The pale light of dawn filtered thinly across the stone pavement of Blackthorn Manor. The journal lay on the desk, left as it was. Blackthorn Evangeline stood before the mirror, combing her jet-black hair with her fingers. She wove it loosely into braids at the back of her head—her usual style. Deep violet eyes met her own gaze in the glass. She turned over in her mind the final line she had written last night. —Whose should the thorn crown belong to? Today, that question would receive its answer. Her bones told her so. That was why she didn't need to open the journal. She could write the space for the answer after she returned tonight. When she finished preparing and stepped into the hallway, Crane Marcus was already standing in the entrance hall. Short hair streaked with white, sharp jade-colored eyes. The family crest tattooed on the back of his right hand reflected the light of the corridor's candelabra in a dull gleam. His fingers were interlaced. He always did that before speaking. "The carriage is ready, Miss," Crane Marcus said. "Understood," Blackthorn Evangeline replied. That was all. No unnecessary words were needed. Over these three days, the three of them had each fulfilled their roles. This morning was the culmination of it all. When she opened the front door, Adrian Vestyr stood beside the carriage. Dark brown short hair, clear silver eyes. He wore no crest of the ducal house—not a single one. The foremost of the empire's seven ducal families stood before an unmarked carriage wearing only a simple overcoat, stripped of all insignia. Only a small crest ornament pierced through his right ear, glinting faintly in the pale light. Their eyes met. Adrian said nothing and opened the carriage door. The noble district of the imperial capital Orthensia was nearly deserted just after dawn. Morning mist crawled across the stone pavement, and the faint smell of fresh-baked bread drifting from the commercial district barely mixed with the air. Only the sound of the carriage wheels striking the stones echoed through the quiet streets. The route Marcus had arranged led not to the front of the Glassial Palace—the emperor's residence, the heart of the empire built of white marble and stained glass—but to a rear loading entrance. Adrian, who understood the patrol intervals of the imperial guard, gave directions in a low, brief voice. Marcus relayed them to the driver. Beyond that, no further words passed between the three. Evangeline thought this silence was the accumulation of trust. The three of them had discussed strategy, faced intruders, and passed a night together. Between them now lay an understanding that required no confirmation. In her previous life, she had never possessed such a relationship. The passage descending underground from the rear loading entrance was built before the Soot Chaos—eighty-seven years ago, when the succession war following the death of the fourteenth emperor had seen three imperial princes clash in armed conflict, burning the southern district of the capital—and was a stone corridor that no longer appeared on the current blueprints of the Glassial Palace. The light of the stained glass didn't reach here. Only the flame of the candelabra Marcus carried flickered in the darkness. The stone walls were damp. The smell of an old place—the quiet, faint stench of soil and time mingled together. As she walked, Evangeline's consciousness turned to the silver bracelet on her left wrist—the crest ornament of Blackthorn House. She confirmed the sensation of the thorn binding. How she would use this power today was already decided. ＊ A man stood in the corridor leading to the underground secret chamber. Black robes, face covered with cloth. His build was not large, but the position of the short sword at his waist marked him as trained. On his clothing's clasp was the gray-wing pattern—the mark of the Gray Wing Society. A member of the secret organization lurking in the heart of the empire. The moment the man saw Evangeline, his hand reached for his short sword. Evangeline released the thorn binding. This time, it was not the floor. The power ran to the sheath of the short sword hanging at the man's waist and to the back of the brooch clasp, tightening the metal of the crest ornament from within. The man's movement stopped. The sword couldn't be drawn. The brooch grew hot—a sensation that reached Evangeline's skin from a distance. The consumption was surprisingly light. In her previous life, the thorn binding had been a power that directly ensnared the target's limbs. On the night of the fifth chapter, it had transformed into a net of thorns running across the floor. Tonight, it had evolved further into a form that sealed the crest ornament itself. From "restraint" to "sealing." The nature of the power had changed. Marcus moved behind the man and quickly bound his wrists with rope. Adrian's gaze swept down the corridor, confirming no other figures were present. No words passed between the three. Yet from the quality of the silence, it was clear that all three shared the same understanding of this change in the thorn binding. "This exceeds expectations," Adrian Vestyr said. It was a brief statement. Not an exclamation or surprise, merely a confirmation of fact. Evangeline stood before the door. "Let us proceed," Blackthorn Evangeline said. ＊ Beyond the door was not the regular assembly hall. A small stone chamber. A few candles. Documents spread across a desk, and before them sat a single man. Sixty-three years old. White hair, thin frame, yet his posture was upright. He looked up at the three of them, still holding a crest document in his fingertips. There was no sign of surprise. To be surprised, this man would have needed to be ignorant of the empire's information—and he was far too well-informed for that. Severus Calvarn, the Court Secretary-General. The man who held sole control over information transmission to the emperor. Evangeline's gaze fell to the man's hands. The thorn crown necklace lay there. The very piece she had worn around her neck on the morning she walked to the execution platform in her previous life now rested between this man's fingers. Silver filigree shaped like black rose thorns. A family heirloom passed down through generations of Blackthorns. In her memory, she had been stripped of it. The cold sensation of the metal and the weight of the moment it was torn away still lingered at the back of her neck. (Now she understood why this man had been nearly erased from her previous memories.) Because he was a censor of information. His name was never inscribed in court records. He could be neither witness nor accuser. He was a man who moved through information—controlling or blocking it—and had been hidden in the fog of records from the very beginning. Adrian withdrew a document from his overcoat's inner pocket. A copy of ancient records from the Aolling region—the northernmost reaches of the empire, at the southern foot of the Karst Mountains—and another page: a fragment of the Scales Merchant Company's transport records. "Secretary-General. The transport records of specific goods routed through the northern empire from three years ago through the following year match the traces of falsification in Blackthorn House's financial ledgers," Adrian Vestyr said. Marcus spread out copies of crest documents on the desk. The original of a forged document mimicking the Blackthorn crest, handwriting analysis showing its origin, and evidence that it had been made from supplies belonging to the Imperial Secretariat. Calvarn looked at the documents slowly. "This is..." Severus Calvarn began. He paused, then looked up. "If you believe I acted out of personal malice to frame Blackthorn House, you are mistaken," Severus Calvarn said. His voice was calm. Not the voice of someone being accused. The quiet certainty of a teacher correcting an error. "I removed the rot for the empire's stability. That house was a dangerous bloodline. If left unchecked, the empire's balance would collapse. What I did was nothing more than service to the empire. Not for personal gain, but for the empire's sake," Severus Calvarn said. Evangeline immediately deconstructed the structure of his words. The phrase "service to the empire" was a logic that equated his judgment with the emperor's will. It justified a guilty verdict without evidence or procedure under the name of service. The very logic that had constructed the judgment passed upon her when she mounted the execution platform in her previous life. "Service to the empire and destroying a family with false evidence are separate matters," Blackthorn Evangeline said. Her voice was quiet. There was no need to carry anger in it. She need only speak the contours of fact. "What you call service is judgment without evidence or procedure. The imperial court 'Chamber of Balance'—the sole court established under the name of the Balance God Eldea to judge the grave crimes of nobility—exists for a reason. Surely you, Secretary-General, are not unaware of this," Blackthorn Evangeline said. Calvarn began to open his mouth. "And yet—in this underground, crest arts should not reach," Severus Calvarn said. There was a faint trace of confidence in his voice. Evangeline's consciousness turned to the bracelet on her left wrist. She sent the thorn binding forth. The sound of the metal fasteners on the legs of Calvarn's chair tightening from within. Then the lock on the crest ornament case at his waist sealed in the same manner. The man's body stiffened slightly. Adrian spoke quietly, with only a single word. "It appears to be reaching," Adrian Vestyr said. The air in the room shifted subtly. Within the density of seriousness, a tiny gap opened. Marcus paused for a moment in organizing the documents, then immediately resumed. ＊ With Calvarn completely immobilized by the thorn binding, Evangeline took the thorn crown from the desk. It had weight. Silver, intricate work. It fit in her palm, yet in her previous life she had worn it to the execution platform. It had been torn away. Stolen. That memory was burned into the object. (She could perform restorative justice here.) The thought surfaced for a moment. Use it as evidence in this place. Take back what had been stolen from her in her previous life in the form of reclaiming it here. The cold light of the execution platform, the voices of the crowd, the weight of solitude—all compressed and pressing down. Evangeline passed through that memory's pain. She crossed through it and stood on the other side. "Severus Calvarn, Secretary-General. I am delivering you to the imperial court 'Chamber of Balance,'" Blackthorn Evangeline said. Her voice fell quietly into the stone chamber. This was not forgiveness. Not mercy. For an individual to execute revenge was structurally identical to a guilty verdict without evidence or procedure. She could not reproduce the very structure she had come to hate. Law corrects law. That alone was the path to fundamentally overturn the judgment passed upon Blackthorn House. Adrian moved. His expression shifted slightly. Not surprise. Deep, quiet understanding. His deep silver eyes looked at Evangeline as if confirming something, yet he did not speak it aloud. While Marcus efficiently handled Calvarn's restraint and the organization of evidence documents, Evangeline opened the clasp of the thorn crown necklace. She confirmed the position of the fastener and brought it to her own neck. Her fingertips trembled. A faint tremor. The memory of the moment it had been torn away remained in her muscles. Even when she tried consciously to stop it, this was the kind of tremor that wouldn't cease. She tried to align the clasp with her fingers, but it wavered slightly. There was a presence behind her. Adrian stood silently. There was a height difference between them. Long fingers touched the stray hairs at the