Tenebrae's position in the palace had always been negligible—a ghost haunting the edges of imperial life. It was clear that Lady Rachel, pitying her circumstance, had sent her representative, Bishop Marik, to offer assistance. Upon learning of Tenebrae's plight, the Bishop had readily become her ally.
He understood Tenebrae's wish to destroy her own bloodline. He granted her an indulgence to kill her father and sisters, and even constructed the stage upon which she could perform the deed.
Saraka's voice was soft with sympathy as she poured holy water over Tenebrae's back—the flesh she had just sliced open with her blade.
"Me too. Bishop Marik changed my life."
---
Saraka had originally been a pagan child—one who deserved death by flame. Yet Bishop Marik, who should have burned her alongside her father, had instead pulled her from the pyre.
He rescued her because he needed a child without status. At the time, his health was rapidly deteriorating, and he knew death approached. But Bishop Marik stood at the height of his power then, his influence built upon the massacre of pagans. The uproar that would follow news of his illness and death would be catastrophic.
So he devised a solution: even if he died, "Bishop Marik" must remain—a living symbol of the temple's authority. He began raising a child to become him. That child was Saraka.
He deliberately scarred her with burns matching his own. He made her memorize his memories, drilled his speech patterns into her tongue, taught her his habits and mannerisms until she could mirror him perfectly.
Bishop Marik collapsed before her training was complete, falling into a vegetative state. Though she received no further instruction, Saraka continued living as Bishop Marik, exactly as arranged.
_Living by stealing from others._ In that way, she and Tenebrae truly had much in common.
There had been other, safer methods to initiate another pagan massacre. But Saraka's willingness to risk killing the Crown Prince likely stemmed from her shared connection with Tenebrae—that bone-deep understanding of what it meant to exist as someone else's shadow. Of course, the Prince's hostility toward the temple had also been a factor.
---
Saraka examined Tenebrae's back, now smooth and unmarked where moments ago ridged scars had mapped years of cruelty.
"Lady Tenebrae, it's done."
At those words, Tenebrae sat up. The blanket beneath her was soaked through with blood—dark and spreading like spilled wine. She reached back, touching her own skin, and felt smooth flesh instead of the familiar lumpy texture.
"My back is really smooth..." Her voice caught. "Now I'm ready!"
Joy burst from her like something long caged finally set free.
She pulled on the silk pajamas she had secretly stolen from Jeremiah's chambers and clasped the emerald necklace around her throat. Then she stood before the mirror.
For the first time, she removed the cloth she had always used to cover herself—the shroud she wore because she couldn't bear to see her scarred reflection. Through the glass, Jeremiah stared back at her. Jeremiah, who looked exactly like Tenebrae.
_No_, Tenebrae corrected herself. _Tenebrae, who now looks exactly like Jeremiah._
She pressed her palm flat against the cold surface of the mirror.
"From now on," she whispered, "I will live as Jeremiah."
And Jeremiah would become Tenebrae. She would be falsely accused and executed, dying while bearing all the humiliation that Tenebrae had suffered for years.
Overwhelmed with elation, Tenebrae stepped back from the mirror and reached into the empty air. She struck a pose—arm extended, spine straight—and began to dance. The same waltz she had danced as the Crown Prince's funeral march now became a celebration, a victory dance for her beloved sister.
_Who would be next?_
Oratorio—the Emperor's favorite, who despised Tenebrae and ignored even the bonds of blood? Or their grandmother, who had preserved Tenebrae's life only to establish her own authority, turning a blind eye while her own son tormented his daughter in ways worse than death?
Actually, the order didn't matter. One by one, she would kill this entire _lovely_ family.
"My father died as he always wished—looked up to by all." Tenebrae's voice lilted as she spun, addressing Saraka like an audience. "Jeremiah will die deprived of her beloved name. Oratorio will be slain, his head torn from his shoulders, that precious crown he held so proudly ripped away. And Grandmother..." She laughed, breathless. "Grandmother will be cruelly stripped of the imperial throne she treasured more than family. Like me, she will die entangled in all manner of evil rumors."
Saraka listened to Tenebrae's dreams pour forth like dark music. Then, when she heard that all the royal family would perish, she asked:
"Do you want to become Empress, Lady Tenebrae?"
Tenebrae paused mid-step, considering.
"I don't have any specific goals. But once I've killed everyone I want to kill... I'll be the only one left to claim the throne."
Then her feet stilled completely. A thought had surfaced—a person she had nearly forgotten.
"No. Wait." Her brow furrowed. "I heard I have an uncle who went missing."
"Your missing uncle?"
Saraka feigned ignorance, though her pulse quickened. It was widely known that the youngest prince had died immediately after birth from a difficult delivery. The Emperor guarded his secrets jealously, even from family. How could Tenebrae possibly know the truth?
Tenebrae resumed her flowing steps, her voice light with the ease of someone reciting well-known facts.
"I heard it from my father."
The source was unexpected.
The Crown Prince had treated Tenebrae like an abandoned well—a place to throw all his stress, his rage, his fear. He beat her to relieve himself. There was no way she wouldn't know his secrets.
"It seems my father happened to be nearby when the Queen gave birth to the youngest prince."
Saraka—still pretending not to be Saraka—listened intently. This was a story she had never heard, not even from Bishop Marik himself.
"He went to see the baby out of curiosity about his unborn sibling. But instead, he overheard His Majesty ordering someone to kill the child." Tenebrae's voice grew distant, as though recounting someone else's nightmare. "He felt he'd heard something forbidden, so he fled. But later—at the funeral—the coffin was empty. The body was missing. When he saw His Majesty frantically searching for the child afterward, he realized someone had stolen his brother."
"Do you think the Crown Prince knew who took him?"
Tenebrae turned her head, meeting Saraka's gaze from her waltzing position. Slowly, she lowered her arms. The excitement drained from her face.
"Yes. He never told me who, but he knew." Her voice hardened. "That's why he was always morbidly afraid—terrified that his younger brother would appear one day and take his place."
The joy that had animated her moments ago vanished completely. Though she wore Jeremiah's stolen pajamas and Jeremiah's emerald necklace, the memories dragged her back. She felt as though she were still in the cellar, chained in darkness, existing only as Tenebrae.
She swept her hand across her smoothed back. The wounds had been treated, the scars erased—yet her spine still stung where the whip had fallen, over and over, year after year.
"Most of the scars on my back," she said quietly, "were caused by my father's fear of the youngest prince."
Saraka absorbed this revelation in silence. The Crown Prince had known more than anyone suspected. If he had heard the Emperor's orders that day, he would have known Bishop Marik was present. He would have realized the Bishop had stolen the child.
The Crown Prince had been a man whose hunger for power far exceeded his abilities. He must have lived in constant terror that the temple—having abducted his younger brother—would one day rebel and crown the missing prince Emperor.
Added to this was the ancient, ominous belief that twins brought death. Tenebrae's very existence had fueled the Crown Prince's paranoid delusions. He had vented his frustration and rage by abusing her—as if punishing her could somehow protect him from fate.
"Do you think the missing prince is still alive, Lady Tenebrae?"
Tenebrae shook her head slowly.
"No. Since he hasn't appeared after all these years, I imagine His Majesty eventually found him and had him killed." A wistful note crept into her voice. "It's such a shame. Since we were both abandoned... perhaps my uncle and I could have become quite good friends."
"Perhaps..."
Saraka trailed off, her thoughts drifting unbidden to Gabriel.
---
## — Gabriel's Investigation —
Gabriel pressed his palms against his temples, as if he could physically push back the mounting pressure.
Contrary to his confident boasts that he would soon free Lady Rohanson from prison, the situation had turned sharply against them.
First, there was the matter of the dagger. Gabriel's argument had been perfectly reasonable: _Who would use a weapon they personally brought to a banquet, knowing they would immediately be suspected?_ But reason meant nothing against accusation. He now stood accused not just of association, but of smuggling the weapon itself.
The fact that the sword had been bladeless when inspected—and that the Knights of Pararos under Gabriel's command had conducted that inspection—only deepened the scandal. Rather than proving innocence, it fueled accusations that he was an accomplice who had helped smuggle the murder weapon inside.
So Gabriel had pursued the sword's origins. He remembered Evangeline mentioning she had received it from Count Rohanson.
The Count's house was locked tight, all communication with the outside world forbidden. But Gabriel's persistence eventually secured him an audience.
"Count." Gabriel's voice was low and dangerous, nothing like the careful courtesy he had shown before Evangeline. "I need to know where you obtained that sword."
The Count trembled, shrinking beneath Gabriel's ferocious gaze.
"It was a gift," he stammered.
"A gift? From whom?"
"Viscount Hueckel."
Gabriel tracked down the Viscount immediately—only to find the man practically foaming with outrage.
"The sword I gave Count Rohanson had a proper blade!" Hueckel had snarled. "A gift given in friendship, now turned into the weapon that killed the Crown Prince! Do you have any idea how this looks for *me*?"
"Sir." One of Gabriel's subordinate knights spoke up as they left. "I've heard Viscount Hueckel recently launched a charity project. He's raising an unusually large sum in donations."
"Who are the donors?"
"People who follow Bishop Marik. Substantial contributions."
Gabriel's jaw tightened. The charity project was the construction of a new temple. Naturally, the Bishop's followers would appear on such a list.
_Bribery_, he thought. _Dressed in piety._
Moreover, the people Viscount Hueckel had recently cultivated with such enthusiasm were Count Rohanson and Duke Hossaquin—both blood relatives of Evangeline. Gabriel could now trace exactly how the sword had traveled, hand to hand, until it reached her.
It was his own mistake. He had known the temple—particularly Bishop Marik—harbored interest in Lady Rohanson. Yet he had walked directly into their trap.
Since proving Evangeline had brought in a bladeless sword seemed impossible, another approach was needed. As Gabriel brooded over alternatives, one of his knights voiced the discontent simmering throughout the order.
"Captain... is it really necessary to go to all this trouble? Betraying the Bishop to save one noblewoman?"
"What are you talking about?!" Michelle erupted before Gabriel could respond. Her voice rang with uncharacteristic passion. "Just *imagining* Lady Rohanson imprisoned in that cold, dark cell—unjustly!—makes my heart feel like it's being torn into a thousand pieces!"
Perhaps because Evangeline was involved, Michelle showed more enthusiasm than she had displayed in years of listless service.
"...Surely, Michelle Schmittiana, you're not helping Lady Rohanson because of *that crazy person*, are you?"
"Absolutely not."
Gabriel denied it flatly, but the fierce, skeptical gazes directed at Michelle remained. Gabriel knew he probably looked the same to them. Few would follow Evangeline unquestioningly. At best, perhaps Michelle, Raphaella, and Uriel.
"Then what is this really about?" The knight's voice grew heated. "Commander, do you know what people are calling the Knights of Pararos these days? *Corpse-eating crows*. I'm ashamed to wear this badge."
Gabriel's reputation had plummeted as he became entangled with Evangeline. The young, celebrated knight—once admired throughout the empire—was now mocked as a fool bewitched by a witch, playing beneath her skirts. The entire order faced scandal over the alleged weapons smuggling. Proud knights who had devoted their lives to honor could barely contain their humiliation.
Gabriel chose his words carefully, but the knight's patience had already snapped. He tore the insignia from his chest and hurled it onto the desk.
"Right now, the other knightly orders are following the Bishop to fight paganism. But we're doing *this*." Disgust dripped from every word. "I don't understand it. I don't want to understand it."
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
On Gabriel's desk lay the abandoned insignia of the Knights of Pararos—a shield bearing pure white wings. He had heard that Bishop Marik was dispatching temple knights to begin a full-scale genocide of heretics.
But Gabriel's refusal to mobilize his men wasn't solely for Evangeline's sake. Just as with previous massacres, this campaign wasn't driven by righteousness. He simply refused to subject his followers to that kind of corruption.
"He's a traitor." Uriel's hand moved to his sword hilt. "Should I kill him?"
Gabriel pressed down on the pommel before Uriel could draw.
"No."
The brief flash of Uriel's aggression, paradoxically, eased some of the tension in the room.
Another knight spoke—one who had remained silent until now. His voice was measured, thoughtful.
"Captain. I won't abandon you like that ungrateful fool. But I want to understand your reasoning. I don't want to follow blindly."
The reason Gabriel helped Evangeline...
"You're aware of Lady Rohanson's connection to the witch doctor." Gabriel met the knight's gaze steadily. "We're investigating the heretics in our own way. I claimed the magic circle as my own because I want to understand the being who commands demons. And to stop those who would commit massacre in God's name... I need Lady Rohanson. She is the antithesis of everything they represent."
"Is that really all there is to it?" The knight's eyes narrowed. "Nothing more personal?"
That was all Gabriel could reveal. Explaining further would only endanger them.
_If I had to name another reason..._
Perhaps a faint sense of guilt. At the banquet, Gabriel had demanded Evangeline remain quiet while he stepped away. She had obeyed—and that obedience had led to her detention without resistance.
The thought of her imprisoned haunted him. The cold. The darkness. The damp stone walls pressing in. It seemed a harsh place for someone like Evangeline to endure. Despite knowing her true nature, despite having seen what she was capable of, he still worried. Her fragile appearance lingered in his mind.
They had to hurry. Find the real murderer. Clear her name.
To do that, he needed to hear what had actually happened at the banquet. Gabriel thought of the Marquise de Totten, who had remained by Evangeline's side throughout. Meeting outside might draw unwanted attention, so he would have to visit the Totten residence directly.
Perhaps grateful for Rider's miraculous recovery, Madame de Totten readily agreed to receive him.
"It seems young Lord Totten's health has truly improved," Gabriel remarked as he entered.
"...Yes." The Marquise's voice was soft, almost reverent. "Thanks to Lady Rohanson."
Through the window, Gabriel glimpsed Rider in the garden, playing with a maid as he tended to his horse. The boy moved with ease and energy—remarkable for someone only recently risen from what should have been his deathbed.
Madame de Totten drew the curtains before Gabriel could observe further. She murmured something to the butler, who bowed to Gabriel and departed. It was the first time in all his years visiting that Gabriel had seen the butler dismissed.
"I'm sorry." The Marquise couldn't meet his eyes. "I promised to stay by Lady Rohanson's side in your absence. I boasted that I would protect her. Yet I couldn't help her at all."
"You did your best, Madame. Lady Rohanson seemed relieved to know Henna had returned safely to the mansion."
"I'm glad even that small thing could bring her comfort."
Gabriel offered the acknowledgment genuinely—Madame de Totten clearly carried heavy guilt for failing Evangeline.
"Now then." He produced a folded paper. "According to your account, these are all the people who encountered Lady Rohanson during the banquet."
The original purpose of bringing Evangeline to the celebration had been to awaken those influenced by the cursed painting. The names Madame de Totten had provided matched Gabriel's existing knowledge almost perfectly.
The Marquise was about to nod in silent agreement when her expression shifted. A memory surfaced.
"Oh—wait." She pressed a hand to her temple. "I forgot about the servants."
---
**End of Chapter 90**