The council chamber smelled faintly of wax and cold stone, cleaned too thoroughly, as if scrubbing could remove what had been said here.
A wide table dominated the center of the room. Maps of the eastern territories lay pinned beneath polished weights, their edges curled from overuse.
Beside them sat a stack of courier reports tied with twine, and a single page in Cassian's hand: the amended enforcement order, still drying.
Three chairs had been set.
Only three.
Astelle stood behind the one nearest the window, fingers resting lightly on its carved back. The chair felt less like a seat and more like a signal.
Cassian didn't tell her to sit. He didn't tell her to stand, either. He simply moved around the table with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything, adjusting weights, aligning maps, reading without shifting his expression.
He looked like a man preparing for the weather, not a meeting.
Astelle watched him for a moment longer than she meant to. He doesn't fidget. He doesn't hesitate. How does a person live like that?
Cassian spoke without looking up.
"Where would he sit?"
Astelle blinked. "What?"
"Duret," he clarified, tone neutral. "If he intends to disagree with me."
Her attention snapped back to the room. The chairs. The angles. The way the light hit the table was like a blade.
In her memory, her reader's memory, Lord Marcellin Duret was never theatrical. He was the kind of man who could turn a room against you without raising his voice.
Astelle slowly moved to the table and traced the positions with her eyes.
"Not directly across from you," she said. "That's confrontation."
Cassian's pen paused.
"Not beside you," she continued, "because that signals alliance too openly."
A beat, as her eyes landed on the third chair.
"He'll choose diagonal," she finished. "It implies counsel, not defiance."
Cassian finally looked at her. His gaze lingered for half a second longer than courtesy demanded.
Then he nodded once, as if confirming the placement of a chess piece.
"Sit," he said.
Astelle slid into the chair near the window, the one that gave her the best view of both the door and Cassian's face. The seat was cold through her dress. The ring on her finger felt heavier in this room than anywhere else, like the house itself remembered what the marriage was meant to do.
Containment.
Control.
A chain disguised as velvet.
Cassian rolled a map out flatter with two fingers.
"How would you describe Duret?" he asked, voice still calm.
Astelle hesitated. Not because she didn't know, but because she didn't want to be wrong.
"He's principled," she said carefully. "Not sentimental. Not cruel."
"And?"
"He believes restraint is responsibility."
Cassian's eyes stayed on the map. "Then he will resent me if I move quickly."
"Yes."
Cassian's mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. Not amusement. Not approval.
Recognition.
Like that sentence had been written into him.
Outside the chamber, footsteps approached, measured, unhurried. The kind of pace that belonged to someone who was never rushed because the world waited for him.
Astelle's eyes lifted to the door.
Here we go.
The handle turned.
Lord Marcellin Duret entered.
He was not dressed for a spectacle. Dark coat, clean lines, a modest chain at his throat. No bright gemstones, no ostentatious embroidery. If Cassian looked like winter pressed into human shape, Duret looked like stone, steady, unyielding, and patient enough to outlast storms.
His gaze swept the room once, fast, subtle, collecting information the way Cassian did.
Then he bowed.
"Lord Valecrest," he said. His voice was smooth, controlled. "Lady Valecrest."
He acknowledged Astelle without hesitation. No flinch. No fear. No hostility.
That, somehow, was unsettling.
Astelle forced herself to return the nod with Astelle Arclaire's practiced grace. She could almost feel the old Astelle's muscle memory settling over her bones like a borrowed cloak.
Duret's eyes flicked to her—
Not her dress.
Not her ring.
Her eyes.
Just for a moment.
Then he moved as if nothing had happened and took the diagonal seat.
Exactly as predicted.
Cassian didn't comment. He only folded his hands and regarded Duret as if the man were both ally and unknown variable.
"Marcellin," Cassian said, using his given name with the familiarity of long association, "give me your assessment of the eastern skirmish."
Duret's posture shifted by the smallest degree.
Surprise.
In the remembered story, this was the point where Cassian issued the decree. Immediate military oversight. A public statement. A move designed to make the border fear him.
Now, Cassian was asking.
Duret chose his words carefully.
"A provocation," he said. "Possibly opportunistic. But not yet a declaration of war."
Cassian nodded once. "And escalation?"
Duret didn't hesitate.
"Premature escalation signals fear," he replied, "not strength."
Astelle watched Cassian's face, expecting the faint tightening, the subtle hardening of impatience that the book had described in moments like this.
But Cassian only said, "Agreed."
Silence.
It was the silence that followed a move no one expected.
Duret studied him, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.
"You are… uncharacteristically restrained," Duret observed.
Cassian didn't blink. "Restraint is not weakness."
"No," Duret said slowly. "But it is unusual."
Cassian's gaze remained steady. "The caravan was seized. No fatalities. No official escort."
Duret's eyes sharpened. "That detail troubles me as well."
Astelle's attention snapped.
Cassian's head tilted fractionally, inviting more.
Duret continued, voice still calm. "A seized caravan without bloodshed reads less like aggression and more like… a message."
"A message," Cassian echoed.
"Yes," Duret said. "A test. Of response. Of temperament."
Astelle's pulse jumped. That is not how the book framed it. In the book, the border incident was portrayed as foreign hostility, presented in a clean, simple, and easy-to-sell way to a frightened public.
This sounded messier.
More deliberate.
Cassian glanced at the courier report again. "The caravan carried grain."
A stillness entered the room like a third person.
Astelle felt it first in her chest, an instinctive tightening.
Grain.
In the original story, shortages later became a key accusation. "Orchestrated scarcity." "Manipulated supply." "Provoked unrest."
Cassian's eyes were on Duret, but Astelle saw the calculation behind them.
Duret's fingers rested lightly on the table, perfectly composed. "Yes. Which makes the incident politically… precise."
Cassian's voice stayed even. "Then we will not escalate."
Duret blinked, only once, but it was there.
"You are certain?" Duret asked.
Cassian leaned back slightly. "I am."
Duret's gaze sharpened with something that looked like relief, then quickly disciplined itself into neutrality.
Relief.
Astelle's mind caught on it like a hook.
In the story, Duret had never looked relieved. Not when Cassian escalated. Not when he later testified. His expression then had been controlled distress, as though he hated what he believed was necessary.
Relief was new.
Cassian slid the amended enforcement order across the table. "Instead, I want civilian oversight built alongside a limited military presence. Transparent reporting. Clear limits."
Duret stared at the page.
Then, slowly, he looked up.
"This is…" he began.
Cassian waited.
Duret exhaled softly. "Prudent."
Astelle watched the way Duret's shoulders eased by a fraction. Not because he'd won, but because something dangerous had been avoided.
Cassian spoke again, calm and decisive.
"Draft the oversight structure," he said. "I want your name attached to it."
Duret's stillness became sharp.
Astelle understood why immediately.
Cassian wasn't just adopting Duret's recommendation.
He was publicly placing responsibility in Duret's hands.
If this path succeeded, Duret's influence would rise.
If it failed, Duret would share blame.
A bridge built into a chain.
Duret's eyes narrowed slightly, not in hostility but in assessment. "You trust me with this."
"I require competence," Cassian replied.
Duret held his gaze. "Those are not the same."
Cassian's expression didn't change. "No."
The quiet tension between those two words was sharper than any threat.
Astelle swallowed.
Cassian doesn't do reassurance.
Duret's eyes flicked, briefly, to Astelle again.
And again, too fast to be polite, too deliberate to be accidental, he looked at her eyes.
Astelle forced herself not to react.
Cassian didn't look at her, but she could feel his attention shift slightly, like a needle turning toward a sound.
Duret spoke carefully.
"And the palace?" he asked. "How will you present restraint to those who will call it softness?"
Cassian's response came instantly. "As measured confidence."
Duret's mouth tightened. "They will test that."
Cassian nodded once, as if that were expected. "Let them."
There was something in Cassian's tone then, cool, almost indifferent, that made Astelle's stomach dip. Not arrogance.
Certainty.
Duret held his gaze for a long moment.
Then, very quietly, he said, "I am relieved to see you thinking long-term."
Relieved.
Again.
Astelle felt her eyes shift, gray deepening at the edges as unease crawled up her spine. She kept her chin level.
Cassian's gaze moved, barely toward her. Not long enough for Duret to notice.
But long enough for Astelle to know he'd seen it.
Duret rose, smoothing his coat.
"Send me the full report list," he said. "And I will draft the oversight structure by tomorrow."
Cassian inclined his head. "Good."
Duret bowed again. "Lord Valecrest. Lady Valecrest."
He left with the same measured pace he'd entered with.
The door shut.
Silence flooded in.
Astelle exhaled, not realizing she'd been holding her breath until it escaped her like surrender.
Cassian didn't move immediately. He stood by the table, looking down at the map as if Duret were still sitting there.
Finally, he poured a glass of water.
Didn't drink it.
Set it down untouched.
Astelle watched him, a question clawing at her throat.
"You're not angry," she said at last.
Cassian didn't look up. "About what?"
"About him," Astelle said. "In the original timeline, he stands at your trial. He testifies."
Cassian's fingers adjusted a map weight by a millimeter. "That has not occurred."
"But it would have," Astelle pressed. "You trusted him."
Cassian turned his head slightly, gaze cutting to her with quiet precision. "Trust is a conditional investment."
"That's not an answer," Astelle said, heat tightening her voice.
Cassian's eyes were steady. "It is the only one that matters."
Astelle pushed her chair back a fraction, unable to sit perfectly still.
"He helped execute you," she said. "He doesn't defend you. He confirms the evidence."
Cassian moved to the window, looking out across the estate grounds as if the world outside was simpler than this conversation.
"If Marcellin believed I was destabilizing the realm," Cassian said calmly, "then his opposition would be logical."
Astelle stared at him.
"Logical?" she repeated. "That's what you call betrayal?"
Cassian looked back at her. "I call it divergence."
The word hit like cold water.
"You're not even offended," Astelle said.
Cassian's gaze didn't waver. "Should I be?"
"Yes," Astelle snapped.
For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes, brief, gone, like a door closing before she could see inside.
"Anger is most useful before a betrayal," he said quietly. "Not after."
Astelle swallowed, throat tight. "So you just… don't care?"
Cassian didn't answer immediately.
That pause was the crack.
Then, softly: "I care about patterns."
Astelle felt something twist in her chest.
"He was your ally," she insisted.
"He was aligned with my policies," Cassian replied.
"That's not the same thing."
"No," Cassian agreed. "It isn't."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Astelle's jaw tightened.
Something hot flared in her chest.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't uncertainty.
It was irritation. Sharp. Protective. Almost offended on his behalf.
Her vision prickled—
And in the faint reflection of the window glass, she saw it.
Gray darkened.
Then bled.
A thin ring of crimson surfaced at the edges of her irises, like embers catching air.
Cassian's gaze dropped, unhurried.
He noticed immediately.
"Ah," he said softly.
Astelle stiffened. "What?"
"Your eyes," he murmured.
Heat climbed her neck. "What about them?"
The red deepened, spreading inward from the rim like ink dissolving through water.
"They redden when you're angry," Cassian observed, as if noting a line in a ledger.
"I am not—"
The color flared brighter.
Cassian's mouth curved.
"You are."
Astelle clenched her hands at her sides. The crimson intensified, no longer subtle, clear, vivid, unmistakable.
Cassian leaned back slightly, studying her as though she were a particularly fascinating phenomenon.
"I am pleased," he said calmly.
Her eyes flashed.
"Pleased?"
"Yes," he said. "You are finally angry on my behalf."
The red deepened again, richer now, wine-dark, unmistakably the color described in the book.
"That is not why—"
"It is," Cassian interrupted mildly. "You are offended that I am not offended."
Astelle sputtered, mortified that he'd articulated it so cleanly.
He continued, tone almost amused:
"You would prefer I rage. Shout. Declare betrayal."
Her glare sharpened, crimson bright and burning.
Cassian's eyes held hers without flinching.
"There," he said quietly.
She blinked.
"That," he continued, voice lowering just slightly, "is the Astelle I recognize."
The words hit harder than she expected.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were accurate.
Crimson eyes.
Anger sharp enough to cut.
A storm contained in porcelain skin.
The infamous villainess.
Astelle's throat tightened.
"I am not her," she said.
The red flickered, unstable now, wavering between fury and something more fragile.
Cassian tilted his head, studying her with unsettling precision.
"No," he agreed. "Perhaps not."
A beat.
"But the anger suits you."
That did not help.
Her eyes flared again, brighter than before.
Cassian almost laughed.
"You see?" he said lightly. "You burn more convincingly than you storm."
Astelle's hands clenched tighter. "Stop analyzing me."
"I will not," Cassian replied calmly. "You are a variable."
She glared at him so fiercely that the crimson flooded fully through her irises, clear and vivid, exactly as the book had described.
Cassian's expression sharpened.
"There," he said again, softer this time. "That is the color the court fears."
Astelle forced herself to inhale.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The red thinned.
Darkened.
Retreated toward muted gray.
Cassian watched the shift without blinking.
"You calm yourself deliberately," he observed.
"Yes," she snapped.
The faintest corner of his mouth lifted.
"Good," he said.
Astelle folded her arms, furious and embarrassed in equal measure.
He wasn't mocking her.
He was enjoying the data.
And somehow that was worse.
But beneath the irritation, beneath the humiliation of being observed so precisely—
There was something else.
He had been pleased.
Not because she was angry.
But because she had cared.
And that realization made the fading red flicker once more before finally settling into quiet gray.
Cassian's gaze moved back to the table. No triumph. No teasing. Just another variable logged.
Astelle hated that part of her was relieved he hadn't laughed.
And hated more than she cared.
She tried again, quieter.
"You expected it," she said.
Cassian didn't confirm or deny.
"I expected," he replied after a moment, "that any man with convictions will eventually collide with mine."
Astelle's throat tightened. "So you build your world assuming everyone leaves."
"I built it assuming divergence," Cassian corrected.
Astelle's fingers curled against the chair arm. "Does that mean you assume I will too?"
Cassian's mouth curved slightly, small, sharp, honest.
"You already have."
Astelle's eyes darkened again without permission.
Cassian noticed and said nothing this time.
The silence stretched until Astelle forced herself back to the table, to the reports, to the map, to the real reason her instincts were screaming.
"Something's different," she said abruptly.
Cassian's gaze sharpened. "Everything is different."
"No," Astelle insisted. "Not like that. The caravan grain being seized, this isn't how it happened in The Lily and the Crown."
Cassian's eyes held hers. "Explain."
Astelle pushed the report toward him, tapping the relevant line with his finger. "In the book, shortages appear gradually. They're blamed on your policies. It becomes part of the narrative used against you. But if grain is being seized now this early—"
Cassian's voice finished the thought smoothly.
"Someone is manufacturing scarcity earlier."
Astelle's stomach dropped.
Cassian turned to the map, tracing the trade routes with a gloved fingertip.
"Who benefits," he asked calmly, "from accelerated unrest?"
Astelle's mind moved automatically, like flipping through remembered chapters and connecting the lines.
"The palace," she said. "If unrest rises, the crown gets leverage over territorial lords."
Cassian nodded once.
"The crown prince gains public favor if he responds decisively," Astelle continued. "The heroine gains influence if she's seen aiding the people."
Cassian's gaze remained steady. No contempt, no dismissal.
He didn't call them villains.
He didn't scoff.
He only asked, "And?"
Astelle hesitated.
Because the real answer wasn't a person.
It was a function.
"Someone who needs you to look like a threat," she said quietly.
Cassian's expression didn't change.
But something in the air did.
Not fate.
Not destiny.
Awareness.
He turned back to her, voice soft and precise.
"You said the evidence at my trial appeared at convenient moments."
"Yes."
"And now the crisis shifts earlier," Cassian said. "The board moves before the pieces have settled."
Astelle's eyes darkened again, the gray storming at the edges.
Cassian's gaze flicked there.
Then he spoke with quiet certainty.
"Then either your memory is flawed," he said, "or someone adjusted the board before you arrived."
Astelle went cold.
Because the second option felt worse.
It meant—
This wasn't a story correcting itself.
This was a design she'd stepped into mid-motion.
A knock sounded.
A servant entered with a sealed letter. Wax stamped with the palace crest.
"My lord," the servant said, voice careful, "a message from the capital."
Cassian took it, broke the seal without ceremony, and read.
His expression remained composed.
Too composed.
Then he held the letter out to Astelle.
Astelle took it, fingers stiff.
The paper was crisp. The ink is still sharp.
It was a request from the palace: a preliminary inquiry into irregularities in grain distribution, misallocation concerns, suspicious route changes, and vanished shipments.
Dated yesterday.
Astelle's pulse stumbled.
Yesterday.
Before the skirmish.
Before the caravan was seized.
Before Cassian had altered anything.
Her throat went dry.
"This wasn't in the book," she whispered.
Cassian folded his hands behind his back, watching her as if weighing the exact moment her certainty cracked.
"It's starting earlier," Astelle said, more to herself than to him.
Cassian's voice was low, almost thoughtful.
"Or," he said, "we are simply noticing it sooner."
Astelle looked up.
Cassian's gaze was steady, no panic, no excitement. Only that unnerving calm that made her feel like the room was tilting while he stood level.
"You wished to rewrite the story," Cassian said quietly.
Astelle's eyes shifted again, gray darkening, not from fear this time but from a dawning, sickening understanding.
Cassian continued, each word placed carefully.
"It seems," he said, "someone else is already editing."
Outside the chamber, the estate continued to breathe, servants moving, bells chiming, life proceeding as if nothing had changed.
Astelle stared at the letter until the words blurred.
Then she swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand.
"Okay," she said, voice thin but steady. "Then we find out who."
Cassian watched her, and for the first time since Duret had left, there was something faintly satisfied in his eyes.
"Good," he said softly. "Now we are speaking the same language."
Astelle's gaze dropped to the letter again, then lifted.
And in the window's reflection, she caught her own eyes, smoky gray, storm-deep at the edges, watching back like a stranger who had stepped into the wrong page and decided to tear the book anyway.