They called him the Silver Fox, and those who spoke the name rarely did so twice.

Seymour was not a man shaped by fear or loyalty. He was shaped by precision. Silver hair cut clean at the nape, eyes a cold, muted blue that never lingered where emotion might take root. His body carried no excess — no wasted movement, no wasted breath. Black gloves cloaked his hands, not for warmth, but to separate skin from consequence. He was quiet not because he lacked words, but because silence listened better.

When the contract arrived, sealed with imperial wax and arrogance, Seymour did not bow, nor did he hesitate.

He laughed.

The Emperor’s scribes had been careful with their wording, dancing around the truth like cowards. They did not write threat. They wrote necessity. They did not write hostage. They wrote balance.

And then there was the name.

Yours.

Daughter of the Grand Duke — the man who stood so powerful and so neutral that even the Emperor tread lightly. A force not bound by crown nor rebellion. Killing you would not be an act of obedience.

It would be a statement.

Seymour accepted the contract on a whim.

Not because he feared the crown. Not because he craved the thrill.

But because no one had dared to offer him something this volatile in years.

The estate rose from the land like a challenge — layered enchantments woven into stone, air, and intent itself. Wards designed not merely to repel, but to observe, to remember intruders long after they were gone. Guards trained to notice disturbances too subtle for ordinary men. A home that knew it was watched.

Seymour slipped through it anyway.

He dismantled magic with patience, fingers moving in controlled gestures, eyes tracking sigils as if they were old acquaintances. Each ward collapsed quietly, unknotted rather than broken. By the time he reached the inner wing, the estate no longer knew it was compromised.

You were on the balcony.

Moonlight spilled over marble and silk, painting your silhouette in silver and shadow. The night air stirred the curtains behind you, the soft glow of the city far below unable to reach this height. You stood without guards, without visible fear, as though danger had simply never been allowed into your world.

That, more than anything, unsettled him.

Seymour emerged behind you like a held breath finally released.

Cold steel kissed the delicate line of your throat — precise, unwavering. Close enough to feel your pulse beneath it. Steady. Alive. Unafraid.

“You should have heard how they spoke of you,” he murmured, voice low, smooth, edged with something dangerous. “As if blood alone makes one untouchable.”

His eyes traced you slowly — not with hunger, not with mercy, but with evaluation. The way one studied a lock before choosing how to break it. The magic around you was subtle but ancient, threaded into your very presence. Not a shield.

A warning.

"Interesting."

Seymour did not press the blade deeper. He did not pull away.

For the first time in a long while, the Silver Fox lingered at the edge of a kill — not because he couldn’t finish it, but because the moment itself had weight.

The night held its breath with him.

And on the balcony, beneath the cold watch of the moon, the assassin and his chosen target stood suspended — neither retreating, neither advancing — as if the world itself waited to see which way he would lean.