“Everyone wears a mask. Some to appear stronger, others more confident, and some so that their true self is never known. And only in the silence of a mirror can your true self be revealed—if you are human.”

  [ 09th Lumiran 1749 | Fardin | 23:12 | Lenford Estate ]

  I returned to the Lenford estate as the night-shrouded city of Sumerenn was already sinking into its fitful, anxious sleep.The night here offered no peace; it merely changed the scenery, releasing onto the cobblestone streets the shadows that hid behind masks of propriety by day. The air was still and heavy, smelling of cooled stone and the faint rot from the canals—the city exhaling its daytime fears.

  Nova met me at the entrance to our wing. She wasn't waiting; she was keeping vigil. Her silhouette was frozen in the doorway, carved from the corridor's gloom. Even in the dim light of the magical sconce, I could see her fingers digging into the ornate doorframe, betraying a tension she so carefully concealed behind a mask of composure. She gave a curt nod—not a greeting, but an acknowledgment of my return. She started to follow me but stopped at the threshold of the sitting room, as if afraid to cross an invisible line.

  The princess was not asleep. She stood by a tall, arched window, her figure seeming a part of the mansion architecture itself.She wasn't just looking into the darkness; she was reading it, as if trying to decipher a message that wasn't there. She wore a simple dark dress of heavy silk, unadorned, but even in it, she looked like a queen imprisoned in a castle of her own making.

  “I have done everything we agreed upon,” I said, breaking the silence. My voice sounded too distinct, almost out of place.“Frederik is with your people.”

  Evelina turned slowly. Her honey-colored eyes held neither relief nor triumph—only a dull, frozen anxiety, like ice over a deep lake. Her fingers nervously gripped the cold marble of the windowsill. “I already know, Arta. That’s not the issue.” She shook her head as if to ward off her own thoughts. “Is this a victory? Answer me.”

  “It is a completed task,” I replied. The morality of her actions was too human a subjective construct, something that did not affect the final outcome. The rest was her own reflection.

  “That’s just like you,” Evelina said, wearily tucking back a dark strand of hair that had escaped her coiffure. “Did Isa suspect anything?”

  “She believes it was the work of the crown’s enemies.” I paused, preparing Evelina for the next piece of information.“The only deviation was Liam. He attempted to eliminate Frederik. I had to eliminate him instead.”

  Evelina took a deep breath but showed no surprise. Her gaze slid past me to Nova, who was still frozen on the threshold like a ghost, hesitant to enter the room.

  “Evelina…” Nova began.

  “Go and rest,” Evelina replied in an even tone, not turning around. “I need to think. Alone. All discussions can wait until tomorrow.”

  Nova cast a look at me, a mixture of question and plea. I gave a barely perceptible shake of my head. She understood.With a nod, she silently withdrew, leaving Evelina alone with her victory, which felt so much like a defeat.

  Later, already in my room, I heard a quiet, hesitant knock on the door. It was Nova.

  She entered without lighting the magical lamp. The room was submerged in soft, deep shadows. This artificial, oppressive luxury was the hallmark of this house. The room I occupied was a flawless system, calibrated to the last millimeter. A high ceiling, heavy furniture of dark oak arranged with geometric precision. Light fell from a narrow window in the only correct way, cutting the gloom into perfect segments. It was a room-as-function, created not for living, but for displaying status. It had no flaws, but it also had no breath. This cold perfection was reflected in the figure of Nova, frozen at the entrance.

  “She doesn’t want to talk,” Nova whispered, taking a step closer, her shadow falling across the bedspread. “I’ve never seen her like this. It’s as if she’s afraid not of her enemies, but of herself.”

  “Close the door if you wish to continue this conversation,” I answered in an even voice from my bed.

  Nova obeyed. Her shadow grew denser, the anxiety within her almost tangible. She walked to the foot of my bed and sighed silently, as if it were the last breath of air in her life.

  “You do understand this isn’t the end, Nova. This is the point of no return.”

  “I know, Arta, but what are we supposed to do?…” A nervous tremor ran through her voice.

  “For a start, think. What will Vespera do when she finds out where Frederik is?”

  “She… she’ll free him. It’s a matter of days,” Nova suggested uncertainly.

  “Correct. And what will happen when the prince, popular among the people and believed to be the victim of a conspiracy,returns?”

  “A… civil war will begin,” she breathed out, the words sounding like a death sentence.

  “Precisely. Now let’s consider the options. What do you propose we ‘do’?”

  “Maybe force him to sign an abdication of his rights to the throne?” Nova suggested in a low voice.

  “Pointless. Once free, he’ll declare the document was signed under duress. He will emerge unscathed, while Evelina will become a tyrant in the eyes of the Senate. The system will turn against her.”

  “Then the only thing left is… to kill him,” Nova whispered. She didn't understand. Games with Chaotic-Darkness do not end so simply. Instead of a dead Frederik, they risked getting a shell controlled by a demonic entity.

  “Eliminating Frederik is the most reckless of all possible options,” I cut in. “As paradoxical as it sounds, Nova, he must now become our ally. Evelina could stage his release, presenting it as an act of sisterly love. Develop any strategy that involves forming an alliance.”

  “Evelina won’t agree…” Nova said bitterly.

  “She has made a decision whose consequences she has yet to grasp. We have done our part. Now, it is her move. We can only attempt to correct her course.”

  Nova sank wearily onto the edge of my bed. Her shoulders slumped. “What should we do, Arta? Just wait?”

  She was silent, then pulled two folded tickets from her pocket. The paper was thin, almost weightless, with elegant gold filigree.

  “I… I bought these as soon as I returned to Sumerenn,” her voice trembled. “I thought maybe it would help… as a distraction. Remember we spoke of the theater? The play is ‘The Gardener and the Queen.’ They say it’s… very powerful.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  She handed me one of the tickets.

  “Let’s go tomorrow, Arta. Just for a few hours. To keep from going mad from this tension.”

  I took the ticket. Sometimes, in the most complex of games, you must make a move that doesn’t lead to victory, but simply allows you to remain on the board.

  “Very well. Sometimes, even the most steadfast require a change of scenery.”

  Nova stood up.

  “Thank you, Arta. Good night.” She paused at the door.

  “Good night, Nova.”

  『 ?? 』━━━???━━━『 ? 』

  [ 10th Lumiran 1749 | Yuvel | 09:10 | Lenford Estate ]

  The next morning, the Lenford estate greeted us with a cold, ringing silence. We dressed in simple, unremarkable clothes so as not to draw attention in the city and descended the main staircase. Our footsteps on the marble steps echoed in the empty hall. As we passed the sitting room on our way to the exit, I saw Elizaveta. She was sitting in an armchair by the hearth, holding a porcelain cup with such stillness it seemed an extension of her hand. Nova slowed her pace to say goodbye. Elizaveta’s gaze slid over her—brief, cold, cutting. She said nothing. But in that silence was everything: condemnation, a cold fury over the situation with Beatrice, a reminder of boundaries crossed. A flawlessly executed social blow. Nova nodded silently and hurried after me.

  We stepped outside. The city seemed deceptively calm, the first rays of light just beginning to break through the leaden clouds. It was as if yesterday’s shadows had donned their daytime masks once more. We hailed a carriage on the corner and rode toward the central square.

  The Royal Theater of Sumerenn was a fragment of another world. Its facade of milky-white marble, adorned with slender columns and bas-reliefs, stood in defiant contrast to the city’s grim gothic architecture. We disembarked at a distance, making way for noblewomen in rustling silk gowns and their escorts in formal coats.

  Inside, we were enveloped by a wave of scents: hot candle wax, dry lavender from sachets, the centuries-old dust that lives only in old theaters, and expensive, complex perfumes. Vaulted ceilings with gilded stucco, crystal chandeliers fracturing the light into a thousand sparks. The walls were upholstered in dark cherry velvet, which absorbed the noise of the crowd, turning it into a muted, thrilling hum.

  Nova walked slightly ahead. Her gray dress of fine wool seemed ascetic against this splendor, but the cold grace of her posture set her apart from the crowd. She wasn't enjoying the atmosphere; she was trying to hold her ground within it.

  Our seats were in the stalls, seventh row. The velvet of the chairs was soft, almost alive. Nova clasped her fingers in her lap, her gaze fixed on the massive, still-closed curtain, on which a scene of the goddess of life hunting was embroidered in gold.

  “Thank you for coming with me,” she whispered. “Sometimes… you just want to watch someone else’s story. To stop thinking about your own.”

  “People seek in others’ stories not oblivion, but a confirmation of their own laws,” I replied just as quietly. “They watch other worlds crumble to be sure of the strength of their own. Or of its fragility. It is not an escape. It is a consultation with an inner map.”

  “A consultation with a map…” she repeated, almost soundlessly. “And what if your map… doesn’t exist yet?”

  “Then you must draw one. It will help you stay on the correct path.”

  The lights in the hall slowly dimmed. The first, cautious notes of violins rose from the orchestra pit, and the hum of the crowd subsided. The curtain slowly, almost reluctantly, began to rise, revealing a stage bathed in a soft, ethereal light.

  The gardener was the first to appear. The set depicted a perfect, almost sterile garden: geometrically trimmed bushes, a fountain with a frozen nymph, roses with unnaturally large buds. His movements, calibrated with mathematical precision, carried the dignity of a closed system. Then, on a high, ivy-covered balcony, the queen appeared. The luxury of her gown was lost against a backdrop of cosmic boredom, as cold and absolute as the vacuum between stars.

  This was not a drama. It was a demonstration of a fundamental law. The entropic vacuum of her essence was inevitably drawn to the stable, closed system of his existence. Chaos always seeks order—not for harmony, but for consumption. Either it will devour the structure, or the structure will bring order to it. The outcome was predetermined before the curtain even rose.

  Nova leaned forward slightly.

  “How sad she is…” she whispered. She did not see status. She saw loneliness.

  The light dimmed for a moment, and a quiet flute melody changed the scenery. The garden vanished, replaced by the queen’s opulent but cold chambers. A long table, laden with mountains of untouched food, a swarm of bustling servants—all of it only emphasized her all-consuming indifference. She stood on the balcony again, her gaze now fixed on the garden, where the gardener was pruning roses with graceful precision. For the first time, a flicker of interest lit her eyes.

  “He doesn’t even notice her,” Nova’s voice held a note of admiration. “He’s just… doing his job.”

  The scene changed again. The music fell silent, and the light focused on the queen and the gardener. At her command, the guards brought him to her chambers. Their dialogue was an exchange of data between two different systems. She tried to understand his “purpose.” He answered simply, directly, maintaining protocol. Fascinated, she gave an illogical command, born of an emotional impulse: “Amuse me.” The gardener’s response was risky but brilliant: he would show her the blooming of the “Ephemeria,” the rarest of flowers, which blossomed only once a year, at night. And that night was tomorrow.

  “Surprise me…” Nova repeated, her eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness.

  She cast a quick, almost unconscious glance at me. I smiled silently.

  When night fell on the stage, the music became quiet, almost unearthly. The queen came to the garden in secret. On a dais, an actress in a costume imitating a bud slowly unfurled petals woven from moonlight to the quiet music of a harp. They glowed from within, and the queen, forgetting herself, leaned forward, her face illuminated for the first time by a living emotion. A quiet, almost inaudible sigh swept through the hall, and Nova pressed a hand to her chest. “It’s… it’s a miracle,” she whispered.

  The next day, the queen rewarded the gardener. And at that moment, the king appeared on stage for the first time. His heavy, oppressive figure instantly changed the atmosphere. The music cut off mid-note. His gaze, full of venom and undisguised hatred, was fixed on the gardener. The system had been destabilized. He ordered the gardener seized, accusing him of witchcraft.

  “Oh no…” Nova whispered tensely. “He’s going to ruin everything…”

  The atmosphere shifted abruptly. The soft light was replaced by anxious crimson flashes. That night, the queen herself freed the gardener. But the frenzied king burst into the dungeon. Seeing them together, he drew his sword and dealt her a fatal blow.

  A sacrifice born of feeling, not calculation. The most inefficient form of energy expenditure. The queen could have changed the system using its own rules. But she chose the path of emotion—a short path leading nowhere. Her death was not a tragedy, but the logical end to a chain of irrational choices.

  The moment the sword pierced the queen, Nova drew a sharp breath. A short, strangled sound, like a sob, was lost in the silence of the hall.

  The gardener did not flee. He raised a rebellion. The final battle unfolded on a vast poppy field—the red canvas of the stage billowed under gusts of theatrical wind. In the center of the battle, the gardener fought the king. He fought with the desperation of the doomed and fell at the tyrant’s hand. Legend held that the field came to be called “The Gardener’s Blood.”

  The curtain slowly fell. For a moment, an absolute silence hung in the hall, and then it erupted in a storm of applause. Nova did not move, her face was pale.

  The entire play was a chain of predictable mistakes. An impulse, mistaken for a feeling, had destroyed everything. Love, the subject of mortal legends, had once again demonstrated only the beauty of decay.

  I mimicked a gesture of comfort, placing a hand on Nova's shoulder. She started and turned her face to me. Her eyes were moist.

  “That… that was so… unfair,” she whispered.

  “It was a story about consequences,” I replied in an even voice.

  She looked at me, and in her gaze, for the first time, I saw not just admiration or fear. I saw a desperate attempt to understand.

  “But aren’t feelings… isn’t love an excuse in itself? Isn’t it worth forgetting the consequences?” Her voice trembled. She was not asking about the queen. She was asking about herself.

  “Feelings are to be managed, Nova, not merely excused,” I replied. “They can be the reason for an action, but they do not cancel its result. Fire provides warmth, but it also burns. What matters is not what you feel, but where that feeling leads you.”

  Nova looked at me, and I saw the last hope for simple comfort die in her eyes. She had wanted to hear that love forgives all. And I had told her that love is just another force, subject to the same universal laws.

  The hall thundered with applause, but I watched Nova and understood: she had seen not just a play on the stage. She had seen a mirror. And she did not like the reflection. She wanted to shatter it but didn't know how. And that crack in her soul might require something to fill it. Or to silence it.