Chapter 8.5 The Legend of the Eastern Knight
The echoes of the ballroom had faded, replaced by the crackle of a private hearth in the Astra family's guest wing. Seraphina sat by the fire, the Ruby of Astra heavy and cold against her collarbone. The doubt she had felt in the hall continued to gnaw at her.
Her father, Duke Astra, sat across from her, his usual stern military bearing softened by the nostalgia of the evening. He was staring at the ruby, but his eyes were miles away—back in the blood and dust of a twenty-year-old war.
"Father," Seraphina said softly, her emerald eyes reflecting the flames. "The Emperor… he speaks of you with such affection. Was it always like this? Even before I was born?"
The Duke let out a long, slow breath. "He isn't just a sovereign to me, Seraphina. He is the man who stood back-to-back with me when the world was ending. And your mother was the one who held us both together."
He looked at Seraphina, his gaze intensifying. "The history books say the Eastern Kingdom sent aid, but they don't tell the truth. They sent a legion of knights led by Sarah. She wasn't just a noblewoman; she was their finest blade. When the barbarians had us pinned at the Iron Pass, she rode in like a storm. She was the one who taught the Emperor and me that a crown is nothing if you can't swing a sword in the mud with your men."
He laughed, a rare, hearty sound. "The Emperor was smitten instantly. Not because of her beauty, but because she was the only person who dared to tell him he was being a fool. We were a triad. We shared bread, scars, and dreams. He loved her, Seraphina. He loves you because you are the living image of the woman who saved us both."
Seraphina felt the weight of her doubt shifting. The story of their shared past was so grounded, so human, that the image of the Evil Emperor began to blur.
"Father," she said, her voice trembling. "If he loves us so much... then what is this?"
She reached into her bodice and pulled out the crumpled, yellowed letter—the "Not Now" note that had been the foundation of her fear. She handed it to the Duke, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The Duke took the parchment, squinting at the sharp, elegant script in the firelight. He read the words: 'Not now.'
Suddenly, the Duke let out a rough, unexpected chuckle. He shook his head, tossing the paper back onto the table with a dismissive wave.
"Seraphina, where did you find this rubbish?" he asked, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
"Is... is it not his?" she stammered.
"Gods, no," the Duke laughed. "I've spent twenty years deciphering that man's reports. The Emperor has many talents, but penmanship is not one of them. His handwriting is a disaster—it looks like a spider fell into an inkpot and had a seizure across the page. It's barely readable, even to me. This?" He pointed to the elegant, flowing ink. "This is far too pretty. This is the hand of a scholar or a clerk, not a soldier like him."
Seraphina sat in stunned silence. The "Not Now" letter—the very thing that had fueled her and Killian's conviction that the Emperor was their murderer—was a forgery.
If the Emperor didn't write it, she thought, her blood turning to ice, then someone has been orchestrating our mutual destruction since before I even died.
The Duke stood up, kissing her forehead. "You've been spending too much time with those gloomy knights of yours. You're seeing ghosts in every shadow. Rest, my jewel. You are among friends."
As the Duke left the room, Seraphina looked at the letter again. If the Emperor wasn't the monster, then they had just spent the entire night nearly assassinating a man who truly loved them. She looked at the Ruby of Astra on her neck, then toward the door where Killian was standing guard.
"Killian," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "We've made a terrible mistake. The monster isn't on the throne."