Chapter 7: The Ghost in the Glass
The silence in the cellar was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic drip of condensation from the stone ceiling. Killian stood like a gargoyle in the shadows, his hand resting heavily on the hilt of his the sword . His eyes, sharp and predatory, tracked every movement of the two Black Wing knights as they moved through the rows of oak barrels.
He had already resolved his path. If these men pulled a vial of poison from a hidden crevice—the very "evidence" he expected them to plant—he would not let them leave this cellar alive. He was prepared to stain the Astra floor with their blood to stop the frame-job before it could begin.
"Check the tenth-year vintage," Killian commanded, his voice a low, warning growl.
The knights worked with surgical precision, tapping on wood and checking seals. Killian watched their hands with narrowed eyes, waiting for the sleight of hand, the moment a glass vial would "miraculously" appear from a sleeve.
But it never happened.
After an hour of meticulous searching, the lead knight stood up and wiped his brow. He looked at Killian with a mix of relief and genuine confusion. "Nothing, Commander. The seals are intact. The tip must have been a fabrication by someone wishing to sow discord."
Killian froze. His grip on his sword didn't loosen; it tightened. A cold, oily dread began to slide down his spine. Why didn't they plant it? The Emperor wouldn't send them here just to find nothing. Not if he truly remembers the past.
As the knights began to pack their tools, the lead guard reached into his inner tunic. "One more thing, Commander. During our briefing, a messenger handed me this. He said it was found among the papers of the Imperial Council, addressed to the Astra traitors, but the Emperor insisted it be delivered only after the search proved your innocence. As a... reminder of his mercy, I suppose."
He handed Killian a letter. It was a heavy, cream-colored parchment. There was no wax seal, just a jaggedly folded edge.
Killian waited until the guards had ascended the stairs before he flicked the parchment open. His eyes scanned the single line of text written in a familiar, elegant gold-flecked ink—the ink of the Emperor.
His blood turned to ice. The letter didn't contain an order or a greeting. It simply read:
"Not now."
Killian's hand shook, the paper crinkling under his grip. The "not now" was the most terrifying part. It meant the Emperor wasn't looking for a quick execution in a cellar. He was playing a long, agonizing game of psychological torture, letting them live just long enough to feel the noose tighten.
Back in the Foyer..
."A misunderstanding! The Emperor will be so relieved," Caspian was saying, his voice bright and honest as the two knights returned and gave their nod of clearance.
Seraphine forced a smile, but her eyes were fixed on the cellar door. She saw Killian emerge a moment later, his face a mask of pale, rigid stone. He didn't look like a man who had just been cleared; he looked like a man who had seen his own grave.
He caught her eye and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. They found nothing.
Seraphine felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. In her past life, the evidence was found immediately. But now, the Emperor was being patient. He was letting them prove their own "innocence" to the world, making them look like the favored children of the Empire, so that when the final blow came, no one would believe they were anything but the villains they were "meant" to be.
"Then we shall depart for the Capital at dawn," Seraphine said, her voice sounding like glass about to shatter. "Since there is nothing to fear."
As Caspian led the knights out to tend to their horses, Killian strode across the foyer to Seraphine's side. He didn't say a word. He simply pressed the parchment into her hand.
Seraphine looked at the words: "Not now."
She felt that , He wasn't just talking to her. He was talking to Killian, to Alaric, to Evelina. He was telling them that he knew they remembered. He was telling them that the reset hadn't saved them—it had just given him a second chance to watch them suffer.
"He's not striking yet," Seraphina whispered, her fingers tracing the gold ink. "He wants us to walk into the palace ourselves. He wants us to choose to walk into the trap."
"Then we walk in with our eyes open," Killian hissed, his crimson eyes burning with a lethal clarity. "He thinks he's the only one who remembers how this story ends. He's wrong."