The sound of glass breaking and screams from the ballroom barely had time to sink in before Cherion and Zarius rushed back inside. The refreshing cold breeze was quickly replaced by the suffocating atmosphere of panic, the sharp smell of ozone, and the unmistakable scent of blood.

Cherion’s eyes widened as he scanned the frantic room. The once-glittering, orderly crowd of nobles had completely fractured, violently parting in a frantic wave of mass panic away from that specific spot near the refreshment tables. High-society etiquette vanished in a heartbeat as aristocrats scrambled backward, shoving past one another to distance themselves from the horrific sight. The air instantly filled with a chaotic din of sharp, terrified gasps and frantic, overlapping whispers.

Gillian was already on his knees, his face twisted into a mask of pure terror. He didn’t waste a single second demanding explanations from the capital guards or waiting for a royal physician to navigate the panicked crowd. Recognizing the immediate danger his sister was in, Gillian scooped Iryna’s convulsing body directly into his arms.

"Out of my way!" Gillian roared, his voice booming with absolute fury and desperation as he kicked a piece of debris aside. "Clear a path! Physicians, come with me immediately!"

With a tight, protective grip on his bleeding sister, the Solaric prince rushed out of the ballroom through a side exit, followed by his royal guards who had their swords drawn, completely distrusting anyone from Auzelian.

The moment the doors slammed shut behind the Solaric delegation, the ballroom erupted into total, unhinged chaos. The imperial guards immediately swarmed the perimeters, locking down the main exits, but their presence did nothing to quiet the panicked aristocrats.

"Is she poisoned? Was it an assassination attempt?" a countess shrieked, clutching her pearls as she retreated toward the wall.

"Who could have possibly poisoned a visiting royal right under the Emperor’s nose?" a baron whispered frantically to his companion, his eyes darting around the room in paranoia. "Are we even safe here? What if the tables are entirely tainted?"

"Wait... look over there," a sharp-eyed marquis muttered, pointing a trembling finger toward the Northern table. "Wasn’t Lord Cherion lingering right by their circle just moments ago? The way he threw that tantrum earlier with the fruit juice... you don’t think he went a step further to ruin the alliance entirely, do you? You know how volatile the North can be."

"Hush! Speak softly! The Duke is right there!"

The rumors were spreading like wildfire, a cloud of suspicion rapidly filling the room.

Hearing the accusations, Zarius’s jaw tightened, and a terrifyingly cold, oppressive aura instantly flared from his massive frame. His sharp red eyes snapped toward the whispering nobles, a low, lethal glare locking onto them that promised swift, violent retribution for daring to slander his partner. The gossiping nobles instantly choked on their words, pale with fear as they scrambled backward to escape the Duke’s wrath.

Before the tension could boil over into bloodshed, Cherion stepped closer and gently placed a hand on Zarius’s rigid arm. He gave a soft, reassuring squeeze, wordlessly signaling the older werewolf to stand down and keep his composure. Sensing the familiar touch, the suffocating pressure radiating from Zarius slowly receded, though his gaze remained fiercely protective as he kept his body positioned like a shield in front of Cherion.

Cherion ignored the burning glares and the mounting whispers of the court. His sharp eyes immediately locked onto Marielle, who was standing frozen in the center of the cleared space. She looked like a ghost, her face entirely drained of color, her hands literally trembling and stained with the dark crimson blood of the princess.

Zarius moved first, his massive frame cutting through the lingering crowd like a razor through silk, with Cherion following a half-step behind. The moment they reached her, Marielle’s eyes welled with shock.

"I... I don’t understand," Marielle choked out, her voice cracking with pure shock as she held up her blood-stained hands toward Cherion. "We were just talking... we were just laughing! She was perfectly fine. We were just drinking the Solaric wine together. She... she just clutched her chest. I thought she was just choking, Cherion! I truly thought she just swallowed it wrong, so I tapped her back, but then... but then all this blood..."

"Marielle, breathe. Take a deep breath," Cherion urged, keeping his voice calm even as his mind raced through a thousand possibilities at once. He looked down at the floor. Amidst the shattered crystal, the deep red Solaric wine had pooled heavily on the floor, mixing with Iryna’s blood.

Zarius subtly leaned down, his sharp werewolf nose twitching as he sniffed the spilled liquid and the ambient air around the table. He straightened back up almost immediately, his jaw tightening as he caught Cherion’s eye and gave a subtle shake of his head.

Cherion barely had time to gather his thoughts before the sound of heavy footsteps came from behind.

Yerel strode forward, his face carefully molded into an expression of severe outrage, followed by a dozen high-ranking imperial guards. And standing right beside him, looking pale, fragile, and deeply shaken, was Philia.

The whispers in the ballroom instantly died down to a suffocating silence as the crowd turned to see how the imperial heir would handle the situation.

Philia stepped forward, his eyes widening in a display of profound, cinematic horror as he looked at Marielle’s bloody hands, and then slowly raised his gaze to lock directly onto Cherion. He trembled slightly, placing a delicate hand over his mouth as if he were trying to suppress his own grief and terror.

"Oh, heavens..." Philia murmured, his voice loud enough to carry perfectly across the silent, listening ballroom. "How could such a terrible thing have happened?"

Yerel stopped just at the edge of the blood-stained marble, his sharp gaze sweeping over the shattered glass before landing heavily on the captain of the guard. "Seal every exit immediately," Yerel commanded, his voice ringing with cold, absolute authority. "No one leaves this ballroom. Not a single noble, servant, or foreign guest steps a foot outside until we find out exactly what caused this nightmare."

"Right away, Your Highness!" the captain barked, signaling his men to form a solid wall of iron armor in front of the grand doors.

Cherion stood his ground, his face settling into a cold mask. He kept his eyes locked on Philia.

Slowly, Cherion lifted his chin, preparing to meet a smug, victorious, hidden glint of triumph in the mastermind’s eyes.

Philia was staring back at him. But there was no hidden malice in his eyes. There was no secret triumph, no smugness, and no calculated arrogance.

Philia’s eyes remained completely still. They revealed nothing as he silently stared at the Northern intern across the pool of blood.