Before she could even gasp for air, he moved. With a sudden, predatory flick of his hand, he plunged his fingers into the pocket of her apron and snatched Chester's mirror.
He didn't cast it aside. He didn't scream. He simply closed his fist around it with a savage strength that belied his porcelain-fine skin.
The sound of the glass shattering was sickening—a sharp, crystalline crack that pierced the silence like a snapping femur. Shards drove deep into his palm, and thick, royal blood began to seep between his white knuckles, falling in heavy, rhythmic drops onto the pale silk of the carpet.
He stared at her with an icy, dead indifference that was far more grotesque than rage.
"Go back," he whispered, his eyes boring into hers with a flat, lethal light. "Go back and tell Chester to cease these pathetic, infantile games. This room is my domain, and I do not tolerate vermin. Do you understand, Miss...? Actually, don't bother. You are banished from these grounds. Get out before I decide to keep more than just the mirror."
He pried open her trembling palm and dumped the jagged remains of the mirror into her hand—returning Chester's filth with "interest."
"Now," he exhaled, the sound like the hiss of a dying ember, "vanish. If I see your face again, the glass won't be the only thing I break."
The girl fled, a wet, choked sob caught in her throat. Her panicked, uneven footsteps echoed down the hallway, a fading testament to her desperate scramble for survival.
Julian collapsed onto the sofa, his chest heaving in ugly, jagged spasms. The mask of royal composure was a ruin now, replaced by a feverish, manic rage dancing in his eyes.
He watched his mangled hand with a
detached sort of fascination, the pain finally beginning to bloom in sharp, white-hot stabs.
His thoughts began to churn, a relentless, drowning tide: *Chester would never dare move without her word. Does she suspect me? Has she finally begun to peel back the curtain?* He shook his head, his fingers twitching with an uncontrollable, neurological tremor. 'But she seemed so ordinary this morning... beautifully, predictably dull. Is there something I'm missing? A knife in the dark I haven't felt yet?'
The chain of his thoughts was severed by the heavy, authoritative thud of the door swinging wide.
Ax stood there. The "Executioner" was a monolithic slab of meat and iron, a presence that seemed to siphon the very light and warmth from the air. The colossal greataxe strapped to his back carried the cloying, metallic stench of the morning's labor—rust, copper, and the finality of the grave.
Julian lunged toward him, his composure splintering into frantic shards.
"The arrangement, Ax. Tell me you kept your word. The maid from the trial... you didn't actually let the blade fall, did you? You stayed the blow? Tell me you didn't snort out her life."
Ax didn't move. He didn't even blink. When he finally spoke, his voice had the hollow, resonant ring of a hammer hitting an anvil.
"The laws of the guillotine are forged in iron, not inked on parchment, Your Majesty. Without a formal pardon—signed by your hand or the Queen's—the sentence is absolute. Therefore... the judgment was carried out."
Ax bowed, a stiff, mechanical motion that felt as heavy as the steel on his back. "That is all I have for your ears. Unless there are further commands, grant me leave to depart."
Julian stood paralyzed, the word *dead* echoing in the hollows of his skull. "Of course, Ax," he muttered, his voice a ghost of itself. "You may go. You have my... gratitude for your integrity. Rest assured, I shall be significantly more cautious from this moment forward."
The moment the door groaned shut, Julian raked his fingers through his hair, a jagged snarl escaping his lips. "That goddamn shadow! If Chester hadn't wasted my time with his wretched little games, that girl would still be drawing breath!"
On the other side of the fortress, Chester remained leaning against the cold stone, a vulture looming over the weeping girl at his feet.
"Please, sir... I tried to do as you asked, but he—" she sobbed, opening her trembling palm to reveal the jagged shards of his mirror, slick with the King's thick, dark blood.
Chester leaned down, plucking a single shard from her flesh. His eyes widened, glittering with a manic, hysterical light. "Really, Julian? Do you truly believe draping your mirrors in funeral black will keep me out? You treat your secrets like a shroud, but shadows only grow teeth in the darkness, you fool."
The mirrors were Chester's eyes; his consciousness bled through every reflective surface in the palace. When Julian had crushed the glass, the sudden eruption of blood had acted like a blackout, blinding his psychic tether in a spray of crimson.
"Vanish, little girl. You're of no more use to me," he rasped. "I won't kill you—I keep my promises. Now, get out of my sight."
The girl's heart jolted with a sickening relief. Despite the trauma he had inflicted, she had escaped the butcher's block. She didn't wait for a second dismissal.
Chester whispered to the empty air, his voice a necrotic caress. "The only thing that ever stayed my hand was the Queen's heart. But she's burning that heart to ash now, isn't she? Which means... I shall dedicate every waking moment to tearing you off your throne, my King."
He looked at the shard again, his eyes tracking the way the thick, royal blood clung to the jagged edges.
"Hmm... a most unexpected gift," he murmured, his voice a dry, papery rasp. "The King's own blood. It seems that little girl returned with something far more useful than a hidden mirror after all."
He brought the glass closer to his face, his grin splitting the shadows. "A drop of the divine to fuel the dark. Let's see what secrets this red ink can write, Julian."