[18th Veyra, 495 IC, Dawnsworn]
[The Imperial Corridor]
The click of heels on stone struck the silence as Lady Emmelyne rounded the corner in mourning silks.
She stopped before them, bowing her head with exactly the right degree of sorrow—deep enough to show respect, shallow enough to display her neck.
"Your Highness."
As Alden watched her, a memory surfaced unbidden—Seraphina's voice from a future now erased.
"The investigation is complete, Your Majesty."
Alden looked at the crown of Emmelyne's head, trying to remember more of the report he had heard back then.
'She drugged the tea,' she had added. 'She accused Limon. She was the one who put him in chains. Using her father's influence, she sent the guards away from Arabella Castle. That's why they could access your...'
The memory ended in a sob that only Alden could hear.
"Please accept my greetings," Emmelyne murmured, still bent.
Alden let the silence stretch. His fingernails bit into his palms, digging for blood, but his face stayed pleasant.
"Greetings, Lady Emmelyne."
She looked up, fluttering her lashes. "I cannot imagine the weight you carry." A pause. The catch in her voice was perfectly placed. "And yet... you attended the court today. Indeed... the strength you show is truly inspiring."
Alden almost laughed. 'Had he really fallen for this once?' No—in his first life, he'd simply gone along with it. He watched the rise and fall of her breathing, counted the pulse visible at her throat.
His features shifted and the corners of his mouth lifted.
"You flatter me, My Lady."
He held the smile for a heartbeat longer than protocol demanded, injecting it with the perfect dose of warmth. One that could be taken for grief, or gratitude, or—if she read it right—interest.
Emmelyne took the bait without hesitation.
She stepped closer. Close enough he could smell her perfume—roses and something cloying. "Please, let me know, Your Highness. If there is anything—" her voice dropped, intimate, "anything I might do..."
Alden leaned in, his lips an inch from her ear. Her breath caught, held suspended between them.
"I will," he said quietly.
Her green eyes lit up. She sank into a final curtsy and hurried down the hall, her steps light and eager.
Alden watched her go.
The blonde hair vanished around the corner, replaced by a bright, searing flame. His chest tightened, ribs aching against his lungs. The hallway blurred as the retreating gold strands became dancing embers. Another woman turned in the light, closing the distance until the heat of her breath brushed his lips.
She was there—closer than breath. She pressed her lips against his, tasting of sweet, warm nectar. Alden remained still. He let his chest burn, but he did not kiss back.
"Your Highness?"
Limon had emerged from the shadows of the archway. He had waited until Lady Emmelyne vanished before sidling closer, his eyes wide with mischief. "I kept calling. You didn't hear me at all."
He lowered his voice, looking in the direction the lady had gone. "She really is beautiful, isn't she?"
"Yes, she is..." Alden swallowed. The word came out rougher than intended. "Devastatingly beautiful."
The woman of flame remained. She watched him, her head tilted. Alden stood frozen, his gaze softening as he stared into the empty air.
After a single heartbeat, he bit the inside of his lip.
Limon's eyes went wide. "Wait. Do you actually—"
"We have work to do, Limon."
Alden stepped past him, his hand instantly seeking the pendant at his throat. The metal seared his palm, hot enough that the phantom taste of iron flooded his mouth as he squeezed it. Though the corridor possessed the visual stillness of a tomb, to him it was deafening. He heard it all: the rustle of silk behind a tapestry, the thudding pulse of unseen watchers, and the shallow breathing of Cedric—Count Devon's son—hiding in the alcove.
It was too much. Too loud.
He focused on walking. On the sound of his own boots. On not thinking about flame-colored hair or nectar-like lips, the way marble looked when it was stained with—
"It's... suddenly so cold," Limon muttered.
Limon wrapped his arms around himself. A puff of white mist escaped his lips. Frost bloomed on the stone floor, creeping outward from Alden's boots.
Alden's hand tightened on the pendant. He forced the killing intent down, suffocating it. The heat faded. His pulse slowed.
"Keep up," he said.
The air warmed instantly. The frost melted into damp spots on the stone. Limon hurried to match his pace, confused but blessedly silent.
Alden kept his eyes forward.
[The Imperial Study]
The scent of burning beeswax and old paper hung heavy in the air.
Emperor Caelus IV sat behind a desk that functioned less like furniture and more like a barricade, piled high with scrolls. His hand hovered, the quill scratching rhythmically against parchment—a frantic noise meant to fill the void. The only other sound was the indifferent ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
"Your Majesty," the Chamberlain murmured from the doorway, bowing low. "His Highness, the Crown Prince, requests an audience. Will you receive the heir?"
Caelus IV gave a stiff, imperceptible nod.
The heavy doors swung open.
Alden entered. His steps were silent on the plush carpet, his posture as straight as a drawn blade. He stopped three paces from the desk and lowered his head in a perfect court bow.
"Your Imperial Majesty. Greetings."
The formal address, devoid of any personal warmth, cut through the silence. The Imperial aides' gazes shifted uncomfortably.
The quill stopped. Ink bled into the parchment below, ruining the decree Caelus IV had been pretending to write. Every aide in the room felt it—the shift. The wrongness. Alden had never used that title in private before.
A dull ache settled in the Emperor's chest. He lifted his head, searching the young man's face for the small boy who once tripped over these rugs with a toy sword, or the grieving son begging for time.
He found neither.
Alden's gaze reflected no warmth, no pain, only a deep, unsettling competence. Dark. Just like her.
Caelus IV's gaze drifted lower, catching the glint of a platinum chain against the high collar. The blood-red pendant lay hidden beneath the fabric. He remembered Cassandra clasping that shard around Alden's neck before the midwives had even finished swaddling him. The wailing infant had silenced instantly, tiny fingers clutching the sharp crystal like a lifeline. Days later, when Caelus IV reached into the cradle to inspect it, her hand had struck his away—a harsh, feral rebuke. Like he was a stranger trying to steal something precious.
Now that same stone rested against the throat of a son who looked at him the exact same way.
"I have a formal request," Alden said.
The quill rattled against wood as the Emperor set it down. His fingers were shaking.
"Alden. My son." The words cracked on the way out.
His mind flashed to yesterday. The empty chair at the funeral. The one he should have been sitting in. The one he'd abandoned, leaving the boy to stand alone at the pyre and speak the final words over a mother who'd spent seven years dying in silence.
"Your Majesty," Alden replied.
The title landed like a slap. Formal. Final. A wall built from protocol and ice.
Caelus IV drew a slow breath. It rattled in his chest. "Go on."
"I've come to claim my inheritance," Alden said. His voice was calm. "And begin my duties as heir apparent. Immediately."
The Emperor pushed the ruined document aside. Watched the ink bleed into the wood grain. "Alden. You've just lost your mother."
Alden didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just stood there, expression hovering somewhere between boredom and mild interest.
"My grief changes nothing, Your Majesty." His eyes flicked up, meeting his father's gaze. "The Empire cannot wait. Neither can I."
The Emperor's jaw tightened. 'He's shielding himself with protocol. Just like I do. Just like I taught him.'
"You're seventeen," Caelus IV said. The words came out softer than he'd intended. Almost pleading. "There's time."
"I intend to be ready, Your Majesty."
The silence between them sharpened.
Caelus IV reached for the quill again. His fingers still trembled. He pretended not to notice. "Alden... regarding the funeral—"
"There's nothing to discuss, Sire."
Alden cut him off. "The Emperor has duties. Your absence was... expected." He paused, his face blank. "I bear no grievances."
The tone was respectful. Proper.
"Please assign me the responsibilities of the heir," Alden continued. "I'll complete them without fail."
Caelus IV closed his eyes.
Cassandra's image formed in the dark. He saw her as she was in those final months—her body rigid beneath the silk sheets as the paralysis moved up her spine. She had been unable to lift a hand or turn her head. Only her eyes remained, tracking him with a sharp, unblinking focus that pinned him in place.
Those eyes had held accusations and... warnings.
When he opened his eyes, they'd hardened. "So be it. You'll begin in a week. I need time to arrange the official seal."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Alden bowed. But he didn't turn to leave. Just stood there, rooted to the marble.
"Is there something else?" Caelus IV asked. His voice had gone soft.
"The Seal of the Inner Palace."
Alden's eyes fixed on a point just above his father's head. Not quite looking at him.
"It's been in the Secretariat's care for seven years. Since Mother fell asleep."
'Fell asleep.'
Not "fell ill." Not "passed." 'Fell asleep.'
The words landed with chilling precision—clinical, as if death were just another state of rest. No tremor broke his voice; no crack appeared in his mask.
"I wish to reclaim it." Alden stepped forward, still not meeting his father's eyes. "The Inner Palace, the treasury, the arts, the Royal Harem—all of it. I'll handle them as her son, alongside my duties as Crown Prince."
For a moment, Caelus IV could only stare.
The boy was seventeen. Already a Swordmaster with five Knight Orders sworn to his name—orders he'd take command of the moment he came of age. Or earlier, if he claimed his duties early. And now he wanted the dead Empress's responsibilities as well?
"That would be excessive, Crown Prince."
Caelus IV retreated into professional detachment as another voice spoke up.
"Your Highness."
Aldric Corlen, a senior Imperial Advisor, stepped out from the shadows behind the Emperor's seat. He bowed deeply to the Emperor before turning a polite, strained smile toward Alden.
"Your zeal is commendable. Truly." The smile never reached his eyes. "But you're not yet of age. The Inner Court is... delicate. Intricate. Bureaucracy has a way of chewing up even experienced men."
He gestured at the towers of files on the Emperor's desk. Mountains of parchment. Years of accumulated tedium.
"We've managed these duties without error for seven years. There's no need to rush into—"
"And who decided that?"
The voice came from the right. Sharp. Cutting.
Callum Beaumont stepped out from the opposite shadow. He offered no smile. Adjusting his monocle, he inspected Aldric with a flat, clinical stare.
"We are merely proxies, Aldric. Caretakers. Do not forget that." He turned to face Alden. "And he is the sole heir."
Callum pivoted toward the Emperor. He bowed—a sharp, rigid angle, distinct from Aldric's fluid motion.
"Your Majesty. The Decree of Caelus I is explicit. Upon an Empress's passing, jurisdiction falls to the Crown or the Heir Apparent." He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "I believe it would be wise to grant the request."
"But he is a child." Aldric's voice pitched up, the smooth cadence fracturing. He gestured frantically at Alden. "He is seventeen, Callum. The court is fragile. One mistake, one misstep—"
"Enough."
The room went still.
Caelus IV raised his head. The movement was slow, dragging against the weight of his exhaustion. His gaze swept the chamber, passing over the advisors to rest on Alden.
He stared at his son. Alden held the look, his posture rigid, refusing to blink.
The Emperor broke the connection. He turned his head to the empty space at his right hand.
"What do you think, Magnus?"
The Emperor's voice dropped. "You oversee his education. Is he capable?"
A middle-aged, dull copper haired man stepped from the shadowed alcove. He wore a pleasant, open smile—but it didn't reach his eyes.
Magnus Millano. Grand Master of the Imperial Academy. The man who'd spent the last decade pouring knowledge into Alden's skull.
He bowed first to the Emperor. Then to the heir. Proper form. Perfect distance.
"Your Majesty, I'm confident in my teaching." He paused, let the words settle. "However, my belief shouldn't dictate the decision of early assignment."
His tone dropped lower. Reasonable. Measured. "Why not see for yourself? A test you deem suitable would convince the court. And the heir."
Aldric Corlen's mouth snapped shut. His gaze dropped to the files stacked before the Emperor. Callum Beaumont adjusted his monocle, studying Alden's face with something that might have been apology.
Magnus just waited.
"Very well."
The Emperor leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked under his weight. He tapped one finger against the armrest—a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"I find the Grand Master's suggestion logical." His eyes locked on Alden. "But remember, Crown Prince. The Inner Court isn't a classroom. Mistakes can't be erased with fresh parchment. You won't get a second chance."
He reached down, pulled a file from the bottom of a precarious stack, and slid it across the desk. The motion sent a small avalanche of paper cascading to the floor. No one moved to pick it up.
"The accident at Rosewick."
The Emperor watched Alden's eyes flick to the folder. Just once. Brief.
"Silver Star claims sabotage. The Alchemists' Conclave claims negligence." He picked up his quill, dipped it into the inkwell. Watched the black liquid drip back into the pot. "They've been bickering for weeks. Reconstruction is stalled. Families are homeless. And I'm tired of hearing about it."
He set the quill down with a soft click.
"Solve it. Find the truth." His voice went flat. "If it was sabotage, I will take the head. If it was negligence, I will take reparations. You have one week."
Alden reached across the table. His gloved hand closed around the file.
"Let me be clear—my aides have struggled with this for weeks. Heavy political implications. Powerful interests on both sides." Caelus IV leaned forward. "Do you think you can manage this crisis?"
He watched his son closely. Expected hesitation. Some flicker of doubt. Some sign that the boy understood what he was asking for.
"I can."
The answer was immediate. Final. He didn't pause to consider, nor did he ask for resources or extensions. For a heartbeat, Caelus IV's eyes flickered with surprise before settling back into scrutiny.
"Very well." He straightened in his chair. "Solve it perfectly, and the reward will be satisfactory. Everything you've requested and more. Until then, you may observe the court as usual."
He leaned forward. Let the weight of the throne press into his words.
"But if you fail to show anything..." A pause. "I might reconsider your position as heir."
The threat hung in the air. Real. Sharp. Not an idle warning.
Alden bowed. His expression remained serene.
"Understood, Your Majesty."
Aldric Corlen looked away with a smile. Callum Beaumont's reaction was different. He offered a curt nod, jaw tight. Magnus Millano simply stared—something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before vanishing like smoke.
Emperor Caelus IV watched his son turn and walk toward the doors. The boy's spine was straight. His steps were measured. He didn't look back.
Not even once.
The heavy doors swung shut with a hollow thud. The sound echoed once, then died, leaving only silence.
Caelus IV sat motionless. Staring at the space where his son had been. The faint, cloying scent of funeral incense still clung to his robes—ghost of a pyre he'd abandoned. It had been less than a day since the bells tolled for Cassandra.
He'd spent that time rehearsing words of comfort. Bracing himself for grief. For a son crushed by seven years of watching his mother die by inches.
But there had been no grief to comfort. No tears to wipe away. No trembling shoulders to steady.
The Emperor sank deeper into his chair. The leather groaned. A cold dread uncoiled in his chest, sliding up his throat like ice water. He tried to swallow it down, but it scraped against his windpipe like broken glass.
'The boy I knew is gone,' Caelus IV thought. 'In his place, a stranger just walked out of this room wearing his face.'
[Emerald Castle, Prince Alden's Private Study]
The door clicked shut, cutting off the noise of the corridor.
Alden walked to his desk. It was a slab of mahogany, stark and empty compared to the barricades of paper in the Emperor's study.
He sat down. Pulled open the drawer. His eyes fixed on the contents as his hand bypassed the official seals and reached for three thin, leather-bound folders tucked near the bottom.
He laid them out in a straight line across the polished wood.
'Callum Beaumont. Aldric Corlen. Grand Master Magnus.'
Three players. Three pieces on a board that had been set long before he'd returned to this timeline.
Alden reached for the file on the right. [Callum Beaumont].
He tapped the cover once. Recalled the monocled man with disdainful sniff aimed at Aldric. The careful citing of law. Callum was a loyalist. Predictable. Useful in his own way.
Alden didn't open the folder. Just slid it to the far corner of the desk, out of the way. Not a threat. Not yet.
His hand moved left. [Aldric Corlen].
He flipped the cover open. Skipped past the biography—third son of a minor house, clawed his way up through charm and calculated marriages. Skipped the list of commendations—most of them bought, a few earned.
He went straight to the back. To the financial ledgers he'd had copied months ago. Years ago. Lifetimes ago, depending on how one counted.
His finger traced down the columns. Stopped at a transaction dated seven years back. The same month the first symptom had appeared. The same week Empress Cassandra's hand had gone numb during a formal dinner.
Alden picked up a quill. Dipped the nib into the pot of crimson ink.
He drew a thick circle around the entry. The ink pooled in the parchment fibers, spreading like blood in water.
He closed the folder. Set it aside.
His eyes moved to the center file. [Grand Master Magnus].
Alden didn't open it. Just stared at the name written in bold, confident script across the leather. He tapped his gloved index finger against the cover.
'Tap. Tap. Tap.'
The sound filled the quiet study. Rhythmic.
He left the folder exactly where it was. Center stage. Directly in his line of sight.
'Not yet,' he thought. 'But soon.'
The board was set. The pieces were in position. Some would move according to plan. Others would need... encouragement.
Alden reached for the thick grey dossier his father had given him.
[The Rosewick Incident].
He placed it on the desk. Reached back into the drawer and pulled out a single sheet of blank parchment, used for official decrees and death warrants.
He picked up the quill again. Wrote a single name in careful script.
[Logan Valecrest]
Beneath it, a location: [The Central Prison, Cell 204]
Alden set the quill down. Stared at the name he'd just written.
In another life—Logan Valecrest would be dragged from that cell three months from today. He'd be paraded through the streets. Accused of crimes he didn't commit. Executed while the crowd cheered for justice that wasn't justice at all.
Alden stood. Picked up the paper. Held it over the candle flame.
The edges curled and blackened. The name Logan Valecrest crumbled into ash, scattering across the desk.
Alden watched until nothing remained but a gray smudge on his fingertip.
A soft smirk touched his lips. He raised his head, his dark eyes fixed on the shadows.