself for it.

  Carmilla leaned back slightly, expression unreadable, and exhaled slowly—as though she’d contained her fury long enough. Then, without looking at anyone else, she spoke:

  “…Fine. Not execution. Twenty lashes in the dungeon.”

  She turned to Leon, her voice sharp again, cold as ice. “See to it.”

  Leon bowed his head slightly. “Yes, my lady.”

  The waitress sobbed in relief, bowing low until her forehead touched the ground. Roland’s stomach churned as silence swallowed the room again.

  This wasn’t victory. This was Carmilla letting him see her compromise.

  ***

  The carriage wheels rattled softly over cobblestone, filling the silence Carmilla carried like a shadow. Flora sat stiffly, eyes downcast, while Leon stared out the window, unreadable. Roland hesitated before speaking.

  “Carmilla…” His voice was quiet. “Why do we have to be like this? Why do we have to be so… cruel?”

  Her gaze remained fixed outside the window, watching the gray streets pass by. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft—almost too soft.

  “Cruel?” she repeated, as if tasting the word. A faint, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “That’s what you think this is?”

  Roland frowned but said nothing.

  “We are not simply rulers,” she said, tone steady, but beneath the calm was a coiled venom, restrained only by discipline. “We are Inferna’s strength, its spine, its shadow. We do not get the luxury of mercy, Roland. Mercy invites rebellion. Mercy invites weakness. And weakness invites death—not just for us, but for everyone who depends on us.”

  She finally turned to face him, her crimson gaze sharp enough to cut.

  “You want to protect them? Then learn what it costs. Power does not forgive hesitation. Neither do the dead beyond the Forbidden Lands. If we falter, Roland… Inferna burns first.”

  Roland sat in silence, fists clenched, his stomach heavy. He hated it. Hated her words. Hated how certain she sounded.

  Carmilla leaned back, closing her eyes briefly, her voice softening to something almost weary.

  “Next time,” she said, “you will decide. Do not make me do it for you again.”