Chapter 72: Chapter 71. Power Shifted
Royal Palace of the Erengard Empire
The ripple of Roxanne’s power spread through the air like a shockwave, sharp and undeniable. Dietrich felt it deep in his bones, a pulse that made his jaw tighten and his breath catch. It was pure, untamed, and far stronger than anything he had ever sensed before. In that instant, he knew there’s no way he could match that power.
"That damn mixed blood," he growled, pushing himself out of bed.
Liselotte stirred faintly behind him, still asleep, her bare skin half-covered by the sheets he left rumpled in his wake. "Too early in the morning for this nonsense," he muttered, dragging on his robe.
He yanked the door open and stormed out, not bothering to close it. A startled maid rushed in behind him, quickly shutting the door when she saw the empress consort still lying unclothed on the bed.
Dietrich’s footsteps echoed down the marble corridor, heavy and unsteady. The air itself seemed to vibrate with Roxanne’s energy, a living hum that crawled beneath his skin. If he could feel it this strongly, then surely everyone in the empire could too. The realization filled him with fury and something dangerously close to fear.
"She can’t do this in my empire!" he hissed through clenched teeth, breaking into a run toward the council chambers. He needed the chancellor. Now.
Because what Roxanne had done was more than a burst of power, she also did some kind of declaration. Not just a cry of joy, but a warning to all who could feel it. That there’s another alpha rising within his realm. One stronger. One who might soon challenge the throne itself.
Gerhard arrived at the palace in a rush, his steps uneven on the polished floor. The bruises on his face were still dark, and his head throbbed from the blows he had taken the night before in his fight with Viscount Wyndham. His collar was crooked, and a faint smear of dried blood still marked the edge of his jaw.
Dietrich barely looked up when Gerhard entered the room. His cold eyes swept over him once before turning back to the documents on his desk. Not a word of concern, not even a question. "I need you to deal with Roxanne," Dietrich said flatly, as if speaking about a mere nuisance. "You can feel her power, can’t you?"
At that moment, something in Gerhard hardened. He had known for some time that loyalty to Dietrich de Erengard was a mistake, but now, he understood it beyond doubt. A leader who couldn’t spare even a glance of concern for his own wounded subordinate isn’t a leader worth following.
He thought of the night before. After his formality fight with Anton Wyndham, he had received an unexpected package, a dozen bottles of high-quality herbal tonic for his recovery, and a set of wound ointments that smelled faintly of mint and herbs. The Grand Duke had sent them, with his aide Red delivering the box in silence. A small gesture, but one that spoke of respect. Of care.
The plan to capture the viscount and his wife would begin tomorrow night. Everything was already in motion. Red didn’t say anything after giving him the package, quickly leaving the chancellor’s estate in the capital and disappearing into the night.
Gerhard stood tall, despite the ache in his body. "Your Majesty," he said evenly, his voice calm but resolute, "I resign from my position as Chancellor, effective immediately."
Dietrich finally looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes. "I’ll return to the South," Gerhard continued, "and take up my true duty as the Duke of Eisenwald." Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out, each step echoing with the weight of his decision.
The emperor’s reaction is exactly like how Gerhard expects him to be: sudden, vast, and impossible to ignore. For a moment the chamber held its breath, the hearth’s flames guttering as if even the fire feared to draw attention.
Then the emperor stood up from his chair almost immediately, chest rising in anger as he walked fast to close the distance between them in three long strides. Every servant who had dared to linger at the doorway seemed to shrink back into shadow as the air around their emperor and the chancellor suddenly darkened.
Gerhard knew in his bones he couldn’t win against Dietrich; the man is the emperor, the alpha born of a bloodline that had worn power for generations, and his strength towered over every other alpha in the empire. He had felt that strength before, the easy, cold certainty that came with a royal scent and a voice that could bend men’s wills, and now it pressed against him like a physical force.
"You resign," he repeated, his voice low and measured in a way that made the words land like iron, "and you expect me to allow it." The question is rhetorical; all the room knew the answer already. Dietrich’s eyes burned with a slow fury that made Gerhard feel every bruise in his body anew, as if the emperor’s gaze alone could reopen old wounds.
Dietrich’s mouth curved into a smile without warmth, a thin thing that showed his teeth. "You will not leave," he said, and the sentence is shaped more like a verdict than a plea, "not while I draw breath and wear this crown."
He then circled Gerhard with his hands clasped behind his back as if he already planned what punishment would befit such treachery. "You forget, Duke, that I built the world you claim to return to. Every road that leads south bears my name in its stones; every lord who will shelter you owes their keep to my coin and my blade."
When Gerhard didn’t flinch, when the duke’s calm refused to crumble, Dietrich’s voice rose until it filled the chamber and seemed to press against the very walls. "Hear me clearly, Eisenwald. I will not tolerate traitors cloaked in titles. You will take your memories of loyalty and burn them over the hearth of your own lands, for I will make your South a lesson." His words fell like hammers on iron: threats not whispered in the dark but declared in daylight so the whole court could carry them like a warning.
He stepped closer still, close enough that Gerhard could smell the faint, cold scent of the emperor’s skin and the harsh tang of power that always clung to him. "If you return to your people," Dietrich said, "you will find their barns emptied, their gates guarded by men who no longer bend the knee, and their fields salted where they once grew grain. I will strip their titles, take their fortresses, hang their banners from the city gates, and make the name ’Eisenwald’ into a story parents tell to frighten disobedient children." The vow is cruel but filled with assurance.
Dietrich’s final words came quieter than his earlier roar, but they cut deeper for it—soft as a blade’s edge. "Go, then," he said, "and let the South learn how quickly I can make a duchy fall when I choose to crush it." He stepped back, letting shadow swallow him as he retreated to the ruined papers on his desk, eyes already cold and busy as he imagined new borders and punished towns, counting the ways he would reshape the map to answer his anger.
Dietrich was unaware, and unable to infer from his intense anger, that the South had already submitted, not to him, but to someone else. They had turned not to the throne of Erengard but to the North, to the single alpha whose strength outshone even the emperor’s, an alpha who would not kneel, who would not bargain.
The South had chosen a new power, along with the people who would never pledge their loyalty to the crown of Erengard. In the space between the emperor’s threat and the South’s surrender, a different war is being written, one Dietrich believed he still held the pen to, though it’s already slipping from his hand.
-
Wyndham Estate
That afternoon, Roxanne walked into the grand hall dressed in her official Borgia military attire. The sharp black and gold uniform makes her look more intimidating. She moved with the confidence of a ruler, not a daughter. When her father, Ashkareth, saw her, his smile widened, not with warmth, but with something close to pride and curiosity.
"I am Roxanne de Borgia," she said, her voice steady and strong. "I challenge you, the Demon King Ashkareth of a demon race, to a duel."
The words fell like thunder. For a moment, silence held the room. Then came the sharp whispers, gasps of disbelief, and the stunned faces of soldiers and servants alike. No one dared to move.
Morwenna and Vivianne, standing at the edge of the room, exchanged no words, no glances. They understood the weight of what had just been said. As omegas, they knew a duel between alphas isn’t just a fight; it’s a declaration of dominance, a test of power that could change the order of their world.
Ashkareth’s grin deepened, revealing the sharp edge of amusement in his eyes. "In the name of the demon race," he said, his voice rumbling with authority and old fire, "I, Ashkareth, accept your challenge."
He stepped forward, the floorboards creaking under the weight of his power, a faint ripple of energy following him like a shadow. Roxanne met his gaze without a trace of fear. "Then let’s go to the training hall," she said.