Chapter 92: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞
Chapter 𝟗𝟐: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞
Yet, for all his twisted ambitions and cold brilliance, Edward Windsor faced a grave and gnawing dilemma.
The prisoners in the dungeons—wretched souls whose fate had already been sealed—no longer stirred within him the dark thrill he so desperately sought. There was no beauty in their agony, no poetry in their deaths. Still, he credited their misery for advancing the terrifying precision of Vedior.
But when the monstrous craving to end another life—one bearing Christian’s likeness—began to claw at him once more, Christian herself, in a twist soaked in irony, handed him a gift wrapped in power and veiled opportunity.
‘Edward, why not take the post of Police Commissioner in Baden? It will subtly show the public that the royal family values the safety of the capital, and your reputation might… improve.’
‘Police Commissioner…?’
‘The seat lies vacant. I believe it would suit you perfectly.’
Her smile that day was etched into Edward’s soul like a divine painting carved into obsidian. The offer was too perfect to refuse. It was exactly what he desired.
To command the police was to wield absolute power—to reveal secrets, forge evidence, and strangle truth with velvet gloves. With cunning, he could gather public favor, topple the crown, and slip into the throne like a serpent into silk.
‘Thank you, sister. I shall devote myself to your expectations, and never again will I disappoint you.’
Thus, Edward vowed—never again would he bow to shame. Never again would a fragile woman steal the future from his grasp. He would not watch his sister ascend the throne.
He would take it from her.
First, he would become her loyal hound. Then, when her guard was down, he would sink his fangs into her dreams.
What delicious irony it would be—to see that proud gaze shatter, to watch the sister who pitied him grovel beneath the feet of the brother she believed so helpless.
Before his next murder, Edward found himself adrift in an unremarkable memory.
A woman at a dim tavern turned pale when she recognized the man beneath the hood.
“One rum,” he ordered, his voice void of warmth.
He took a seat at the bar, locking eyes with the blushing woman. Her face, caked in powder and paint, seemed almost tragic—an effort to appear alive while already dead inside.
Dull.
He grimaced. Her crimson lips quivered, then parted.
“How did His Highness come to a place like this…?”
Predictable. Her voice, her manner—banal.
“It’s about time.”
“Pardon?”
Her vacant eyes widened like a lamb before slaughter.
“Let’s drink.”
She hurried to oblige, her movements clumsy with anticipation. Edward calmly slipped a drop of Vedior into her glass.
As expected, she clung to him, draped herself in desperation.
Then came the moment.
“Ugh… why…?”
“I never understand why you all ask that. There’s no why. No reason. No thread that binds us.”
“…What….”
“Disappearances give the police something to chase. Keeps them busy.”
He watched with detached fascination as she writhed in agony. Foam curled at her lips. Her eyes rolled. Her limbs thrashed before falling still.
A familiar dance of death.
Mussen, like Baden, offered no challenge. Being commissioner meant evidence bent to his will and confessions appeared on cue.
He sighed as he pulled up his hood.
“If you didn’t want to die in a hole like this, perhaps you shouldn’t have sold cheap alcohol in a slum.”
He paused, glancing back at her lifeless form.
“But I pity you. I used a lesser version of the poison. Consider it an honor—you’ve become part of something grander.”
He chuckled, leaning over her corpse.
“No, no—I reserve Vedior for special guests. Don’t feel too insulted.”
Silence.
“…Boring.”
He scanned the bar, found an elegant pack of cigarettes on the counter.
“Your taste was refined. Smoking this here is almost poetic. But tell me, did luxury make your misery easier to bear?”
He took a cigarette, lit it, tasted its bitterness, and spat it out in disgust.
“Why in hell would Johannes smoke this filth?”
The cigarette pack clattered beside the body.
By dawn, someone might discover her. But none would suspect poison—the body broke it down too well.
A cause of death? Alcohol poisoning, perhaps. Or sudden collapse. Nothing more.
He eyed the glass on the table.
“Time to find new amusement.”
Taking lives—specifically the removal of women he deemed ‘useless’—had become Edward’s sole spark of vitality.
That Christian remained unaware thrilled him. It gave his existence texture, purpose.
He stepped toward the tavern’s exit, but froze.
A silhouette stood at the threshold.
She stiffened upon seeing him.
Duchess Schultz.
She—Edith Prim—had risen from common blood to the heights of nobility. He had dismissed her ascent as a political farce, yet here she was.
His hood obscured his face, but recognition flickered.
Why was she here?
She had appeared near his previous murders. She had even detected the faint chemical scent clinging to the Eden Blanc rose.
Then, her voice:
“Johannes…?”
A name. A key.
Edward’s mind spun. A scheme bloomed like black roses in frost.
He could pin this all on Johannes—Sergeant Prim. Let the pieces fall into place.
He brushed past Edith and left the tavern.
Someone followed him.
He did not fear them. His private guards were ghosts. The royal guards couldn’t see them—how could a mere soldier from House Schultz?
At the city’s edge, he cast aside his hood and blended into the crowd.
By nightfall, he’d vanished.
Heibenstein Castle.
Edward slumped onto the velvet couch, tossing his hat aside. The room fell quiet—until footsteps broke the silence.
A dry voice echoed:
“Your Highness, where is the location this time?”
He opened one eye and smiled lazily.
“Majesty.”
The voice sharpened.
“This time… I may be in trouble. I think I’ve been caught.”
“Caught…?”
“You know what I mean.”
He closed his eyes again. Meeting the Duchess had not been chance. No, it had the scent of something orchestrated.
He murmured:
“I said… Johannes.”
Turning to his aide, Moritz Weaver, Edward whispered:
“Did my prank work?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Weaver frowned.
“A body will arrive soon. One of the Schultz family’s guards.”
“Oh? Their guards?”
Edward said nothing more.
Few knew of his sins: Frederick Müller the chemist-gardener, Moritz Weaver his aide, and a handful of handpicked ghosts.
Such exquisite solitude.
“The Duchess seems… very suspicious of her husband.”
Edward chuckled softly.
Who would’ve thought that his half-mocking games with Edith Schultz would spiral so delightfully?
Edith Prim. The woman who would come to believe her husband a murderer.
How sweet the day she breaks.
Things were finally becoming… interesting.
