The Demon Queen's Royal Consort
Chapter 151 - Calm Days - VI

Chapter 151: Chapter 151 - Calm Days - VI

Glenn stepped into the ground floor of the royal consort’s pavilion, where the air always felt lighter, the halls wider, and life just a little calmer. Especially because there were no passersby in that place only him, his masters, and the maids. It was an area he’d never have the courage to admit he missed but he did.

Especially one place in particular: the dining hall.

The smell that filled his nostrils as soon as he crossed the entry arch made his soul smile. After days of bland soups and tasteless mush during recovery, the scent of roasted meat with herbs and spices was almost like hearing a gourmet symphony played just for him.

But it wasn’t the fragrance of the feast that truly caught his attention.

In the distance, slumped like an elegant rag over a wide chair, was his master, Elian.

The man was the embodiment of contrast: firm brown skin, straight black hair slicked back with near-artistic precision, like he had just walked off a runway or a battlefield. His muscular frame, the kind that looked hand-sculpted by a Classic Physique-obsessed artisan, filled the chair like a king without a throne. A thick, meticulously groomed beard couldn’t hide the weariness in his half-closed eyes. The black mourning garments he wore—fine and luxurious—carried the weight of a recently concluded funeral rite.

Glenn blinked.

"Master Elian?"

The name came out with enthusiasm, mixed with a hint of relief—as if seeing his magic master again was a sign that, finally, things might start returning to normal.

But the response was far less warm.

Elian raised a hand slow and heavy, like every movement demanded more energy than he was willing to give at the moment.

"Lower your tone, kid... My head’s pounding like I headbutted a star."

Glenn gave a slight smile, but it quickly faded when he noticed the genuine exhaustion behind the words. Something was wrong with Elian. Very wrong.

Glenn pulled the nearest chair with a bit of exaggerated scraping, just to be annoying.

"Since when did you become a religious leader, strutting around in those clothes, Master? You’re just missing a censer and a procession."

Elian let out an indecipherable sound part mumble, part groan burying his face in his hands.

"Ngmm... self-inflicted suffering cult, maybe..."

Glenn raised an eyebrow, amused.

"Who forced you to wear that starched silk armor? What happened? Lose a bet to Selene or finally decided to take life seriously?"

Only then did Elian seem to snap out of his trance. He straightened, took a deep breath, and looked Glenn up and down like someone assessing a soldier back from war and in many ways, that’s exactly what he was. _{free\we\bnov(e)(l).com}

"It’s good to see you back, little freak."

Glenn gave a genuine smile, replying simply:

"It’s good to be back, Master."

Elian slowly rotated his neck, joints cracking with fatigue, then concluded with the sobriety the moment demanded:

"Unfortunately, I had to attend the worst kind of formal event this miserable world has to offer."

Glenn tilted his head slightly, confused.

"You went to some religious service? Because honestly, you look like you just walked out of a royal mass."

Elian scoffed bitterly.

"Something like that... but nothing festive. I just returned from the funeral of the High Lord of the Mountain’s son."

Glenn’s smile vanished. It took him a few seconds to process the information.

"The dwarves’ leader?"

Elian nodded with dry exhaustion, his eyes heavy once more.

"Yeah. And things aren’t good over there."

Glenn frowned, crossing his arms on the table.

"But what exactly happened? And why did you have to go? No offense, Master, but of all the people I could imagine at a royal funeral, you’d be the last."

Elian let out a deep sigh the kind from someone who would rather have been asleep for three days than retelling what he knew. But before he could open his mouth, soft footsteps echoed through the hall.

Hera entered with her usual grace, balancing a fine tray. She set down in front of Elian a finely crafted glass containing a vivid brown liquor with a sweet, floral aroma that filled the air.

"Amber flower and winter root liqueur," she said with a smile. "To calm your nerves, Master Elian."

Elian simply inhaled the scent deeply and raised the glass in a silent toast before taking a small sip and savoring it like it was the only relief in the world.

For Glenn, she brought a cup of herbal tea and some warm butter cookies. Glenn nodded in thanks, his eyes following Hera’s hips as she walked away. Elian, with a subtle tilt of the head, signaled she could leave them alone. Hera understood without a word and exited silently.

They both took a few seconds to enjoy their drinks.

Then Elian, still staring into his glass, finally spoke:

"You’re right. I definitely shouldn’t have been the one sent to that grim event."

He swirled the drink slightly, the dining room’s light dancing across the golden reflections of the liquor.

"But, like nearly everything in this empire, decisions are made by free and spontaneous... pressure."

Glenn raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Elian continued:

"There’s a long story between me and the High Lord’s family. Something that dates back to when I still cared about the world’s formalities... before I became the type of person who naps during training and scares young apprentices with lightning bolts at breakfast."

He shot Glenn a sideways glance, who gave an awkward chuckle.

"The truth is, I owed an old favor. And when the heir died, someone up high decided my presence would be... symbolic."

Elian set down the glass and rested his arms on the table, his tone growing more serious.

Glenn gently gripped the teacup, feeling the warmth seep through the porcelain as if his entire body were trying to wake up again. The atmosphere, once light, now felt heavier. Elian’s words hung in the air like thunder on the verge of breaking.

"I... don’t understand," Glenn murmured, furrowing his brow. "Why should his son’s death concern me?"

Elian sighed deeply, but this time not from fatigue there was something darker in it now, like old grief mixed with frustration.

"Because he died the same way it almost happened to you and your group." The mage’s eyes locked onto Glenn’s—intense, humorless. "Because of a dungeon."

Glenn felt his stomach drop. The very mention of the word was enough to reopen wounds that had barely begun to heal. A bitter taste filled his mouth. The images came unbidden.

Dália motionless. Aeloria mutilated. Dórian poisoned to the soul. Seraphine on her knees.

Silence. The sound of the teacup touching the table echoed like a distant bell.

"These things are spiraling out of control, Glenn," Elian continued, now straightening in his chair. His once slouched posture now carried rare authority. For a moment, he ceased being just the eccentric master he became the war mage feared on the battlefield.

"What happened to you wasn’t random. I know your mind’s been twisting itself these days, wondering why. Why you were thrown into a dungeon with no protocols. Why no one showed up. Why, even afterward, everything stayed silent.

Glenn swallowed hard, trying to respond, but no words came out. He was listening to what his intuition had been screaming since the moment he opened his eyes in that medical wing.

"You want the truth, don’t you?" Elian said, almost like a provocation.

"Then listen closely: something’s wrong with the dungeons. Something that even the major exploration organizations are trying to hide. And those who tried to investigate... ended up like the dwarven heir."

He leaned forward.

Glenn felt his throat dry up again, as if the cup of tea he drank minutes ago had never existed. He swallowed, trying to digest not just the words but the weight behind them. Elian—his usually careless and sarcastic mentor didn’t seem like himself. There was too much tension in his face, his hands, his voice—a heaviness Glenn had only seen a few times before.

Elian continued, his voice firm like hammered iron:

"You’ve been wondering, haven’t you? Why Selene didn’t visit. Why Lesley, your master, never showed up. Why I myself wasn’t there, holding your hand or scratching your balls while you lay unconscious."

Glenn lowered his gaze, as if the answer were hidden somewhere in the wood grain of the table.

"It’s because we’re busy, Glenn." The pause that followed was like a sharp blade. "Busy dealing with a cursed virus spreading like a silent plague."

Glenn’s eyes slowly widened.

"The Broken Rose Society," Elian said, spitting the name like poison. "At least, that’s what they apparently call themselves. The same organization that tried to assassinate Vex Miracle Claws and Athena Varen at your introduction banquet. The same one that, according to the most reliable rumors, is involved with arcane rituals, dungeon corruption, and the manipulation of artifacts no one understands."

He dropped the cup. The dull thud against the table made Glenn flinch.

"They’re behind what happened to you. I can’t prove it with the level of certainty I want, but..." Elian clenched his fists. "None of this is a coincidence. None of it."

Glenn looked up slowly, absorbing everything with a growing knot in his chest. It was as if all the disconnected pieces were finally starting to fall into place but the picture they formed was even more terrifying than the emptiness that came before.