The Emperor's private study was warm. Too warm.
Heavy curtains muffled the storm still raging beyond the palace walls. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light across walls lined with ancient tomes and relics. The flames danced across a table set for tea—two porcelain cups untouched, steam long since faded.
Aden stood before the Emperor, soaked cloak discarded, skin clammy from cold and sweat. His hair clung to his face in wet strands. His fingers twitched.
This is a trap.
The thought wasn't new—it had followed him all the way from Dahaka. But here, in this quiet chamber where time itself seemed to still, it pressed harder.
Julius Chrono reclined in a carved chair of darkwood and velvet, hands steepled beneath his chin. His eyes, half-lidded, reflected the firelight but gave away nothing.
"Tell me everything."
Aden's throat tightened.
He didn't sit. Couldn't. His legs wouldn't let him.
For a moment, silence expanded between them, thick and suffocating. The only sound was the fire, eating through logs like a slow, lazy predator.
'I should tell him.'
He could almost hear it—the voice buried in his spine, the echo of Egmund's laughter from the battlefield. The feel of blood on his fingertips that wasn't his. The way the world bent under his feet, reality itself pulling away from him like rotting cloth.
He should tell the Emperor about the contract. About the devil clawing through his soul. About the moment he let go and something else—something older, crueler—had stepped in.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
'No.'
He couldn't.
Not here. Not now. Not to him.
The Emperor watched him like a hawk might watch a rabbit that had just stepped into the clearing. Not hungry—just waiting to see which direction the prey would run.
So Aden chose one.
"I lost control," he said, voice hollow. "I went berserk. I—" He swallowed. "I killed everything in the field. Monsters. Soldiers. Everyone."
The lie came with surprising ease.
A clean cut. Brutal, believable.
Let them think it was bloodlust. Madness. A trauma-triggered explosion of power.
Because the alternative—the truth—was worse.
Far worse.
The Emperor didn't flinch. Didn't speak.
He just stared.
The silence stretched until Aden thought he might be asked to leave. Or killed. Or both.
Then, Julius leaned forward and reached for the teacup, lifting it but not drinking.
"You've tasted what it means to wield power you don't understand," he said quietly.
Aden's pulse thudded in his ears.
"If a flower bloomed in the wrong season, would you call it a failure or a miracle?"
The Emperor set the cup down. Didn't even glance at the steamless liquid. "If you believe it was a mistake…"
He paused.
"…Then prove it was one you can rise from."
Aden didn't answer.
He couldn't tell if he was being forgiven—or tested. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.
He doesn't believe me. Not entirely.
But he wasn't calling the bluff either.
That was worse.
Julius Chrono didn't need to confront someone to break them. He just had to watch. Wait. Let them fall apart on their own.
And part of Aden—tired, frayed, and burning with guilt—wondered if that was already happening.
He finally sat, slow and stiff, lowering himself into the chair across from the Emperor. The cushion creaked beneath his weight. His eyes locked on the fire.
No more words came.
He didn't sip the tea. Didn't lift his hands.
He just sat there in the heat, the silence, the lie.
Trying to believe it himself.
The fire had burned lower by the time Julius Chrono finally spoke again. Its light, once warm and sharp, had dulled into embers—long shadows crawling up the bookshelves, flickering across ancient portraits that lined the walls.
Aden still hadn't touched the tea.
He sat stiffly, the silence wrapping around him like a noose that hadn't yet tightened.
The Emperor rose, slow and deliberate, his robes whispering across the carpeted floor. He moved to the tall window behind his desk, pushed aside a curtain, and watched the storm.
Rain traced rivers down the glass. Thunder cracked distantly. In the dim reflection, Aden could see only the Emperor's outline—tall, still, and carved of something harder than bone.
"I'll handle the fallout."
The words dropped like iron into the room.
"I'll redirect the blame. Discredit any survivor accounts. Delay the generals and the Senate dogs sniffing at your name. You'll be buried under paperwork and reclassified as a classified tragedy until I say otherwise."
Aden said nothing. His throat still burned.
The Emperor turned, arms crossed behind his back.
"But you can't stay here. Not in the capital. Not now."
Aden raised his head slowly, gaze meeting the Emperor's.
"Where do I go?"
"Somewhere quiet. Somewhere forgotten. Disappear. Train. Rebuild. Whatever broke inside you—fix it."
A pause.
Then, more quietly: "And when you come back, Aden Vasco… don't apologize again."
Aden let those words sink in.
He wanted to argue. To ask why the Emperor was helping him. To question what sort of ruler covers for someone who may have unleashed hell on a battlefield.
But all he managed was a quiet nod.
"…Thank you."
Julius Chrono didn't smile. He didn't even blink.
He stepped back to the desk, picked up a sealed scroll, and placed it in Aden's direction.
"Take this. It'll grant you passage and silence. A shadow's blessing from the crown."
Aden took the scroll but didn't open it. The seal was stamped with the mark of the Twelfth Seat—his seat. Already ghosted by blood and lies.
As he stood to leave, hand tightening around the scroll, the Emperor spoke once more.
Low. Almost offhand.
"Now you owe me one."
Aden froze.
He didn't turn back.
He just nodded once—and walked out.
The warmth of the fire no longer reached him.
And in the silence behind him, Julius Chrono poured himself a cup of cold tea. Still untouched. Still bitter.
And still, somehow, exactly as he preferred it.