Strongest Incubus System-Chapter 252: A letter, full of problems.

The following day dawned with a pale light streaming through the broken windows of the mansion, scattering light over the scars left by the previous night and revealing with ruthless honesty what fire, ice, and loss of control had done. The air still carried the faint scent of cracked stone and burnt wood, mingled with the cold coolness that insisted on remaining ingrained in the surfaces where Damon had lost control. He had been awake for hours when the sun finally rose on the horizon, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms as he removed, with firm and concentrated movements, the last layers of ice encrusted on the columns of the main hall. There was something almost methodical in the way he worked, as if each fragment that crumbled beneath his fingers was a silent attempt to compensate for the damage he had caused.

He didn’t use magic explosively now, nor was there any trace of impulsiveness in his gestures. The cold that escaped his hands was controlled, precise, used just enough to reverse cracks, reinforce compromised structures, and absorb back what should no longer be there. The ice that had once spread like an extension of his fury was now gathered like someone piecing together the fragments of a mistake, and with each step he took on the still uneven floor, he seemed more aware of the weight of his own actions. There was no one nearby at that moment, only the distant echo of tools being used in another wing and the discreet sound of his breathing, constant, firm, restrained.

Damon paused for a moment before a partially rebuilt wall, running his hand over the cold surface as he observed the deep marks that had not yet been completely erased. He could simply cover everything with another layer of ice, he could hide the flaws under an intact appearance, but he didn’t. Instead, he knelt and began to remove loose pieces of stone manually, stirring up the dust that had accumulated on the floor, accepting that rebuilding required more than just power. It required time. It required effort. It demanded responsibility. The sun rose slowly in the sky, illuminating the interior of the mansion with an almost cruel clarity, highlighting every detail he would have preferred to ignore, but which he now faced without averting his gaze.

The hours passed without him noticing, and the physical labor brought a different kind of exhaustion than the one he had felt the previous night. His muscles were tense, but not from conflict, but from repetition. He lifted broken beams, aligned misaligned structures, and used his skill with ice in reverse, not to expand, but to seal, stabilize, protect. With each discreet crack that echoed when a fissure was filled and secured, there was a small, silent relief, as if the house itself accepted his attempt to repair what had been broken. Still, he knew it wasn’t just the mansion that needed rebuilding.

When he finally straightened his body to relieve the tension in his back, the hall already seemed less chaotic than at dawn. There were still piles of debris in one corner, windows to be replaced, and furniture to be repaired, but the feeling of utter ruin had lessened. Damon ran a hand across his forehead, brushing away strands of hair slightly damp with sweat, and took a deep breath as he observed the partial result of his effort. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t enough. But it was a start. And, in a way, that was already more than he had the day before.

He was about to bend down again to gather more fragments of stone when he heard soft footsteps crossing the side corridor, footsteps that carried neither haste nor weight, but a characteristic lightness that he would recognize even amidst the noise of battle. Damon didn’t need to turn immediately to see who it was, but he did anyway, finding Aria standing a few meters away, her arms crossed in an almost distracted manner as she watched the work he had been doing since early morning.

"You started before sunrise, didn’t you?" she asked, her voice calm, but laden with a curiosity that wasn’t exactly naive.

Damon straightened up completely, resting one hand on the side of a newly reinforced column, and let out a short breath before replying. "Someone had to start."

Aria raised an eyebrow slightly, her gaze scanning the room attentively before returning to him. "And you decided that someone had to be you."

He didn’t answer immediately, only glancing at the partially rebuilt window, where the morning light streamed through the newly installed glass, creating soft reflections on the still-dusty floor. "I froze half of it," he finally said, without dramatizing, just stating the facts. "The least I can do is help undo it."

Aria uncrossed her arms and walked slowly across the room, running her fingers over the surface of a table that still needed repairs, as if assessing not only the structure but also the emotional state of whoever was fixing it. "You know no one is forcing you to do this alone," she commented, stopping a few steps from him. "And you also know that exhausting yourself won’t erase what happened."

Damon let out a small puff of air through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. "I’m not trying to erase it," he replied with controlled firmness. "I’m just trying not to repeat it."

There was a brief silence between them, filled only by the distant sound of hammers and the light breeze that drifted through the still-unsealed openings in the hall. Aria tilted her head slightly, studying him attentively, as if pondering how much she should say or whether she should simply let him continue working until his own body demanded rest.

"Elizabeth wants to see you," she said finally, breaking the quiet with a simple but meaningful phrase.

Damon didn’t show immediate surprise, but his shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. He had expected this moment to come. Elizabeth wasn’t the type to leave things unfinished, much less when they involved risks as great as those that had occurred the previous night. Still, hearing that made everything more concrete, more inevitable.

"Now?" he asked, his voice neutral.

"Now," Aria confirmed, holding his gaze. "She’s in the smaller room. And she doesn’t seem particularly patient."

Damon nodded slowly, running his hand over his fingers as if removing the invisible dust that still lingered there. He cast one last glance around, absorbing the image of what he had managed to restore up to that point, as if mentally marking a pause before facing something more difficult than any broken structure.

"I’ll finish this later," he murmured, more to himself than to Aria.

She watched as he walked towards the hallway, his steps firm but not hurried, like someone who had already accepted that there was no way to avoid the next conversation.

The hallway leading to the smaller hall seemed quieter than the rest of the mansion, as if the space itself were awaiting the outcome of something that had not yet been said. Damon walked down it with firm steps, dodging small piles of rubble that still awaited removal, feeling under the soles of his boots the fine dust that insisted on spreading to every corner. The morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows on the floor and following him like silent witnesses as he advanced, his expression neutral but his gaze alert, prepared for whatever Elizabeth was about to unleash upon him.

Even before reaching the door of the smaller hall, he could already hear the rhythm of her footsteps echoing inside, a firm, repetitive sound that betrayed impatience. He pushed the door open slowly, finding her exactly as he had imagined, pacing back and forth before the central table, her hands clasped behind her back and her shoulders tense beneath the dark fabric of her dress. Her hair, impeccably styled, did nothing to soften the closed expression that dominated her face, and there was a contained energy in the air that had nothing to do with magic, but with accumulated expectation and irritation.

She didn’t stop immediately when he entered, only giving him a brief glance, assessing him from head to toe as if confirming that he was still capable of remaining whole after everything. Damon closed the door behind him with a calm gesture and took a few steps forward, maintaining a respectful distance as he watched her move around the room. Light streamed through the intact windows of the room, illuminating the polished surface of the table where a single object stood out from Elizabeth’s usual tidiness.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice firm but not challenging, like someone who didn’t intend to turn the conversation into a confrontation.

Elizabeth stopped abruptly, turning to him with an expression that mixed concern and irritation, and then pointed to the table with a dry, almost cutting gesture. "Read."

Damon didn’t hesitate. He approached the table and his eyes fell upon the open letter, the seal broken in evident haste. He recognized the handwriting even before touching the paper: elegant strokes, slightly slanted, firm enough to reveal personality, yet delicate enough to suggest care. He held the letter in both hands and began to read, his face remaining calm as he absorbed each word.

The letter was from Morgana, and the tone, though restrained, carried a clear tension between the lines. She spoke of her father, describing him as distant, strange, making decisions that didn’t match the posture he had always maintained as a leader. There were closed-door meetings, hasty decrees, changes in the palace guard, and rumors circulating with worrying speed among the nobles. Damon continued reading without altering his expression, even when the following words indicated something even more delicate.

According to the letter, Morgana’s stepmother had been increasingly involved in political decisions, getting closer to influential families and spreading insinuations about Mirath, questioning alliances, suggesting betrayals, and hinting at weaknesses. A silent movement was being built, a clear attempt to manipulate the entire duchy against Mirath, using fear and misinformation as primary tools. Morgana didn’t accuse directly, but the subtext was evident: something was wrong, and the time to act might be shorter than it seemed.

Damon finished reading with the same composure with which he had begun, carefully folding the letter before placing it back on the table. He looked up at Elizabeth, who watched him as if expecting an immediate reaction, perhaps an explosion, perhaps an impulsive decision. But he only took a deep breath, absorbing the weight of the information before responding.

"She’s afraid," he said, not as a judgment, but as an observation.

Elizabeth let out a brief sound, somewhere between impatience and frustration. "Rightly so."

She resumed pacing the hall, her steps now quicker, as if the movement itself were a way of organizing her thoughts. "The duchy doesn’t turn against Mirath overnight, but if this woman is truly manipulating the nobles and weakening Morgana’s father’s position, we could wake up surrounded by enemies before we even realize it."

Damon rested one hand on the table, his gaze still fixed on the letter. "Morgana wouldn’t write this if she wasn’t seeing something concrete."

"Exactly," Elizabeth replied, stopping again and looking at him. "She’s not being alarmist. If she says her father is acting strangely, then something is interfering. Whether it’s political influence or something worse."

The silence that followed was heavier than the one minutes before, and this time it had nothing to do with wreckage or reconstruction. It was a matter of strategy, of fragile alliances, and of a threat that wasn’t announced by armies on the border, but by whispers in luxurious halls and agreements made under the table.

"What do you suggest?" Damon asked, crossing his arms slowly, his tone controlled but attentive.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes slightly, as if pondering whether she should share all the thoughts that were passing through her mind. "First, we need to confirm what’s actually happening. We can’t act based solely on suspicions, however reliable they may be."

"You want to send someone," he concluded.

"I want to send someone who doesn’t raise suspicions, who knows how to observe before acting, and who doesn’t turn every political tension into a battlefield," she replied, her gaze carrying a clear meaning as it rested on him.

Damon held her gaze without looking away, understanding the implication but not reacting with irritation. "You think I would turn this into a battlefield?"