Chapter 16

XVIII remains by the broken telescope, his fingers tracing the dented brass as though it could show him a different future.

XVIII:
You want the truth, don’t you?

Astera’s grip on his cloak tightens.

Astera:
That would be nice, considering you just said you stood next to the man who may have murdered your father.

XVIII:
I did.
But not by choice.

He turns around, eyes shadowed.

XVIII:
One year ago, Raureif burned—not with fire, but with fracture. My father, Kalt XVII, called a summit. There were rumors of a being—a wanderer with frozen lungs and silver blood. Someone who claimed dominion over rot and frost.

Astera:
(under his breath)
Givre…

XVIII:
He walked into the palace throne room… alone. No army. No entourage. Just him… and a silence that made even the court assassins shake.

Astera:
And your father?

XVIII:
Dead before the bell struck noon. I wasn’t there. I was off-world—training. When I came back, Givre was on the throne.
And I was given two options: bow… or vanish.

Astera:
(takes a step forward, eyes narrowed)
And you chose to stand beside him.

XVIII:
To keep my people safe!
Raureif was going to splinter! I kept the younger nobles alive. I negotiated—if you can call it that.
But yes… I bowed. And I’ve regretted it ever since.

Silence.

Astera’s hands twitch.

His twin swords—Chrysanthemum and Empire—materialize in bursts of wild floral flame and volatile crimson light.

Regenora’s Arcana begins to pulse through him.
Then—Flame Glyphs emerge faintly along his arms and eyes.

Astera:
So you stood beside the frost-ghost who murdered your father.
You’re no heir. You’re no prince.
You’re a coward.

XVIII:
(pained, but unmoving)
You sound like my father too.

Astera:
Then maybe I’ll send you to him.

He dashes forward.
Petal-accelerated footwork shreds the floor tiles.
Chrysanthemum comes down first—a carving arc laced with solar flame.
Empire follows—twisting to strike like a snapping branch.

XVIII narrowly dodges. A glowing slash cuts clean through the steel ribs of the observatory. He coughs, falling backward.

XVIII:
You’re faster than I thought…

Astera:
I’m not done.

He moves again.

This time, Regenora’s temporal arcana floods the air—slowing XVIII’s perception mid-dodge.

XVIII:
(eyes widening)
Time magic…!?

Astera’s blade is at his neck. The wind holds still.

XVIII:
…Go ahead. If you think I’m worth killing, do it.

Astera’s hand trembles.

Then stops.

Astera:
(shaking, blade still up)
You…
You watched your world fall. And you let it happen.
If you want redemption… you’ll work for it.
And you’ll help us bring down Givre.

XVIII:
(lowly)
If I don’t?

Astera:
Then next time… I won’t stop my swing.

He sheathes both blades with a hiss. The fire glyphs dim. The glow of Regenora recedes.

XVIII watches him go, blood dripping from his arm. His expression, unreadable.