Catherine's world, which had seemed so vast and full of possibility just a moment before, suddenly shrank to the space of ten paces between her and Kenji.
The scent of roses became sickening, the birdsong, a shrill screech.
The man standing before her was not a pawn like Mathieu, governed by fear and desire. He was not a mountain of ego like Valerius, easily scaled with the handholds of flattery.
He was a blade drawn from its sheath: silent, polished, and absolutely functional. His loyalty to Valerius was a granite wall, and his simple observation was a greater threat than any physical violence.
The comment about his mother was not conversation; it was a warning shot.
Panic, that old beast lurking in the darkest corners of her soul, threatened to stir.
She felt its icy bite, the urge to stammer an excuse, to justify herself, to retreat. But she strangled it before it could reach her throat.
To back down now would be an admission of guilt. She was the Oracle, a creature of mystery and unfathomable power. And an Oracle is never caught off guard.
A slow, almost lazy smile spread across her lips. It was not a smile of warmth, but of complicity, as if he had just passed an unexpected test and succeeded brilliantly. She inclined her head in a gesture of acknowledgment.
"Your mother was a woman of great wisdom, Captain Kenji," she said, her voice regaining its calm, whispered melody. She took a step toward him, closing the distance, seizing the initiative.
"Spirits, fates, gods… they are all just masks, indeed. Stories we tell to give meaning to the chaos. But the real question is not whether the mask is real. The real question is: what is being hidden behind it, and who has the courage to look it in the face?"
She was challenging him.
She accepted his premise and turned it back on him, transforming his skepticism into a form of wisdom she claimed to share.
Kenji did not flinch, but Catherine saw a tiny flicker of surprise in the depths of his dark eyes. He had expected a denial, not an agreement.
"You and I, Captain," she continued, stopping a few feet from him, "we are more alike than you think. We both serve power. We simply do so in different ways."
She let her gaze drift to his hands, strong and expert hands. She used her vision, searching for a personal thread, an anchor for her next blow.
She found it: a thread of almost monastic discipline, deep blue, linked to an object in his quarters.
A blade.
"A man who, every night before sleeping, spends an hour polishing the steel of his katana, does not do so out of superstition," she said softly, using the precise term from the Eastern Isles she had just perceived.
"He does it because he understands that true power lies in flawless discipline, in silent preparation, in respecting the instrument that can deal death or protect a life. He understands that every battle is won before the first blow is ever struck."
The impact was total. Kenji's impassiveness cracked.
A muscle twitched along his jaw.
This was not information he had shared with anyone in this house. It was his private ritual, a link to his homeland, his warrior's philosophy. She had not just "seen" it; she had understood it.
She had validated the very essence of who he was. He looked at her differently, the suspicion in his eyes giving way to a cautious curiosity and a flicker of involuntary respect.
"The wills of the living are indeed the only thing that matters," Catherine concluded, her voice taking on a touch of mystical sadness.
"And the wills of some men are so powerful they leave scars on the world, echoes that even a simple Oracle like myself can hear. It is one of these wills that your master seeks to understand, for his own protection. I am merely the instrument that allows him to hear it. Is that not a loyal service?"
She had come full circle.
She had acknowledged his intelligence, proven her power was real in a way he could respect, and reaffirmed that her ultimate goal was to serve his master, Valerius.
She was offering him a tacit truce: do not get in my way, and you will witness something fascinating. Get in my way, and you will be nothing but a loyal but blind guard who failed to protect his master from what he did not understand.
Kenji was silent for a long moment, sizing her up.
Finally, he bowed, a brief, formal gesture.
"My apologies if I have offended you, My Lady. I am merely doing my duty."
He turned and left her alone in the gazebo.
The threat was not gone, but it had changed its nature. He would not report her. Not yet. He would observe.
Catherine waited until the sound of his footsteps had faded, then let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs. He was the most formidable adversary she had faced thus far.
She returned to her apartments, clutching the leather file to her chest, and locked the door. Alone at last.
Her hands trembled slightly as she untied the leather ribbons.
She pulled out the stack of yellowed parchments. The smell of dust and time wafted up. At the top of the first page, a handwritten list in faded ink.
Report on the Victims of the Dock Fire, Year 342 of the reign of King Alaric IV.
She read the names of the merchant families, the Van Der Meers, the Solari. Then she came to the section concerning the port authority personnel. Her finger traced the line.
Elmer, Alistair. Harbor Master.Elmer, Lyra. Wife.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She had known, but to see it in writing, in black and white, was a dagger twisting in her gut. And then, just below it, another line.
A line that did not exist in her fragmented memories, a person she had never been told about.
Elmer, Anne. Daughter, age: 5.
The world tilted.
A sister. She had had a sister.
A five-year-old girl, whose ghost had been erased not only from the city, but from her own memory.
The hatred she felt for The Rook, already immense, became something absolute.
He hadn't just stolen her life.
He had stolen her blood.
A single tear, hot and salty, fell on the thirty-year-old document, blurring the name of the sister she had never known.