Chapter 73: Papa’s Sword, My Rage

Chapter 73: Papa’s Sword, My Rage [Lavinia’s Pov] I stared. I didn’t blink. I couldn’t. My papa’s hands—those warm, gentle hands that always lifted me high in the air, tucked me into bed, and brushed my hair—were red. So, so red. The color dripped from his fingers and splashed onto the cold white floor like spilled paint. Except this wasn’t paint. I knew that. My breath hitched. My heart felt like it had slipped and fallen down a long, cold staircase inside my chest. And before I could stop myself, my feet dashed forward on their own. "Papa...!" I cried out, voice shaking, tears clinging to the corners of my eyes. His head turned sharply. Our eyes met. And for a second—just a second—I saw something flicker across Papa’s face. Shock? Fear? ...No, not fear. He never looked afraid. He looked like... like he didn’t know how I got there. "Lavinia?" he said my name, but it didn’t sound like him. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t teasing. It was low. Heavy. Cold. Like a door creaking open in the dark. I didn’t notice who was around him. I didn’t care. The whole room blurred like spilled ink on parchment. All I could see was him—his face, his hands, that awful red. I grabbed his hand with both of mine, trembling and hiccuping, and said, "Papa... does it hurt? Hic... There’s so much blood... so much..." He looked at me then. Really looked. He blinked like he was coming back from somewhere far away and sighed, the kind of sigh that makes your shoulders drop. "Lavinia... why are you here?" I didn’t answer. I just sniffled harder and held tighter. "Why are you bleeding?" I cried. "Why is there so much blood, Papa? Did someone hurt you? I’ll punch them! I’ll kick them in the knee! Who did it?!" His lips twitched just a little, and his eyes softened the tiniest bit. "...It’s not my blood," he said gently. I blinked. "Huh?" He raised his hands, still glistening red. Someone—one of the silent knights—stepped in with a cloth and began to carefully wipe them clean. Papa waited, then turned his palms to me. "See?" he said calmly. "It’s not mine." I stared at his now-clean hands for a moment... then let out the biggest, loudest sigh of relief my tiny lungs could manage. "Oh! Thank goodness!" I said, wiping my own face with the back of my sleeve. "So Papa’s fine!" There was a sudden gasp from around the room. Wait... what? I blinked and looked around for the first time. Oh. There were nobles everywhere. Lots of them. Theon and Grandpa Gregor stood near the throne, lips pursed, clearly trying not to laugh. Grand Duke Regis raised an eyebrow in amusement. And Grandpa Thalein—dear, silly Grandpa Thalein—was waving both arms at me like I was a celebrity arriving at a parade. I tilted my head and waved back, sniffling. That’s when I noticed... a man kneeling in front of Papa, pale and trembling. His belly poked out a little over his waistband, and he was holding his left wrist with his right hand, blood dripping from his sleeve like a leaky faucet. It looked like someone had taken one clean swing at his arm. I turned to Papa again, eyes wide. "Wait... that’s where the blood came from?" He nodded. I looked at the bleeding man. Then back at Papa. Then back at the man again. "Ohhh..." I said, nodding slowly like a wise old scholar, my finger tapping my chin. "So you swing your sword again?" Gasps. Again. Honestly, these nobles really needed to get out more. Why do they keep gasping? I continued seriously, pointing a small, accusing finger at the kneeling, trembling man with a belly so round it looked like he ate a whole melon. "Is that man a bad guy?" Papa nodded, expression calm. "He’s the one who tried to kidnap you." My eyes widened. And then narrowed. A slow, fiery rage bloomed in my chest like a spark on dry parchment. So this... this was the bastard who tried to snatch me on my birthday? I glared at him with all the fury a four-year-old could summon—which, frankly, is a terrifying amount. My fists clenched. My nose scrunched. I practically vibrated with righteous fury. The man whimpered. Just as I was imagining throwing a cookie at his eye, flick!Papa’s finger tapped my forehead. "Ow!" I groaned, clutching my head dramatically. "Why! Papa, why did you flick my brain? It hurts!" He gave me the unimpressed look he always used when I’d done something dumb, like try to eat glue or use my hairbrush as a fork. Then, Tyrant Emperor Father Mode: ActivatedTM. "Why are you here?" he demanded, voice sharp and low. "I gave Ravick explicit orders not to let you out of the nursery." I blinked up at him, completely unbothered. Then I glanced away, avoiding his eyes. No way was I going to admit I ninja-ran out of the nursery. "I... I missed Papa," I said, all soft and innocent. He frowned. "That doesn’t mean you should be here. This isn’t something you should be seeing." I squinted at him, baffled. Spoken by a man who took his daughter to the execution grounds when I was three months old and rolled someone’s head like a meatball in front of me almost many times. "Papa..." I began slowly, as if explaining something painfully obvious, "it’s not my first time. I’ve seen you kill people." More gasps. I swear, if someone gasped one more time, I’d hand out paper bags for them to breathe into. The way they kept gasping, you’d think this was the first time they’d heard the rumors. Did they not know the Emperor took his three-month-old to an execution ground? Papa let out another sigh—that long, tired sigh of a father wondering where exactly he went wrong. Still, he scooped me into his arms like I was something precious and breakable. "That doesn’t mean you treat this like your daily schedule," he muttered. I stared intently at a crack in the marble floor, trying not to smile. "I was bored..." I whispered, pouting with full dramatic flair. "Life is boring without Papa." He looked down at me, completely deadpan. "You’re four years old." "Still." Another pause. Another sigh. Then, with the care of someone disarming a ticking bomb, he gently set me back on the ground. "Go to your Grandpa Thalein," he said. "I’ll finish this." I gave a firm, serious nod—chin up, back straight—like a soldier reporting to her commanding officer. "Okay." Right on cue, Grandpa Thalein. He was wearing a robe far too flamboyant for the situation, complete with sparkles that caught the blood-stained light—dropped to one knee with open arms. "Come to me, my precious sunshine pudding drop!" I ran toward him at full speed. "Grandpaaa!" I squealed. He scooped me up like a swooping hawk catching a giggling mouse. "Oh, my cheeky-bee boo! My little red-eyed menace! I missed you so much!" "I missed you too, Grandpa!" I giggled, letting him twirl me in the air like the whole room wasn’t currently soaked in blood and tension. Then—finally—Papa turned his attention back to the man still kneeling before him. "Then..." Papa began, his voice curling like smoke, dangerous and slow. "...shall we continue, Baron Mortellius Vaun?" That fat-bellied toad of a man was clutching his bleeding arm and trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. His face was pale. His eyes were locked onto Papa like he was staring down the Reaper himself. Smart. Because he was. "Your Majesty, please..." the baron wheezed, bowing so low his jowls nearly touched the blood-slick floor. "It was a misunderstanding! I swear, I never meant to harm the princess!" Papa’s voice dropped low—cold, sharp, and precise. Sharp enough to cut bone. "You hired mercenaries to abduct my daughter." "I-I didn’t know it would go so far!" Baron Vaun stammered, shaking like a pudding in a storm. "I was drunk—no, deceived! I was deceived, Your Majesty! I never meant—" Papa took one step forward.Just one. And the baron nearly hiccuped, like a child on the verge of sobbing. Then Papa continued, almost conversational, "I heard you called my daughter cunning. A taint to the throne." What!That bastard. How dare he. My little fist clenched in Grandpa Thalein’s arms. If I had fire magic, this floor would already be lava. The baron’s panic grew. "No... I never... I never did... I never said such a thing—" "Regis," Papa called, sharp and simple. Grand Duke Regis stepped forward like he was walking into a theater, casual and bored, and unfurled a parchment with the flourish of a man announcing a royal performance. He began to read aloud: "The child born under the Blood Moon bears not only imperial blood but also the taint of the forest. Elven blood—cunning and cold. The Empire, forged by the gods of war and order, cannot bend to ancient, selfish magic. Should such a creature claim the throne, divine favor shall fracture. The line will break. And ruin shall follow." ... The audacity. The absolute nerve. Baron Vaun slammed his head to the floor. "I was a fool, Your Majesty! I was a fool... please forgive me... please..." Papa moved forward. Sword in hand. Silent. Then—slash—The baron screamed, collapsing to the ground, clutching the stump where his other hand used to be. "Mercy, Your Majesty! I beg of you—mercy! Spare me! I have sons, daughters—!" "So do I," Papa said. "Just one, actually. And I was going to skin you alive for even thinking about harming her." Papa raised his sword again, poised to swing— But then the baron’s wide, bloodshot eyes turned to me. "Princess..." he gasped. "Please... have mercy on me. I have kids to take care of... please..." What.Why is he begging me? Seriously, why do all these traitors commit treason and then turn to me with those pitiful eyes like I’m their last hope? Do they think I’m a nice person or something? (Which I am—but only to people who are actually nice.) Papa paused. His cold gaze slid sideways to me. "Do you want to forgive him?" he asked. ...I blinked. Wait.What? Why was I being asked this? Is Papa Crazy?