Chapter 4: Echoes on Cold Marble

Josephine stepped lightly, her boots brushing the frost-laced stone, the sound swallowed by a hush that felt too complete. The air carried a weight—thick, unmoving—as though the fortress itself was holding its breath. Overhead, the lamps burned unsteadily, their flames dimming and flaring with no rhythm, no draft. Not the behavior of oil-starved fire. Something else. Something wrong.

She slowed her pace, a frown touching her lips.

“…Too quiet,” she muttered, voice barely louder than a breath. The kind of hush that didn’t feel like peace—but like the moment before a scream.

She hadn’t intended to patrol the corridor. Her thoughts had been elsewhere—perhaps a return to the archives, to linger again over the old maps now etched into her mind. But when she turned into the eastern wing, her feet halted.

Red.

Just a gleam at first. Then more—smeared against the stone in erratic curves.

Blood.

Her eyes narrowed. Muscles tensed. The stillness wasn’t just unnatural now—it was hostile.

Her hand hovered near her side, and at her will, a faint shimmer of blue began to flicker across her palm. The first trace of the blade waiting to be summoned.

She crouched, two fingers touching the edge of the smear. Still warm. Fresh.

“This isn’t routine,” she said softly. “No accident. No warning.”

No clash. No cries. Only the trail of blood—and the air, tight like a closing fist.

She rose, scanning the high arches above and the corners ahead, eyes trained, breath steady. Her cloak rustled faintly as she moved around the smear, the light from the flickering torches chasing her shadow.

“What is this?”

She didn’t expect an answer.

But her gut whispered one anyway.

An intruder.

One with the skill to bypass guards. One who didn’t need chaos to kill.

And perhaps, one who had been waiting.

The corridor yawned ahead, stone and iron and echoing emptiness—and somewhere beyond, the source of the blood.

“If this is a test,” she muttered coldly, “then let it begin.”

Josephine rounded the next corner of the east corridor, breath sharp, blade now fully formed in her hand. The shimmer of blue ice cast ghostly reflections on the marble walls. The blood trail thickened ahead.

And then—she found the first body.

A soldier from the outer watch. His helmet rolled against the wall, eyes wide open, glassy with terror. No visible wounds. Just… the mute stillness of stone and shadow.

Another lay farther down. Kneeling.

Josephine slowed.

“This one hadn’t died in battle. His posture was too composed, hands resting on his lap. Eyes closed. As if he had accepted it.”

She stepped forward, inspecting the position. Something about it felt... ritualistic. Almost reverent.

But her attention snapped as a sound echoed in the distance. Not footsteps.

A breath.

Then the third body.

This one was different. His face was twisted in a grin—frozen in place, mouth open as if mid-laugh. His chest was caved inward, the blow clean and silent.

She knelt.

“Smiling?” she whispered. “Why?”

Something was off. These weren’t executions done in haste. No. There had been judgment here. Choice.

But on what basis?

Another faint sound—movement—drew her attention.

And then she saw him.

A figure cloaked in black stood at the end of the hall, facing the frost-lined window. The dying light of sunset cast his shadow long and jagged across the floor.

Two red blades hung loose at his sides, dripping faint trails of heat against the cold stone.

Josephine took a step forward, her breath curling in the air. With a sharp flick of her wrist, a blade of shimmering ice materialized beside her, hovering like a threat made manifest.

Her voice, edged with frost, cut through the silence.

“Face me.”

He stayed unmoved.

“You think this is justice?” she said, voice rising. “They were my men.”

Still, he didn’t move. Only after a moment—slowly, as though burdened by centuries—did he turn.

His hood fell back just enough to reveal a jawline marred with old scars, and beneath, eyes like molten ash, dimmed by memory but sharpened by purpose.

“There was blood on their hands long before mine touched them,” he said, voice low.

Josephine stepped forward. “You slaughtered them.”

“No.” His tone was calm. “I gave them a choice. Most weeped. One begged. Another laughed.”

He paused.

“I only finished what their own conscience began.”

Josephine’s blade rose a fraction higher. “You think you’re judge, jury, and executioner?”

“No.” He looked at her now—truly looked. “I’m a reminder.”

Her grip tightened. “Of what?”

He stepped closer. “Of what your kingdom tried to erase.”

Josephine held her ground, her heart pounding harder than any drum of war. “You’re no different from them.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not pride.

Regret.