Chapter 216: Let the game begin.

The armory remained silent long after Catherine’s sobs faded into tired shivers.

Silent—except for the faint metallic tremors still rolling through the scattered armor pieces, the trembling of steel on stone mimicking frightened ghosts clinging to the memory of her earlier rampage.

Those quivering echoes skittered along the floor as if the armor itself recoiled from the storm she had unleashed.

Catherine clung to Aiden, breath shaking in his chestplate, fingers digging into the back seams of his armor hard enough to creak the leather beneath.

Her grip wasn’t a plea for comfort—it was desperation, a last mooring to something solid while the entire world ripped out from beneath her. She held him as though releasing even a fraction of her grip would let the grief swallow her whole.

Aiden did not move.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t adjust his stance. He simply stood firm, arms wrapping gently but unwaveringly around her trembling frame.

He held her with the stillness of a man anchoring a collapsing world, letting her grief expend itself against him until the tremors slowed, softened, and sank into something quieter. Her violent shaking ebbed to exhausted quivers.

Her sobs shrank to fractured breaths that shuddered against his chest.

When her knees finally threatened to buckle, he guided her downward—a motion slow, careful, almost reverent—to the nearest stone bench. The slab was cracked, a wedge carved out where an axe had been hurled earlier.

Catherine settled heavily, armor scraping with a dull, defeated clang, head falling forward until her hair slid around her face in a tangled golden curtain. The light strands concealed the fractured devastation beneath, as if she were hiding from the world’s cruelty—or shielding the world from seeing her broken.

Her voice came out hoarse. Scraped raw.

"Aiden... They brought the body. They—"

Her throat closed, strangling the next words.

She forced a swallow.

"I saw him. It was him. His armor. His crest. His blood."

Her fingers clenched over her knees, metal creaking.

" They....They killed my father."

Aiden lowered to one knee in front of her. Not in submission, but in grounding—bringing himself into the narrow pocket of her collapsing reality, forcing her to see something steady.

"Catherine," he said quietly. "Look at me."

She didn’t.

Her gaze stayed locked on the floor, as if the truth lived there—cold, hard, and merciless. Her shoulders tightened further, the armor plates trembling in sync with her breath.

Aiden reached up and lifted her chin with slow, gentle pressure.

Her eyes met his.

Bloodshot. Swollen. Hollowed by shock, but glinting with embers of something she didn’t yet fully understand.

Something he recognized.

Doubt.

The kind that worms beneath grief like a crack beneath ice—small, dangerous, capable of splitting everything apart with the slightest pressure.

"I know what I saw..." Catherine whispered, but her voice lacked its usual certainty. "But... something felt wrong. I shouldn’t say it. I—maybe I’m going mad."

Aiden shook his head slightly, thumb brushing her jaw, the tiniest reassurance.

"You’re not."

Catherine inhaled sharply, ribs shaking beneath her breastplate. For a brief second, her eyes flickered—fear, confusion, the fragile spark of a memory trying to surface. And then—

Light trembled beneath her armor.

Golden light.

Faint at first, like dying embers glowing under ash. Then stronger—flickering upward through the seams of her plates like molten sunlight clawing free.

A shimmer danced across her gauntlets. Her pauldrons brightened, veins of luminous gold pulsating beneath the metal as if her very blood were turning into light.

Catherine gasped.

Her hand flew to her chest, gripping the metal over her heart.

"Aiden!" she choked. "Something—something—inside—"

She bent forward sharply, teeth grinding, breath breaking into ragged bursts. The golden radiance pulsed harder, tremors spreading across her skin. Her armor vibrated as if reacting, responding—not resisting.

Then—

Like a lock breaking—

The light burst outward.

A silent explosion.

No sound, no heat—just a sphere of golden mana expanding from her center like a rising sun. It washed across the armory, illuminating the shattered armor and gouged walls with solemn brilliance.

Inside that glowing sphere, images flickered.

Not images.

Memories.

Catherine’s breath stuttered. Her eyelashes fluttered wildly.

"My... father...!"

Aiden’s eyes narrowed.

He recognized the nature of this magic instantly.

Not a simple memory spell.

No—something deeper. Older. Forbidden.

A legacy imprint.

A message sealed in blood and mana. A last testament carved into the soul, dormant until triggered by death or betrayal.

And Catherine was receiving it now.

Her pupils constricted as her father’s voice—low, grave, trembling with urgency—filled her mind.

Catherine... if you’re hearing this, then I am either dead... or someone wants you to believe I am.

Her entire body locked.

Aiden surged forward, catching her shoulders before she slid off the bench. Her breathing turned erratic, almost strangled, as the golden memory continued unfolding around her.

My death will be staged. My corpse replaced. My killers unknown. Trust no messenger. Trust no report. Trust no house. Not even ours...

Catherine’s fingers spasmed. Her jaw trembled.

A shiver ran through her frame so violently Aiden tightened his grip, steadying her as though she were standing at the edge of a cliff.

Her father’s voice grew heavier, strained.

But you... you must do one thing. Find the helm—the true helm. The one I hid. The one I masked. Only it holds the answer to—

The memory shattered.

Golden light fractured into floating shards before dissolving into air. Catherine lurched forward with a harsh, desperate gasp, clutching her chest and curling into herself as though the remnants of the magic burned from the inside out.

A droplet of sweat slid down her temple, catching the last fleck of gold before falling.

Aiden steadied her again until she finally lifted her head, eyes still glowing faintly with fading memory-light.

"Aiden..."

Her voice trembled.

"My father...there’s .... there’s a chance...he might not be dead..."

Aiden’s jaw tightened.

He had suspected this outcome the moment the golden flare began. But hearing her say it—hearing the fragile thread of hope laced with terror—shifted everything. It took the situation from dangerous to catastrophic.

"Then someone staged his death," Aiden said. "And whoever did... has influence."

Catherine’s lips trembled. She dragged a gauntleted hand across her mouth, voice raw.

"He said to find a helm," she whispered. "A special one. The real one. I... I don’t know where to start."

"You do," Aiden murmured.

She blinked, startled.

He rose to his feet slowly, watching her with a certainty she didn’t yet possess.

"Your father wasn’t speaking as the Archduke," he said. "He was speaking to his daughter. If he hid it, he hid it somewhere only

you

would understand."

Catherine swallowed, throat working, and her breathing steadied in small increments—still trembling, but with focus replacing the earlier panic.

Aiden extended a hand.

"I’ll help you."

Her eyes glistened—not out of weakness, but out of exhaustion, relief, and buried grief clashing inside her.

"Aiden..."

His gaze softened for a single heartbeat.

Then the moment snapped.

The reality of what she’d seen—what she’d remembered—rose between them, sharp-edged and unforgiving.

Aiden’s eyes drifted to the armory around them.

Shattered armor.

Bent blades.

Splintered wood from racks she had kicked apart.

The lingering scent of smoke and metal and rage.

Whoever staged the Archduke’s death had gotten close enough to steal his true corpse... or create a perfect fake. Both possibilities were equally troubling, equally threatening.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye made Aiden still.

The torches on the wall flickered.

Just once.

Barely noticeable—but noticeable enough for someone who spent a lifetime sensing danger before it struck.

Mana shifted behind him.

Silent. Razor-sharp.

Cold enough to feel like a blade touching the back of his neck.

He didn’t turn.

He simply said:

"Come out."

Catherine’s head snapped up, startled, her hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of her sword.

A shadow detached from the far corner of the armory—soundless, smooth, moving with the precision of a falling leaf guided by intent rather than gravity.

A figure in black stepped forward.

Long coat.

Thin gloves.

Boots that made no sound even on the scattered metal shards.

And a smooth, featureless mask reflecting no light.

Aiden recognized the insignia etched subtly on the shoulder.

The Imperial Assassins.

The Emperor’s personal shadows.

His unseen hands.

His executioners.

The figure bowed their head.

"Catherine Leonidus," the voice whispered—a modulated, calm tone that carried the unnatural stillness of a voice crafted rather than born. "The Emperor sends a message."

Aiden didn’t blink.

Catherine’s grip tightened on her sword.

The assassin raised a gloved hand, palm forward—not in threat, but in a quiet request for restraint.

"The Emperor says this: stop searching. Do not investigate the Archduke’s death."

The words dropped into the room like stones into cold water.

Catherine stiffened.

"What?" she hissed. The golden glow seeped back into her armor—not bright, but simmering, an ember reigniting.

"Why would His Majesty—why forbid—"

The assassin tilted their head ever so slightly.

"The Emperor also says: if you continue... you will force the empire into early collapse."

Catherine’s face drained of color.

Aiden’s did not.

His voice stayed even.

"And if she don’t?"

A pause.

When the assassin spoke, the armor pieces on the floor seemed to quiet in response, as though listening.

"Then he will handle you... himself."

Silence crashed over them.

Catherine trembled—not from fear, but from fury coiling deep in her gut.

Aiden exhaled slowly.

’No, there’s something wrong here, the plot, it shouldn’t change so abruptly...’ he thought.

"Tell this to anyone who sent you...," he said, rising to his full height, "Our house will decide what we do, not to some threat."

The assassin did not argue. Did not delay.

They simply vanished.

One blink—and gone.

No sound. No displacement of air. Not even a fading echo.

Catherine released a ragged breath.

"Aiden...maybe the Emperor—he—"

"No....it’s not the emperor, somebody is playing games here, a very nasty game at that."