The storm hadn't let up.
Sheets of rain battered the imperial palace as dawn crawled into the sky, pale and trembling behind thick black clouds. Thunder cracked above the spires, echoing across the capital like the drums of a coming war.
The balcony stood exposed to the elements—no roof, no shelter, only slick marble and wind that cut through bone. And yet, Julius Chrono, Emperor of Chronos, remained unmoved.
He stood at the edge of the platform, his loose robes soaked through, clinging to his tall frame like shadow-stained silk. One hand rested on the carved railing, the other tucked behind his back. His golden hair, usually immaculate, trailed in the wind like a banner. Like he had been waiting for someone. Lightning lit the sky.
And behind him—silent, breathless—Aden Vasco stepped into the storm.
His boots squelched against the wet stone. Mud caked his cloak. His skin was pale beneath layers of dirt and dried blood. He looked like something that had clawed its way out of the grave.
And in many ways, he had.
Another thunderclap split the heavens, casting Aden's shadow long across the marble.
The Emperor didn't turn.
"Didn't think I'd be seeing you this early, Aden Vasco," he said, calm and unhurried.
Aden stood behind him, breathing hard. His throat burned. Every inch of him hurt. But none of it compared to what churned beneath his ribs.
Guilt. Rage. Fear.
He didn't know which feeling was winning. Maybe none of them. Maybe he'd already lost.
"I made a mistake," he said.
He hadn't meant to say it like that—so blunt, so small. But it was all he had left. His voice cracked halfway through, too dry from hours of wind and ash and screaming.
The Emperor finally looked back.
His eyes—sharp and unreadable—met Aden's across the rain. He studied the boy, the storm, the madness wrapped around his aura like a second skin. He saw too much. He always had.
Then he nodded toward the inner chamber.
"Take a seat."
Aden didn't move.
His legs didn't answer right away. Not because they were sore—though they were—but because of something else. Something cold that had settled in his chest.
'Why am I here?'
He'd run to escape. He'd run to forget. But he'd ended up here, in the lion's den, asking for judgment.
'Because you had nowhere else to go.'
The realization stung worse than the rain.
He didn't trust the Emperor. Never had. But Julius Chrono had always known what others refused to see. If anyone could understand what had just awoken inside him—what had taken control of his body, turned his army into mulch, and whispered sweet violence into his ear—it was the man on this balcony.
So Aden stepped forward.
His boots dragged puddles behind them. He passed the Emperor, shoulders squared though everything in him screamed to bow.
Inside, the chamber was dim—lit only by guttering oil lamps and the occasional flash of lightning through the rain-slicked glass. A single table sat at the center, with two seats. No guards. No councilors.
Just the Emperor and him.
Aden lowered himself into the far chair.
The cushion gave under his weight, soft but cold. The table in front of him was empty. No food. No wine. Just polished obsidian surface and the quiet tapping of rain on stone.
He didn't look up.
He could still feel it—Egmund—coiled inside his chest like smoke trapped in glass. Not speaking. Not mocking. Just… waiting.
'What the hell did you do to me?'
Aden clenched his jaw.
He could still see it: the moment the spell broke. His soldiers screaming. Rhea's face contorted in horror. The blood boiling in midair. The black sun.
He'd wanted strength.
He hadn't known the cost.
"You're not going to ask what happened?" Aden muttered, finally lifting his eyes.
Julius had seated himself across from him, elbows resting lightly on the armrests, as calm as if they were discussing garden renovations.
"Right.. So tell me what happened," the Emperor said.
Aden frowned. "I—"
"Lets take this nice and slow, what did you do?."
Aden stiffened.
Thunder rolled in the distance.
He didn't reply.
He wasn't sure he could.