Can Gold Cover the Fracture?
"Can you cover the brokenness with gold? Can you cover the brokenness with gold?"
"Hoo..."
As I stepped out of the bath, the Imperial Palace's signature scent enveloped me. Cool air seeped through my damp hair. That fragrance mingled in the air, slowly filling my lungs. Strangely, it was strongest only in my room. The palace used scents throughout, but they were usually subtle, just a faint undercurrent. Not here. The moment I opened the door, floral notes brushed my nose. Deeper in, it grew thicker. I took a breath. Sweet. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. If a scent was good, it was good; if bad, I'd have it removed. This was the former. So I let it be. Besides, after today, even complaining about something so trivial felt awkward.
"...I was too emotional today."
The curtains stirred slightly. Night breeze. The window was cracked open—likely the maids airing the room. I stood by the window, gazing out. The palace gardens fell silent at night. Daytime brought nobles, servants, knights—chaos. But now, they vanished. Only distant sounds: clinking armor from guards, their footsteps, wind rustling leaves.
Click. I placed my hand on the sill. Cold stone pressed against my palm, sharp and vivid.
"...Way too emotional."
I murmured again, recalling my words before the Emperor. Even now, they felt off. Executioners don't judge. Executioners show no emotion. Executioners simply carry out orders. I'd followed those rules forever—or so long I'd lost track. When did I start? First sword? First execution? First bloodbath? All blurred. Memories existed, but no origin. When did I begin killing? No precise answer. One day, I woke up severing a neck. That summed it up. I'd lived as if born an Executioner.
Sword strikes always hit the same spot. A human neck has a line that must be crossed. The blade follows it with little resistance, sinking deep. The wrist feels it crystal-clear; once the body remembers, no thought needed—the sword falls true. The angle of force? Body knows: shoulder to elbow to wrist, a subtle twist. At the end, just before bone, a final directional push. All etched not in mind, but deep in flesh from endless repetition.
Bone snapping? Familiar now. Early on, I might've grasped its weight. Now, just texture—like metal slicing firm matter, the vibration climbing fingertips, arm, shoulder, always the same. Blood spray's arc depends on entry angle, victim's tilt, force escape. No need to watch; I predict it flawlessly.
I pressed harder on the sill. Marble, chilled from the night, seeped cold into my palm, up my wrist, into my inner arm—vividly. Cold has a way of anchoring you to the now. Like chilled steel? I inhaled quietly.
"...Lilac? Not sure."
Palace scents stayed consistent: sweet but not cloying, soft yet distinct. Thinly layered over everything, never tiring. Tonight felt sharper. Not dissolved in air, but lingering closer around me. Each breath drew it vividly into my lungs. Dizzyingly thick.
"...Sleepy."
The garden shadows swayed. Or was it me swaying? I stepped back.
Squish.
Palace carpets muffled footsteps—and bloodstains. Standing on it lightened my body. Strength leaked from my knees like fine threads. Lifting my hand from the sill, the chill faded fast. A twinge of... regret? The scent surged thicker in its place. I blinked slowly. Vision blurred faintly. Candles weren't flickering, yet edges rippled like reflections on water.
Post-bath looseness? Or day's fatigue crashing? No clue, but consciousness sank slowly, unmistakably.
I exhaled long.
Thud.
"...Nothing but unknowns."
Head foggy. Thoughts snapped midway. Recalling today: scenes clear, emotions lagged. What I said to the Emperor. My face. My voice. Remembered, but why it burst out? Hard to explain.
I never questioned killing. Others decided: Emperor, law, Empire. I was the sword executing verdicts. Had I ever chosen? What did I want? Don Quixote revived? Sepir de Hwan not suiciding? Or just a madwoman loving slaughter?
...Who next? Tomorrow, another stranger. Sudden arrival, three days' grace. How is this justice? More guillotine on legs than apostle.
"Shadow."
Unread documents cluttered the desk. Gold-trimmed pen and seal tossed amid them. The Emperor's gaze fixed on a dark corner—not the papers.
From the shadows, a quiet reply: "Yes."
He nodded faintly, satisfied. "Good." Low mutter, confirming his thoughts, slow and deliberate. "The scent worked as intended."
His lips curved subtly. "How long did she hold out?" Calm, like checking records.
The shadow inhaled briefly, then whispered, "A bit longer than expected."
His eyes flickered minutely. "I see." Mutter again. Fingers slipped from chin. He leaned deeper into the chair, gazing ceilingward.
Prime dream demon blood steeped in sleep magic lilac. Ignited to spread faster. Lethal to mortals—endless slumber. For Philia: brief memory lapse, numbness. Senses dulling unaware. Perfect sword: no justice, no values. Just a blade.
Knights playacting brigands, pirates feigning loyalty. Recent headaches, now amusing.
"That knight chasing heavenly stars? His most peasant act: missing the earthly one."
"...Comparing the Executioner to a star, Your Majesty?" Short question, laced with hesitation. The shadow knew him well. Levan de Lowern loathed metaphors unless needed—no flourishes.
"No. She is my star." He caught the doubt. "Heavenly stars are distant. Beautiful, untouchable." Gaze crossed the dark. Paused. Tiny laugh. "Useless."
Candle flickered. Fingers clenched slowly. "Mine differs."
Eyes gleamed faintly. "Moves when I will it."
"Cuts where I point."
"Shines when I need."
Head tilted. Quietly: "Far more useful, no?"
Silence filled the office. No immediate reply needed. The Emperor had concluded long ago—unchanging.
Final mutter: "Thus."
Eyes swept the dark lightly. "That peasant staring skyward..."
Paused. Flatly: "Was truly a peasant's folly."
Following a clear chosen-people ideology.