[Emerald Castle, Crown Prince's Study]
“Now, Veiled Poison... tell me everything.” Alden leaned forward, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “And was it you who crafted the poison for my mother?”
Kaelen’s head snapped up. Her pupils blew wide, swallowed by cyan. The trembling in her jaw stopped. A sudden, terrifying calm settled over her features. "Yes," she breathed, the word rushing out like blood from a wound. "I will tell you—"
Alden held up a hand.
He stood abruptly. The silence in the room was heavy, but the silence outside the room was even louder after Kaelen’s performance concluded.
Alden pinched the bridge of his nose. It was inconvenient to have a staff member misunderstanding the situation, but explaining it would require effort.
He stepped to the door and flung it open. If the boy was to be his shield, he must witness the blood on his sword.
Limon was pressed against the opposite wall as if trying to merge with the plaster. He clutched the afternoon session files against his ribs like a shield, his face a violent, beetroot shade that vanished beneath his stiff collar.
Limon raised his head, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought back a smirk. His eyes darted with a mischievous glint that contradicted his stiff posture, fixedly staring at the doorframe.
As he bit his cheek to suppress a laugh, his gaze locked on the doorframe like a man torn between fleeing in shame and asking for pointers.
Alden stepped aside, sighing. He offered a gesture—barely an inch of movement.
"In."
He wasn't going to repeat this testimony. Limon would hear it now, or not at all.
Alden rested his hand on the brass handle, silently observing the aide’s struggling throat as he swallowed. He looked like a man expecting to see a brothel in full swing.
"Wa... wait. Your Highness... Now—" Limon stammered, his face burning with scandal, though a cheeky, knowing grin fought to break through.
After hesitating a bit, Limon moved. He stepped across the threshold with one hand dramatically covering his eyes.
Alden watched him pass. The boy walked like a martyr entering the lion’s den, exaggerating his terror of catching a glimpse of bare skin.
'Ridiculous.'
Alden closed the door. The latch clicked—a hammer blow in the quiet room.
Limon marched to his usual spot on the rug, head bowed, chin tucked into his chest. His gaze seemed glued to a specific knot in the floorboards.
Then, fabric rustled from the guest chair.
Limon stiffened, jerking his head toward the wall and squeezing his eyes shut, as if he feared risking a treasonous glance at the Prince’s mistress. He was practically vibrating.
"Lady Kaelen," Alden said, his voice flat. "From the beginning."
Limon’s eyes snapped open.
He blinked, his gaze sweeping the room—likely hunting for disheveled sheets. Instead, he landed on Kaelen.
She sat stiffly, her hands folded like a nun. The scandalous smirk on Limon’s face vanished. He sniffed the air, then slowly straightened his collar, the color draining from his cheeks as he looked from the composed woman to the Prince.
Alden walked around the desk and took his seat, watching the realization hit his aide.
The atmosphere shifted; the boy finally realized this wasn't a tryst.
Kaelen sat across from him, her veil lowered, her hands folded demurely in her lap. There were no torn garments. No overturned furniture. Just a woman sitting in a study, watching the door.
She turned her head. Alden noted the faint, cruel twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth as she locked eyes with the mortified aide. But as the silence stretched, the amusement died. Her face hardened into something resembling a tombstone.
"My father died twelve years ago," Kaelen began. Her voice was devoid of the earlier breathlessness. It was dry, brittle. "I was a child. Too young to ascend."
Limon blinked, the flush on his cheeks fading into confusion.
"My father wasn't a fool," she continued, eyes boring into the aide. "He appointed his First Disciple, Torvenn, as Steward. But he bound the succession in ink and law. The Master's Seal was bureaucratic. A web of contracts requiring my personal signature, my physical presence, and my express will to transfer power. Torvenn was trapped. A king who couldn't sit on the throne."
Alden leaned back, tapping a finger on the armrest. 'A legal deadlock.'
"That was ten years ago," Kaelen said. "Torvenn was desperate. He couldn't break the contracts. But the man from Ravencliff could."
Limon stiffened at the name.
"They offered him the Old Ways. Blood binding. Banned arts." Kaelen’s hands tightened in her lap, knuckles bleaching white. "It didn't break the seal. It didn't forge my signature."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a hiss.
"It broke me."
Limon took a half-step back, as if the words had physical weight.
"It didn't align my will with his," she said, spitting the words. "It forced my obedience. My mind screamed, but my hand moved. I sat in the Great Hall, smiling like a doll, signing away my birthright while the councilors spat on me for being weak. They thought I gave it up willingly. They didn't know I was a prisoner in my own skull."
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Alden searched her face. The cries and pleas she had uttered in his previous life suddenly gained a new meaning.
"Once he had the tower," Kaelen went on, her gaze unfocused, "he realized the control was absolute. He stopped asking for ink."
She looked at Limon. The aide looked like he was going to be sick.
"To solidify his position, I became the property of the Council. The Six. And the man from Ravencliff. Whenever they felt the need to satisfy themselves... I was called." A dark sneer curled her lip—sharp, brittle, and defensive. "Yet I still ran the Tower. I balanced the ledgers. I brewed the compounds. Because none of those incompetent swine had the skill to surpass me."
Limon was trembling again. He stared at the floor, his face pale. He had heard the screams earlier; now, he knew why.
"But Ravencliff doesn't give charity," Kaelen said. Her voice was hollow, stripped of inflection. "They demanded a price for the blood magic. Immediate. Irrevocable."
She stared at the wall, her eyes unfocused.
"They wanted the Empress."
Limon flinched. The files in his lap crinkled under his grip.
"It took three years to synthesize," she whispered, looking at her own fingers as if they didn't belong to her. "I watched myself grind the herbs. Distill the venom. The order was to create the perfect poison, and my body... my body was a diligent worker."
She turned to Alden.
“I perfected it,” she said, her voice steady. "A paralytic agent. Slow-acting. Untraceable."
Alden looked down at his hands. Slowly, methodically, he tugged at the cuff of his left glove, tightening the leather over his wrist.
In his past life, he had spent seven years dragging physicians across continents, hunting for a cure for a disease that didn't exist. He had watched his mother wither, blaming fate, blaming the gods.
But it wasn't fate. It was a transaction. A woman’s body for a tower’s key.
"She didn't die seven years ago," Kaelen whispered. "She just stopped moving. Trapped in her body. Like me."
The portfolio slipped from Limon's numb fingers. It hit the floorboards with a heavy, flat sound. Papers spilled across the rug, sliding toward the desk like a white tide.
Limon didn't move to retrieve them. He stared at the woman, his mouth slightly agape, the sheer horror of the confession severing the strings of his training.
Alden didn't look at the papers. He didn't look at Limon. He stared at the amber liquid in his glass.
'Trapped.'
The air in the study suddenly became heavy. The liquid in his glass froze at the edges, forming crystalline blocks of amber ice.
He gazed at the frozen amber, raised his glass, and the ice clinked against the crystal.
'So that was it.'
He took a sip, letting it glide down his throat. Placing the glass down, he unfastened the top button of his collar and relaxed his neck.
Then he stared at Kaelen. She didn't flinch. She was waiting for the execution order.
"I see," Alden said. His voice was barely a sound, yet it filled the room. "Enough."
Kaelen remained motionless for a few heartbeats. Finally, her trembling fingers lifted her veil to shield her face.
Alden gazed out the window once more.
Scanning his face one last time, Kaelen rose gracefully, smoothing her robes. Her mask of indifference slipped back into place as she turned toward the door. Her steps were deliberate and measured. As she reached for the latch—
“Lady Kaelen,”
She froze, her hand hovering over it.
Alden didn't turn his gaze. “Don’t go back on your own. The mobilization is scheduled for tonight. Watch. With your own eyes.”
She paused. A flicker crossed her face—sharp and ravenous. It was the look of a starving dog thrown a bone. She nodded once, then swept out.
The door closed.
Limon stood rooted to the spot. A long moment passed before his knees seemed to give way. He crouched, hands shaking violently as he reached for the scattered papers.
"The... The Duke of Viremont," Limon stammered. His voice cracked. He didn't look up. He couldn't. "Requests to break the seal on their warehouse and ships. He seemed... restless."
Alden noticed the aide struggle to stack the parchment. The boy who was usually the first to crack a joke to lighten the mood was now terrified to breathe.
"The Imperial Advisors submitted revised tariff schedules," Limon whispered, placing the messy stack on the desk. "And Lord Aldric's correspondence."
Alden reached out. His hand was steady, though the skin over his knuckles was white. He pulled the grain tax proposal toward him.
"Denied," he said. He signed it. The ink looked too dark, like dried blood.
He flipped to the tariff schedule. "Approved."
He reached for the correspondence. "Morning."
Alden set the quill down. The scratching stopped. He looked at his aide. Limon was pale, sweating, his eyes darting around the room as if the shadows of Ravencliff were already leaking from the walls to choke him.
"Go, Limon. Prepare for the afternoon session."
Limon froze. His hand jerked upward, drifting across the desk toward Alden’s shoulder before halting in the dead air. He stared at Alden’s profile. After a long, suspended second, he curled his fingers back into a fist and let his hand drop to his side.
"I’ll return... in an hour," he murmured.
He bowed—stiffly. Even though it was just the two of them, the formality clung to him like a bad suit. He turned and walked towards the door, pausing to glance back once more before the wood panel blocked his view.
The lock clicked.
Alden sat alone.
He picked up his glass. The amber liquid swirled, catching the light. He had spent years looking for a culprit, and now he had them.
He took a sip. It tasted bland. As always.
[Arabella Castle]
Elara stood before the heavy wood, her hand hovering just inches from the handle. The door of her Late Mistress. It had been shut for so long, yet the air around it still felt heavy with memory.
She took a steadying breath, the silence of the corridor pressing against her ears, before finally turning the knob. She slipped inside, the click of the lock behind her echoing like a whip in the stillness.
One step. Then another. The room was suspended in time, untouched, smelling faintly of dried lavender and old ink. She didn't let her gaze wander to the empty bed; instead, she stopped directly at the vanity.
The beautiful cream-colored desk sat waiting, its mirror reflecting a servant who looked far too weary for the hour. Elara sat down, the chair creaking softly. With a practiced motion, she reached up, sliding a metal clip from her tight bun. She ran her fingers under the lip of the vanity until she found the groove, then pressed the clip in.
A hidden compartment popped open, revealing the shadows within. Resting there was a single diary.
Elara opened it, the leather cover soft under her fingertips. She turned one page, then two, scanning the familiar handwriting until she stopped at the entry marked for today.
[The day the poison unveils its truth, do not close your eyes. Blind the others. For it's the day of Miracle. — Cassandra, the Master of Phantom]
Elara sighed, a sound that was half-exasperation, half-grief, tracing the words her mistress had left behind.
She set the diary down and reached for a fresh piece of parchment and a quill from the vanity's surface. Dipping the pen, she wrote with a steady hand, the scratching of the nib the only sound in the silent room.
She sanded the ink and stared at the command she had just authorized. The weight of it settled on her shoulders, heavy and inevitable.
"You make this old servant work too much, My Lady."
With precise movements, Elara folded the parchment and tucked it into her sleeve. She placed the diary back into its cradle and pushed the compartment shut until the mechanism engaged with a soft snap. The vanity looked innocent once more, betraying nothing.
She stood, smoothing the front of her dress and sliding the metal clip back into her hair, securing the severe bun. She cast one last look at the room—checking for disturbed dust or misplaced items—before turning on her heel.
She slipped out of the room, the door latching silently behind her. Her face was a mask of perfect calm.
Elara made her way down the winding stone stairs, the cold air of the castle doing little to cool the resolve in her veins. She pushed through the heavy double doors of the kitchens, where the staff bowed their heads in respect as she passed.
"Clear the center table," she ordered softly, her voice carrying its usual authority. "I will handle the evening meal for His Highness personally."
She moved to the flour bin, a faint, nostalgic smile finally touching her lips.
"Today, I will make His Highness's childhood favorite," she whispered to herself.
It was a dish the Late Mistress had introduced, one that required patience and precision—small pillows of egg dough filled with seasoned meat and cheese, boiled gently rather than baked. Her Mistress had called them "Ravioli."
Elara rolled up her sleeves, her hands—which had just authorized chaos in the city—now gentle as she reached for the flour to begin preparing the dough.
