Emperor's harem: Transmigrated with SSS mana talent
Chapter 65: [Right, Mother?]

Chapter 65: [Right, Mother?]

The heavy scent of incense and bitter medicinal herbs hung thick in the air. He coughed lightly, his nose wrinkling as the smoke stung his throat.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, the room came into focus.

The Duke lay on the large bed, his face gaunt but stern, while the house physician moved carefully around him, adjusting bandages and checking pulses with hushed precision.

The Duchess sat nearby on a small carved stool, her back straight, hands folded tightly in her lap.

Her eyes, though weary, held a glimmer of strength.

Beside her, Renold — the Duke’s old steward — stood quietly, calmly recounting the state of the duchy: reports from merchants, unrest at the borders, letters from the capital.

Aerik paused at the threshold, the warmth of his practiced smile flickering under the weight of the room’s solemnity.

The Duchess looked up first. Her gaze narrowed.

"Why are you here, Aerik?"

He stepped forward slowly, careful not to appear hurried.

"I came... to speak with Father."

The Duke’s tired eyes lifted toward him, unreadable.

Silence held the room for a breath too long.

The air in the Duke’s chamber grew still.

The Duke’s voice, gravelly but calm, cut through the quiet.

"What do you want to say... about the devil, Aerik?"

Aerik let out a long, theatrical sigh and stepped closer, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on the neck of the wine bottle he carried.

His eyes scanned the room — the weary Duke on his sickbed, the loyal Duchess watching tensely, Renold glaring like a dog ready to bite.

"The devil," he began slowly, "has sent his regards... to you, Father."

Renold bristled. "You dare bring mockery into—"

"Let him speak," the Duke interrupted, voice low but steady.

Aerik bowed slightly, a smug smile curling at the corner of his lips.

"Very well," he said.

"The devil said:

’Tell that crust-covered old relic in the bed that today is the last time he gets to play at being a Duke.’"

The Duchess gasped softly.

Renold took a step forward, fists clenched.

But the Duke remained unmoving, gaze fixed on Aerik.

Aerik’s lips curled into a cruel smile as he stepped closer to the Duke’s bedside.

"Tell that old bastard..." he said, not even bothering to disguise the venom, "his days are over now."

The room held its breath.

Then—

"How dare you!" Renold bellowed, his fury snapping like a whip.

His fist slammed into Aerik’s face.

The sound of impact cracked through the air.

Aerik was thrown against the cold stone wall, where he slid down with a grunt.

The wine bottle he’d brought clattered to the floor, rolling in a slow, mocking spiral.

That soft glass rattle was the only sound now.

Everyone stared.

The Duchess rose slowly, her hand over her mouth.

The physician looked on with narrowed eyes, uncertain whether to interfere.

Aerik stood.

His lip was bleeding.

His head hung low—but when he lifted it, his eyes gleamed with something not entirely human.

"Don’t be mad, Father," he said, voice low, hoarse, too calm.

"I only repeated what he said."

He took one step forward. The shadows clung to him unnaturally.

"I came here... to offer a deal."

The candlelight flickered strangely. His silhouette twitched—just slightly, just wrong.

And in that moment, with the scent of incense twisting into something rotten, the Duke saw it:

For the briefest heartbeat, Aerik did not look like his son.

He looked like the devil wearing his son’s skin.

The Duke’s breath rasped in the heavy air.

"What deal?" he asked, voice brittle.

Aerik smiled—a slow, unnatural stretch of his lips.

He walked calmly toward the fallen wine bottle, lifting it with eerie care.

The liquid inside sloshed gently, dark as blood under the dim light.

"If you, Father," he said softly,

"declare me your next chosen heir...

Then I can tell you why your condition is .....worsening."

Silence.

The Duchess swallowed hard, her knuckles white where they gripped the fabric of her gown.

The physician’s face had gone pale, sweat beading on his forehead.

Even Renold, firm and ever-loyal, took one step back.

Aerik turned, holding the bottle out like an offering at a funeral pyre.

"Do you accept, Father?" he asked.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Then, Renold spoke, voice low and wary.

"You... want to say... the Duke’s condition is worsening because of someone?"

Aerik’s smile widened—too wide, too calm.

The Duchess stood abruptly, her voice sharp and shaking—less from rage, more from the tremor of fear crawling beneath her skin.

"What nonsense are you speaking?" she snapped.

"Have you gone mad, Aerik? Do you even know what you’re saying?"

Her voice echoed in the heavy chamber like a slap.

She turned to the physician, as if seeking confirmation from something solid.

"Everything the Duke takes—every pill, every draft, every sip—is passed by the house physician. And he," she pointed, trembling,

"he is a slave of this house. Bound by blood. He cannot betray us."

The physician stood still as stone, eyes locked on the bottle in Aerik’s hand.

He didn’t speak.

Aerik let out a broken, bitter laugh that echoed in the tense room.

"Yeah, Mother, you’re right.

He can’t poison the Duke willingly...

but what you don’t know is he’s been poisoning something else."

The Duchess’s delicate hand tightened on her stool, a cold, sweet tremor running through her fingers.

The Duke’s sharp gaze flickered, confused but attentive.

Aerik’s voice dropped low, chilling the air.

"Father, I hope you haven’t forgotten the case of our third brother.

He was slowly poisoned.

The same physician tested him—found nothing."

He held up the wine bottle, letting it catch the flickering candlelight.

"This poison...

it can’t be detected by any means, and if taken over time, it slowly eats away at the body."

Aerik slowly turned toward the Duchess, whose trembling grew more pronounced, her composure cracking under the weight of his words.

He spoke quietly but with sharp certainty,

"Right, Mother?"