Take Me Away, Dark Lord!

Suddenly, the ambient temperature of the street dropped by thirty degrees.

The giggling ceased instantly.

The ladies turned their heads, their pastel parasols dipping.

Marching toward the back of the line, towering over the crowd like a dark monolith of impending doom, was Duke Kaelus von Nacht.

He looked less like a nobleman attending an afternoon shopping trip and more like an ancient calamity that had recently learned how to walk upright.

The ladies collectively held their breath.

Kaelus walked straight toward the line.

Then—

He stopped.

He looked at the people waiting.

He looked at the shop.

He looked at the line again.

And calmly stepped into the back of it.

The Capital’s nobility collectively experienced a minor existential crisis.

The terrifying Archduke did not push his way to the front. He respected the queue. He simply took his place behind a trembling Countess, crossed his massive arms over his chest, and stared straight ahead with an expression of cold, homicidal indifference.

The reaction of the Capital’s high society was a bizarre, fascinating mixture of absolute, pants-wetting terror, and intense, hormonally charged swooning.

’It’s the Reaper!’ a Baroness gasped silently, clutching her pearl necklace, her eyes wide with fear.

’He is terrifying... but look at his jawline,’ a young Marquise whispered to her friend, her cheeks flushing a violent shade of pink. ’He looks like a dark god. Why is he standing in line for macarons?’

”Is that really him?”

”Unfortunately.”

”Why is he waiting in line?”

”I don’t know.”

”Should we let him go first?”

”No.”

The Marquise blinked.

”Why not?”

Her companion swallowed.

”Because I value my dignity.”

Kaelus ignored the terrified, blushing stares. His mind was entirely focused on the mission parameters.

Trailing two steps behind him, looking like a man marching to his own execution, was Alistair.

The beautiful aide had a hand pressed firmly over his own eyes, desperately trying to hide his face from the staring nobles, unable to bear the catastrophic indignity of the situation.

He had both hands pressed against his temples.

”This is humiliating,” he whispered.

Kaelus ignored him.

”This is historically humiliating.”

Silence.

”Your Grace, three hundred years of Nacht military prestige are currently being dismantled one pastry at a time.”

Nothing.

”We could have sent a servant.”

Nothing.

”We could have sent twenty servants.”

Nothing.

”We could have purchased the entire establishment.”

Kaelus finally glanced sideways.

”We are not purchasing the entire establishment.”

Alistair brightened slightly.

”Excellent.”

”We are purchasing the entire strawberry tart inventory.”

Alistair’s face went blank.

”...That is somehow worse.”

Kaelus returned his attention to the front.

His expression was completely serious.

This was an important mission.

”This is the end of the Nacht legacy,” Alistair mumbled under his breath, his long blonde ponytail swishing as he shook his head in despair. ”Three hundred years of blood and iron, and we are currently waiting behind Lady Fiddlewood to purchase a pink cupcake. I must resign. I must take the black and join the monastery.”

”Silence your whining, Alistair,” Kaelus murmured without turning his head. ”And take notes. I intend to purchase the entire top shelf. You will carry the boxes.”

Seraphina had requested strawberry-glazed pastries.

Specifically, strawberry-glazed pastries with vanilla cream.

Not raspberry.

Not blueberry.

Not chocolate.

Strawberry.

She had been extremely clear.

And Kaelus von Nacht took his daughter’s requests with the same level of seriousness he applied to military campaigns.

Perhaps more.

The Northern Reaper had personally conquered three demon-infested mountain passes.

He had negotiated with hostile kingdoms.

He had stared down an Abyssal Dragon without blinking.

And yet none of those experiences had prepared him for the complexity of selecting the correct dessert for a six-year-old.

He narrowed his eyes.

The display window was approximately twenty-seven meters away.

His enhanced vision immediately began analyzing the pastries.

Strawberry glaze consistency.

Cream density.

Fruit freshness.

Sugar crystallization.

Pastry structural integrity.

Decorative composition.

Kaelus’s eyes narrowed further.

”That tart.”

Alistair followed his gaze.

”The one on the third shelf?”

”Yes.”

”The one with the tiny strawberry?”

”Yes.”

”It looks exactly like the other twelve.”

”The glaze is uneven.”

Alistair stared.

He looked at the pastry.

Then at Kaelus.

Then back at the pastry.

”...You can see that from here?”

”Yes.”

Alistair slowly lowered his head.

”I need a new career.”

The line moved.

One person forward.

Kaelus advanced.

The noblewoman in front of him looked increasingly nervous.

Eventually, she reached the counter.

”One box of rose macarons, please.”

The baker smiled.

”Certainly, Lady Fiddlewood.”

She paid.

She turned around.

And came face-to-face with the Northern Reaper.

The poor woman nearly walked directly into the display case.

Kaelus stepped aside politely to let her pass.

”Excuse me.”

The Countess stared at him.

He had said two words.

Two.

She felt as though she had just been addressed by an execution notice.

”Y-Your Grace.”

She curtsied so quickly that her parasol nearly struck her own head.

Kaelus nodded.

She fled.

Alistair watched her disappear into the crowd.

”Your Grace.”

”What?”

”Your social skills are terrifying.”

”I said excuse me.”

”Precisely.”

The line moved again.

Finally, Kaelus reached the counter.

When they finally reached the counter, the head pastry chef practically threw himself onto the floor, weeping with terror.

The young shop assistant behind the glass display looked up.

She saw the Archduke.

Her soul temporarily departed her body.

”Welcome to La Petite Rêverie,” she squeaked.

Kaelus nodded.

”I require strawberry tarts.”

”Of course.”

”Eight.”

The assistant blinked.

”Eight?”

”Yes.”

Alistair quietly added, ”He means twelve.”

Kaelus glanced at him.

”Eight.”

”Your Grace, there are eight people in the household.”

”Seven.”

”Sir Boris counts as two people when eating.”

Kaelus considered this.

”...Twelve.”

The assistant stared.

”Yes, Your Grace.”

”All of them.”

”Yes, Your Grace.”

”And the strawberry-glazed ones.”

”Of course.”

”With vanilla cream.”

”Yes.”

”And no excessive powdered sugar.”

”Yes.”

”And make sure the strawberries are fresh.”

”Yes.”

”And—”

Alistair placed a hand over his face.

”Your Grace.”

Kaelus stopped.

The assistant waited nervously.

Kaelus finally pointed toward the display.

”That one.”