Three days had passed since the assassin's attack. The study of Blackthorn Manor appeared restored on the surface. The shattered vase had been disposed of, the claw marks that had scarred the corridor's stone tiles had been polished away by the servants, and the smell of blood had vanished. Yet even with the ledger open before her, the numbers refused to enter Blackthorn Evangeline's mind. She set down her quill and sank deep into the back of her chair. Her notebook lay at the edge of the desk. Without opening its leather cover, the final line she had written floated behind her eyes. —Why did Thornbind change? The question was written. The answer was not. In her previous life, Thornbind had been a power that directly ensnared limbs. In this life, it ran across the ground. Stone, mortar joints, roots—as if the thorns themselves breathed within the earth itself. She could not understand what that difference meant without consulting the ancient records of the Soaring Ridge region—the northernmost mountain territory of the empire, where the oldest records of thorn magic had been preserved. Adrian Vestyr had arranged for copies to be sent, but they had not yet arrived. The garden hound growled low. Evangeline lifted her head. That was enough. Three nights ago, when the garden hound had fallen silent—her body remembered the meaning of that silence. But today was different. The dog's growl was not a warning, but something closer to recognition of a familiar presence. Footsteps sounded. From the entrance hall, the heavy, measured tread of an aged sole against stone. Evangeline rose and left the study. ＊ The moment she stepped into the entrance hall, her thoughts went white for a single instant. Standing before the door was a man in a black overcoat. Short hair streaked with white, sharp jade-colored eyes, a posture of perfect bearing. The family crest tattooed on the back of his right hand was the Blackthorn seal. And the fold of his overcoat—there, glimpsed in silver thorn-work, Evangeline's gaze was drawn like iron to lodestone. Silver filigree shaped like thorns. The outline of the family heirloom that had hung from her neck on the morning she walked toward the execution platform existed here, now, in tangible form. The man interlaced his fingers. A habit of Crane Marcus—the elderly steward who had served the Blackthorn house for thirty years and vanished when the family collapsed twelve years ago. "Young Mistress," Crane Marcus said. His voice was unchanged from twelve years past. Low, heavy, a voice formed of loyalty alone. Evangeline did not move. Caution and relief pressed against each other in her chest, neither willing to surface. It took several seconds to contain them. "…To the study," Blackthorn Evangeline said. That was all. Her voice was steady. Marcus nodded deeply and crossed the threshold bearing the Blackthorn crest. In that gesture, twelve years of time and unwavering loyalty to the house were compressed into a single moment. ＊ On the study desk, she spread documents. Her mother's letters, sealed envelopes that had not existed in her previous life, copies of transport records from the Scales Hall—the state agency that managed all imperial commerce and logistics. Evangeline arranged them deliberately before Marcus took his seat. She would not hide. She needed to show this man her current position. Marcus sat and glanced at the documents. His jade eyes narrowed. She could see that his speed of processing information had not dulled in twelve years. "Where shall I begin?" Crane Marcus asked. "The sealed envelope," Blackthorn Evangeline replied. Marcus interlaced his fingers. "That envelope was sealed by myself in the false bottom of the study desk drawer twelve years ago," Crane Marcus said. A false bottom. Evangeline had opened and closed that drawer hundreds of times in her previous life, yet she had never known something was hidden there. That Sylvie had discovered it in this life—was it coincidence, or structural inevitability? "How much of the envelope's contents are you aware of, Young Mistress?" Crane Marcus asked. "To the passages concerning your mother's origins. A single phrase describing her as 'blood that survived the Sooty Smoke Rebellion—the imperial succession war that erupted immediately after the death of the emperor two generations prior, eighty-seven years ago, when the First Prince's faction and Second Prince's faction burned half the capital before the Second Prince's faction claimed victory,'" Blackthorn Evangeline said. Marcus's expression shifted subtly. Not surprise. The quiet contraction of one steeling themselves. "Then allow me to speak first of the Thorn Crown necklace," Crane Marcus said. Marcus began to speak. He withdrew a thin document from the inner pocket of his overcoat and placed it on the desk, his heavy voice proceeding in order. The Thorn Crown necklace had been removed from the manor in the autumn three years prior. Marcus had been the first to sense the signs of the Blackthorn house's decline—suspicious flows of money moving in the capital's underworld, repeated contact from figures concealing their identities, relatives of the Blackthorn house who held important posts being gradually relegated to sinecures, merchants who traded with the manor beginning to sever ties without explanation. A vast encirclement was tightening soundlessly. If the family heirloom remained in the manor, it would eventually be confiscated or destroyed. So he had acted independently. But during the transfer, it was stolen. Twelve years had been spent pursuing the identity of the thief. "The Thorn Crown is not merely a family heirloom," Crane Marcus said. His tone changed here. "It is an object bearing a seal—a seal that proves the bloodline succession of the First Prince who fell in the Sooty Smoke Rebellion," Crane Marcus said. Silence fell. Evangeline's thoughts raced. Proof of imperial succession rights. The reason the remnants of the First Prince's faction had formed the Ashwing Nobles' Assembly—a secret society organized by the descendants of those defeated in the Sooty Smoke Rebellion and the aristocrats who backed them—connected to this. If the one who possessed the necklace could claim legitimate succession rights, then the Blackthorn house, which held the item, was both a threat and a tool to this organization. "What lies on the desk is not the necklace itself," Blackthorn Evangeline said. "But a duplicate seal document to unlock it. The necklace itself is currently hidden in the depths of the Vitreous Palace—the emperor's residence—according to information I have gathered over these twelve years," Crane Marcus said. The depths of the Vitreous Palace. Evangeline's expression did not change. But deep within her mind, a new coordinate was being etched onto a map. The door was knocked upon hesitantly. Sylvie appeared with tea for three—and the moment she recognized the elderly steward, her aquamarine eyes widened to their limit. "Marcus!" Blackthorn Sylvie exclaimed. Dimples bloomed across her face. She set the tray down with a thud at the desk's edge and rushed toward Marcus. The old steward began to rise with a wry smile, only to be pushed back down by Sylvie. "You have grown, Miss Sylvie," Crane Marcus said. "Marcus, your hair has gotten so white! Where have you been? Why didn't you send word?" Blackthorn Sylvie asked. "That is a matter to explain in order—" Crane Marcus began. "How many cups of tea?" Blackthorn Sylvie asked. There was silence. Marcus glanced at the classified documents spread across the desk, while Sylvie, completely oblivious to them, began arranging three cups. Evangeline watched. Three cups. Yes, three cups. In that moment, a small gap opened in the taut air of the study. "Three will suffice," Blackthorn Evangeline said. Sylvie poured the tea with evident pleasure and left the room satisfied. The door closed. Quiet returned. But the temperature of the air had shifted, just slightly. Marcus interlaced his fingers once more. "Let us continue," Crane Marcus said. ＊ The old steward's words turned toward the depths. As Marcus spoke of how Evangeline's mother had—when and how—made contact with the bloodline of the First Prince's concubine, the meaning of the documents on the desk shifted gradually, but inexorably. Her mother's actions had not been chance. She had made contact deliberately to protect the Blackthorn house. And Evangeline herself—might carry that blood. Her thoughts attempted to organize themselves. Coldly, logically. But before the calculation could proceed, something created a bottleneck. She had moved as an avenger. Pursued the true culprit, arranged pieces for the Blackthorn house's restoration. That had been her coordinate. But the word "successor" was cracking the foundation beneath it. From outside the entrance, the sound of a horse's hooves was heard. ＊ Adrian Vestyr entered the study with the chill of night still clinging to his dark auburn hair. The small piercing in his right ear—a seal apparatus—caught the candlelight and reflected it. His silver eyes fixed on Marcus, sharpening for an instant before returning to neutral. "I apologize for the delay," Adrian Vestyr said, addressing Evangeline first, then turning his gaze to Marcus. "I have brought copies of the ancient records from the Soaring Ridge region. They were preserved in the document vault of the Vestyr Ducal Estate—one hundred fifty kilometers north of the capital, at the southern foot of the Karst Mountains," Adrian Vestyr said. Documents were added to the desk. What had been three became four, then five. Marcus and Adrian began cross-referencing their information. Evangeline listened. Without speaking, she traced the trajectory where their words intersected. Fragments connected. The Thorn Crown necklace was an object the Ashwing Nobles' Assembly had concealed for over seventy years. As long as it functioned as proof of imperial succession rights, the bloodline that could legitimately possess it—Evangeline's origins—was a threat to this organization, or a tool. The Blackthorn house had to be destroyed. The silhouette of the true culprit took concrete form for the first time. Not a name. A position. Not one of the five Scale-bearers who stood in the "Chamber of Balance"—the highest judicial body of the empire—but higher still, at the center of the Vitreous Palace, in a position to directly touch the emperor's judgment. The true leader of the Ashwing Nobles' Assembly. "…" Blackthorn Evangeline Her thoughts stopped. Adrian noticed. He directed a confirmation question to Marcus—not to Evangeline—thereby creating time for her to think. That consideration was not calculation. It had moved before thought. Reflex. Evangeline perceived this immediately. Perceived it, and the fact that she had done so quietly shook something uncontrollable deep within her chest. ＊ When the discussion reached a pause in the deep night, Marcus excused himself to check on Sylvie. Two remained in the study. On the disordered desk—five types of documents, two quills, two half-empty cups. When Evangeline reached to gather the papers, Adrian extended his hand in the same motion. Their fingertips touched on the same sheet. It was not accidental. Two people moving toward the same purpose, in the same direction, their hands meeting at the same point. That was all. A single beat of stillness. Evangeline did not withdraw her hand. Adrian did not withdraw his. The warmth and weight transmitted through the paper—she tried to process it in the language of strategy, and could not. Her skin recognized it as a physical fact. That was all. But that single fact resonated unexpectedly large in the exhaustion and tension of this night. "What are you afraid of right now?" Adrian Vestyr asked. It was a quiet question. Not an interrogation or a probe, but simply asked—that kind of words. Evangeline searc