Klara's world collapsed into a spiraling pit of sheer, absolute panic.
What? What is this? What is this guy doing here? Is he some sort of stalker?!
Her mind went into freefall, tumbling headlong into every ridiculous possibility her imagination could cough up. Eh, wait… he's a handsome stalker. Doesn't that make me lucky?
And then, as fast as the thought came—she slapped it down. Wait, no. That's not lucky. That's a yandere. A CRAZY YANDERE. OH MY GOD, WHY IS HE EVEN HERE!? HOW IS HE EVEN HERE!?!?!
Her mental screaming threatened to claw right out of her throat, but she held it down with the iron fist of self-preservation. On the surface, her expression remained serene. Calm. Collected. Fool-like. She even tilted slightly against the arm of her throne, elbow braced, chin resting against her fingers, like this was all perfectly according to plan.
She had to. She had to.
Because if she lost control here, if she showed even a flicker of panic, she wouldn't just lose her composure—she might lose the whole damn masquerade. Which wasn't as worse of him losing his interest.
Focus, Klara. You've handled worse. You faced bandits, madmen, cultists. You can handle one crazy-hot absolutist-yandere lawyer. Just… breathe.
Her voice, when she spoke, carried the calm authority of a host greeting a guest who had simply arrived late to supper.
"Ah," she said smoothly, tilting her head ever so slightly, "I see you've answered my invitation, Tower."
Three heads whipped around at that.
Justice, Hanged Man, and the Sun all blinked, their bodies visibly loosening as the words sank in. A collective breath of relief passed between them. So this man wasn't some unknown invader, wasn't some monster from beyond—they all thought. He'd been invited after all so they were safe.
Klara fought the urge to cackle hysterically. Yep. Totally invited. Not a disaster. Definitely not a heart-attack in human form waltzing into my sanctum.
Across the table, Adrian did not blink. His eyes remained locked on hers, clear silver glinting in the fog. Then, with deliberate slowness, his brow arched. His lips curved—just slightly.
He smiled.
"You weren't subtle with your invitation, Fool," he said, his tone lilting, the name sung like a playful jab. As if to remind her: he knew. He knew. "It would have been rude of me not to comply."
He chuckled.
Klara laughed too, light and easy, perfectly measured.
Inside?
OH MY GODDD, HE KNOWS! HE KNOWS I WAS STARING! WAIT, NO, THAT'S NOT THE WORST PART—
Her laugh nearly cracked in half from the sheer volume of her internal shrieking.
She needed to test him. She needed to know how much he knew. Did he actually realize who she was? Did he know she was Klara? Or was he just… teasing?
"Do you find Backlund to be… interesting?" Her fingers drummed against the table as she asked. Something only he would catch, something that might reveal whether or not he recognized her beyond this role.
Adrian, of course, didn't answer it directly.
"I would say it is a rather dull city but I hope the coming days will bring some life to my routine."
Instead, he deflected. Smoothly, effortlessly, like he'd plucked her bait off the hook and tossed it back at her with a smile. His silver eyes never wavered, his composure immaculate.
Which only made her panic harder.
Does he know? Does he not know? He might know. He definitely knows. No, maybe he doesn't? AHHHH I CAN'T TELL, THIS IS WORSE THAN ME KNOWING THAT HE KNOWS!
Her smile strained at the edges, though she smothered it with the ease of practice. She leaned back in her chair, masking her spiraling mind with serene calm.
The three others, watching the silent duel of smiles, seemed to finally relax. Whatever tension had knotted their bodies before now eased into cautious curiosity.
The Hanged Man inclined his head first, seizing the moment with his usual grave dignity.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Tower," he said. "May our exchanges be mutually beneficial."
Adrian gave him a polite nod in return, his posture still half-lounged, his gaze never leaving Klara.
But it was Justice who nearly combusted on the spot.
Her wide, glittering eyes locked onto him with the raw, unfiltered awe of a girl meeting her idol, her dream, her perfect fairytale knight—except worse, because Adrian wasn't some vague idea, he was Adrian Bellacorte.
Her Adrian.
She squeaked. Out loud.
The sound earned her a faint glance from Adrian, and when their eyes met, Justice waved—actually waved—like a schoolgirl in a crowd.
And Adrian—stoic, unreadable Adrian—acknowledged her with a single nod.
That was all it took. Audrey's face lit up scarlet, her hands clapped together against her mouth to stifle the squeal that bubbled out anyway.
Klara's eyes widened in alarm.
AHHHHHH SO ADORABLE, YOU'RE MAKING MY SUFFERING HERE ALMOST WORTH IT, JUSTICE! OHHH I WANNA SQUEEEEZEEE YOU—
Her nails dug into the arm of her chair. She wanted to leap across the table, scoop the girl up, and smother her in hugs like some deranged aunt.
Instead, she pressed her lips into a serene, unreadable line and inclined her head ever so slightly, the perfect image of a distant god amused by mortal joy.
Inside, though?
She was thrashing. Absolutely thrashing.
Because on one side of her sat Justice, shining like a star and making her heart melt into goo. And on the other—Adrian. Unmoving. Calm. Smiling faintly. His silver eyes locked on hers with an intensity that burned straight through her chest.
The contrast was going to kill her.
And worse—she couldn't tell if Adrian knew her truth or not. Every deflection, every glance, every carefully measured word of his only dragged her deeper into the spiral.
Her smile didn't falter. Not once.
But her mind screamed on repeat:
YANDERE. CRAZY YANDERE. HANDSOME CRAZY YANDERE. AND HE'S SITTING RIGHT AT MY TABLE ACTING LIKE HE OWNS THE PLACE!
She lampooned before heaving a sigh.
Klara nearly melted into her chair in relief. Finally, finally, finally, she thought, lips tugging in a faint smile as she allowed her gaze to drag away from him and settle back on what really mattered: Roselle's damned diary pages. If Adrian wanted to sit there like a smug cat at the dinner table, then fine—she was going to pretend he was a particularly decorative chair leg.
She adjusted her posture, inhaled through her nose, and gave the first page a careful look.
"Hmm…" she murmured, half out loud, half to herself as her eyes scanned the opening line.
It wasn't what she expected. Not at all.
"Dating is troublesome. Especially as a woman. The masks, the pretense, the way men look at you and think they understand something when they don't even begin to grasp it… do they think flowers are enough? Jewelry? Words? Idiots. Absolute idiots."
Klara blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly. Her lips twitched as her brow creased in disbelief.
"…what?"
Across the table, Audrey leaned forward, curious as ever, while Derrick tilted his head like a puzzled pup. Alger looked about as excited as Audrey felt, his mouth tightening into a line as though he was trying his best not to crack a smile.
Only Adrian looked calm. No—calm wasn't even the word. Detached. Like he had already known what was on the page, as if this entire "performance" was merely for his amusement.
Klara raised an eyebrow, a dry laugh nearly spilling from her throat as she flicked her gaze toward The Hanged Man. "Tell me, are you sure these are Roselle's diary pages, or did you panic and stitch together some soap opera scribblings so you wouldn't show up empty-handed?"
Her words snapped like a whip, sarcasm curling sharp on the edges.
Alger stiffened immediately, his face stormy as he leaned forward. "Absolutely not. I swear by the Lord of the storm's waves, these are Roselle's own words. I risked more than you can imagine to obtain them. Don't you dare imply I would jeopardize Mr. Fool's favor with false scraps."
Klara rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "Touchy…" before exhaling in resignation. "Fine. Fine. No need to get dramatic about it. It just… doesn't look like him." She tapped the page with one finger, staring down at it as though willing it to reveal its secrets. "It doesn't read like him either. Something's wrong here."
She studied the loops of ink, the strokes of the letters, her frown deepening as though she could pry open meaning with sheer force of will. Her gaze narrowed, trying to see.
Then—
Without warning, the page was gone from her hands.
Klara blinked and looked up, jaw tightening when she saw Adrian holding the paper between two gloved fingers as though it had always belonged to him.
"Hey!" she protested, pouting almost childishly despite herself. "At least ask before you start plucking things from my hands like a—like a magpie."
He didn't even look at her. Not at first.
Adrian stared at the page with an expression she couldn't quite read—too neutral, too carefully composed. Then, after a long pause, his silver eyes slid toward her. A glance. Silent.
That was it.
He said nothing.
Klara puffed her cheeks, an annoyed huff slipping out before she caught herself. "Oh, come on. You clearly noticed something. Don't just sit there brooding." She muttered the last bit so low she prayed no one caught it.
He didn't answer.
Of course he didn't.
She crossed her arms, glaring, lips tugging downward. Fine. Be mysterious. See if I care.
Then—
He stood.
The motion was fluid, sharp, commanding without effort. One gloved hand lifted, snapping fingers with a crisp sound that cracked through the gray fog like a whip.
A shimmer rippled in the air beside him. Then, to the shock of everyone gathered, a tall silver mirror bloomed into existence, standing on nothing, reflecting nothing but its own impossible brilliance.
Audrey gasped out loud, clapping her hands against her mouth in pure awe. Derrick nearly jumped from his chair, eyes wide as saucers. Alger stiffened again, though this time it wasn't outrage but calculation—and a flicker of something very close to envy.
Klara? Klara nearly fell out of her chair.
"You—!" she hissed, leaning forward, eyes wide.
Adrian ignored her.
"The pages are reflected," he said simply, his tone clipped, businesslike. Curt enough to sound almost like boredom.
He held Roselle's page before the mirror.
The reflection rippled. Changed. Shifted. Words bled and reshaped themselves until the text that stared back at them was not the rant Klara had read, but something else entirely. Something heavier.
The table was silent.
Then, with practiced ease, Adrian plucked at the mirror's surface as though it were no more than paper. And from that impossible glass, he pulled a new page—seamless, solid, and real.
He didn't even glance at it. He turned and handed it directly to The Fool.
Klara almost forgot to breathe when their hands brushed. She'd seen him kill a thief with a smile, saw him glare holes through her soul earlier—and yet this was what made her heart lurch like a startled cat.
The Fool snatched the paper eagerly, too enthralled by the mystery to care about the absurd intimacy of the gesture. Adrian smirked faintly, his silence more pointed than any words could ever be.
Klara narrowed her eyes. He's enjoying this. Bastard.
Still, she forced herself to focus. Slowly, she took the page back when the Fool offered it, settling it in her hands and beginning to read.
At first, the words were familiar—a rant, a seething frustration—but the tone was different now. No longer about dates or flowers. This was darker. Far more dangerous.
She read aloud, voice steady even as her mind reeled:
"A new pathway. The Mirror. I don't know since when it has existed, nor who first uncovered it, but the world feels as though it has been overturned. Already I've seen evidence—their presence draws panic. These Beyonders are hunted by everyone, allies and enemies alike."
Her breath caught, and she read on.
"Why? Because they are the bane of our system. A mirror that reflects the truths men hide, that exposes the lies they so carefully craft. Absolute truth—that is what the Mirror entails. What it promises. What it threatens."
The words slashed across the page like knives, bitter and hurried.
"Do you think I trust this? Do you think I believe in coincidences? Hah! I've lived two lives now, and in sixty years I've learned what such gifts truly mean. Truth is a poison. Truth is war. Of course they will all turn against it—who among the mighty could stand to be revealed for what they are?"
Klara swallowed, her fingers tightening on the edges of the paper.
"I've already taken precautions. Some pages of my diary I've sealed against their sight. Some I have woven with keys that can only be read by them. Paranoia? Perhaps. But only the paranoid endure. If you could see what I have seen, you'd understand."
The words trailed off into a smear of ink, as though Roselle himself had scratched the pen too hard into the paper.
Klara slowly lowered the sheet, her face pale.
The chamber was silent save for the faint hum of the mirror behind Adrian.
Even Justice—sweet, bright-eyed Audrey—looked rattled, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, green eyes wide. The Hanged Man's expression was granite, though his throat worked as if he'd swallowed glass. Derrick seemed lost, overwhelmed, too new to truly comprehend but afraid all the same.
And Adrian?
Adrian was still standing, silver eyes reflecting them all without judgment, without warmth.
"Interesting," he said simply, as though discussing the weather. Then he sat again, one hand brushing lazily through his dark hair before returning to his gloves. All of the attention were on him.
The words of the diary page seemed to echo through the chamber, crawling into their ears, sinking into their bones. A mirror that reflects all truths. A bane to lies. A terror to those who live behind masks.
And then, as if the silence bored him, Adrian inclined his head ever so slightly and said, as casually as if he were introducing himself at a dinner party:
"I am a Mirror."
The words struck like thunder.
Audrey's lips parted in shock, her eyes gleaming with that peculiar mix of awe and fear, the kind that only the young and curious could hold at once. Derrick stiffened, his whole body twitching as though he expected the walls themselves to crumble under the revelation. Alger's jaw tightened, calculating, weighing threat against opportunity like the careful sailor he always was.
Klara?
Klara smiled.
Not because she was happy. Not because she was calm. But because terror twisted in her gut so sharply that if she didn't smile, she was going to scream.
This is bad…
Her heart raced, her palms slick against the paper still clutched in her fingers. She kept her breathing steady, shoulders loose, expression composed, but inside she was reeling.
Absolute truth. Does that mean… does that mean he can see through me? Through everything? Why—why did this lion have to sprout wings and start breathing fire on top of it all! You were already bad enough, and now you're telling me you can look past every trick, every mask, every smirk I can hide behind? Shit. Shit. Shit!
Her smile sharpened, her tongue brushing her teeth as she forced her voice to remain smooth, even playful.
"I knew there was a reason why I was interested in you, Tower…" she purred lightly, tilting her head. "Or should I start calling you Mirror from now on?"
Adrian's eyes slid to her, silver glinting in the gray light. That damn smile curved at his lips, not wide, but enough to send her heart tumbling.
"The interest is mutual, Ms. Fool," he said, voice velvety but edged. Then, with a pause that was almost deliberate, he corrected himself: "Sorry—Mr. Fool. Names were never my strength."
He chuckled, waving the mistake away with an ease that made the others laugh nervously. Audrey and Derrick rushed to reassure him, Alger even muttered something about it not mattering.
But Klara…
Klara froze.
Her smile didn't falter, but her insides flipped over, her stomach dropping like a stone. That slip—so clean, so casual—wasn't an accident. It couldn't be.
Does he know?
Does he mean it? Did he just slip, or did he peel me open like glass? If he knows… then what else does he see?
The terror pressed in harder, like a weight on her chest. Her carefully cultivated masks felt paper-thin, already peeling at the edges under his gaze.
"It is fine," Klara said with forced calm, swallowing down the panic before it clawed its way into her voice. She leaned back, pretending to relax, her eyes never leaving his. "Call me as you wish."
Her fingers brushed over the new diary page, grounding herself. She drew in a breath and read, her voice level though her hands trembled faintly:
"December 16th."