The fresh air of the royal garden brought no relief. The intense scent of jasmine and climbing roses, which at any other time would have soothed his senses, now felt almost suffocating steeped in a cloying fragrance that mingled with the slimy memory of Riko's lavender perfume.
Hayjin strode through the portico with heavy steps, the metallic clatter of his light uniform echoing off the squared paving stones of the walkway. He dragged behind him the shadow of failure the burning frustration of a man who knows he is embroiled in a deadly game whose rules he still does not fully understand.
He reached an isolated alcove in the outer garden, where a trellis of ancient ivy shielded a rough-hewn stone bench from the sun. Hayjin sank heavily onto the bench, bending his torso forward and burying his face in his hands.
He pressed his palms against his eyes until spots of light danced in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. He could feel his blood throbbing in his temples with the terrifying regularity of a countdown.
"What the fuck is happening in this place?" he screamed internally, his inner voice cracking under accumulated rage and fatigue. "Who was it? Who slit my throat in the dark of my room?"
Frustrated, he couldn't figure out whether it had been Wilder or Riko.
Hayjin's mind fractured into two opposing currents, each anchored by distressing details:
On one side stood Wilder: the elite knight with his carefree demeanor, innate joviality, and lethal combat prowess. Wilder knew the tactical deployment of the guards, carried a short thrusting weapon perfectly consistent with the clean incision that had severed Hayjin's trachea in the previous loop, and less than an hour ago had tried to lead him to an isolated copse away from prying eyes. Yet Wilder had just ridden out of the castle at a trot with a knight patrol, moving with an ease that could either be proof of his innocence or the flawless performance of a veteran assassin leaving the crime scene to establish an airtight alibi.
On the other side was Riko: the iron-masked housekeeper. Until five minutes prior, Hayjin would have wagered his very soul that she was the culprit. The way she stared down at him from the window, that hostility she had never bothered to conceal since his arrival at court, her ability to move through the shadows without raising a shred of suspicion. Yet their encounter in the corridor had left him deeply shaken. Her sudden sweetness, that morbid, unsettling way she closed the distance, touched his chest, and offered to "make him forget everything"... Was that the behavior of a woman who viewed him as a madman traumatized by the dungeon, or the psychological snare of a perverse manipulator driving him further into madness?
"Riko... was she actually sincere? That attitude, that grotesque and slimy attempt to play the caregiver, talking to me like a lunatic in need of help... Was it all a ploy to throw me off, or the genuine reaction of a woman who simply sees me as a nuisance? And Wilder...? Wilder rode out past the walls with the cavalry, laughing and joking as if he didn't have a single care in the world. If he was the one who slit my throat in my sleep, how could someone so calm and pleasant be capable of it? Either he's an incomparably ruthless actor, or I'm focusing on the wrong people."
"What if I'm looking in the wrong place entirely?" The question seeped into his thoughts like poison. "What if I'm ignoring the most powerful and mysterious piece on this entire chessboard?"
Hayjin reopened his eyes, staring down at the gray gravel between his boots. Once planted, doubt acted like a venom, corrupting every face he had encountered since stepping across the threshold of Opes.
He needed to consider whether Sage Arkon might be a culprit as well.
Sage Arkon. The man who had observed him from the balcony with that inscrutable expression seemingly pleased to see him alongside Isabelle, yet wielding immense political power. Arkon had access to ancient texts, understood runic secrets, and could easily pull strings or cast concealment spells that no one within the castle could ever hope to detect.
Hayjin pulled his hands from his face, his bloodshot eyes widening. He bolted to his feet in a sudden surge of movement, driven by a renewed, desperate craving for answers.
He set off at a brisk pace toward the great Tower of Wisdom, the sector of the north wing where Arkon resided and studied. He traversed the royal library, its dark wooden bays and miles of dusty parchments seeming to watch him in tomb-like silence. He questioned two novices organizing ancient codices, but both shook their heads, claiming they had not seen the Master since first light.
Hayjin climbed the steep spiral stairs leading to the Sage's private study, knocking heavily on the door etched with arcane runes, but received only the hollow echo of his knuckles against solid wood. He even tried peeking into the ritual chamber and the lower alchemical gardens.
Nothing. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't find him anywhere. Arkon seemed to have vanished into thin air, swallowed by the very shadows of Opes Castle.
Exhausted, his head throbbing as though an iron wedge were being driven into his skull with every heartbeat, Hayjin realized that continuing to wander the palace in this state would only lead to another misstep. Zhilian was already keeping an eye on him, the guards deemed him suspicious, and his mind was too clouded by paranoia to distinguish reality from his own projections.
Thus, he decided to rest in his room for a while to reflect, hoping a few hours of isolation would grant him the clear detachment necessary to survive.
"I can't take this anymore..." Hayjin thought, his breathing heavy. "If I keep wandering aimlessly, I'll end up collapsing in the middle of the courtyard. I need to isolate myself. I need to gather my thoughts."
As Hayjin crossed the great courtyard of honor toward the knights' quarters wing, he failed to notice that someone was watching him from high above on the battlements.
Princess Zhilian stood near a stone embrasure, her hands resting on the hilt of her side-sword. She watched Hayjin angrily, her brow creased with deep indignation over the crude, unpleasant manner in which he had spoken to her earlier in the corridor. That "It's none of your business, leave me alone" still burned inside her like an insult to her standing and her dedication toward him.
Her initial instinct was to march down, grab him by the collar of his armor, and demand an immediate explanation under threat of disciplinary action. But as she watched him trudge forward with stooped shoulders, uncertain steps, and a hollow stare fixed on nothingness, Zhilian noticed something profoundly broken in her knight's posture. It was not the stance of an insolent rogue or a traitor; it was the posture of a man crushed by an invisible weight that threatened to break his back.
Zhilian tightened her fists against the stone parapet, releasing a slow sigh of frustration.
She chose to hold back for the time being. She would give him time. She would let him retreat to his room, but she swore she wouldn't let the day end without squeezing the truth out of him.
On the far side of the palace, bathed in the sunniest, most lush corner of the inner gardens, life flowed at an entirely different pace.
Nestled among manicured hedges and white marble fountains, Isabelle felt vastly better. The paralyzing terror that had gripped her upon waking had gradually dissolved, melted away by the innocent presence and effervescent cheer of little Princess Wren.
Color had finally returned to her usually pale cheeks, and the harrowing anguish that had choked her in her darkened room had ebbed away significantly. The warmth of the sun and the fresh air restored a sense of the quiet dignity that had always defined her.
Much of the credit belonged to Wren. The child hadn't stopped engaging her for a single moment, chatting endlessly and whisking her into her little world of novice magic.
Right now, the two were having fun casting basic spells.
They sat on a soft clover lawn. Isabelle sat with her legs tucked to the side, her housekeeper uniform slightly rumpled, enjoying herself as she cast low-level elemental magic with Princess Wren.
Wren waved her tiny hands in the air, concentrating with a comical look of solemn intensity. Tiny sparks of golden light drifted from her fingertips like summer fireflies, bursting into microscopic luminous confetti that rained over Isabelle's hair. In turn, the housekeeper used subtle wind magic to make flower petals dance around the child, creating a fragrant little vortex that made the princess's eyes widen in wonder.
"Look, Isabelle! Look at this!" Wren giggled brightly, bouncing a golden orb toward the housekeeper's hand.
Isabelle smiled genuinely, a true smile that brightened her dark eyes. She reached out her fingers, letting the little light bubble burst gently against her knuckles, dissolving into a shower of harmless, microscopic sparks.
"It truly is beautiful, Princess Wren," Isabelle said in a soft, relaxed voice, leaning down slightly to meet her gaze. "You have extraordinary control over magic for your age. The court master must be very proud of you."
Wren puffed out her chest with comical pride before breaking into another laugh. Then her young face grew slightly more serious, though her lips retained a touch of immense sweetness.
Seeing Isabelle let out another genuine laugh, Wren paused her magic. She stepped closer and sat on the grass right in front of her, crossing her legs.
Wren gazed at her with a happy smile, her blue eyes gleaming with an intuitive maturity that occasionally startled those around her.
"You know, Lady Isabelle..." Wren began, swaying slightly on her heels. "It's nice to see you smile, Isabelle," the child said, tilting her head. She paused briefly, giving her a sweet, knowing look. "You know... you should try to be a little nicer to Hayjin."
Isabelle froze for a moment, the smile faltering on her lips. The mention of Hayjin brought back the promise he had made in her room, that desperate embrace, and the feeling that he was her sole lifeline in this temporal nightmare.
Isabelle leaned toward the princess with curious interest. "Why do you say that, Princess? What do you like so much about Hayjin?"
Wren tapped her chin thoughtfully, looking up at the blue sky above them.
"Hmm... there isn't really one specific thing," Wren replied with childlike candor. "He isn't the strongest, he isn't a noble, and sometimes he looks so serious and scared he seems like an old man! But... I love him dearly."
Isabelle listened in silence, struck by the simplicity of those words.
Isabelle raised her eyebrows slightly, intrigued. "Dearly? And why is that?"
"Because he was finally the first real friend I've ever had," Wren continued, looking up at Isabelle with endless warmth. "Everyone else in the castle just treats me like the 'little princess.' They bow to me, they always agree with me, but nobody actually talks to me. Hayjin looks me in the eye and treats me like a normal person like a normal child. And second, he let you and me play together today. If it weren't for him, you'd still be locked in your dark room, and I'd be all alone studying magic formulas with the tutors."
The girl lowered her gaze slightly, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers. Her voice dropped, losing its cheerful pitch to take on a melancholic edge.
"Everyone in this castle acts so serious and strict," Wren explained with a wisdom bitter for her age. "And they expect everyone to be perfect. Zhilian trains until she faints, the sages only talk about laws and strategy, Riko even monitors how I walk... I know they do it for our own good, I really do. I know they want to protect me."
Wren raised her dark eyes to Isabelle, appearing in that moment as nothing more than an orphaned child terrified by the weight of the crown.
"But I wish I received real affection, not just 'you are the princesses, so we must obey you,'" Wren said, her voice fragile. "Especially now that our parents are gone... Ever since Mama and Papa passed away, this place has been beautiful, but cold as stone."
Those words struck Isabelle straight in the heart like a sledgehammer. A sharp, stinging pang of guilt tightened around her throat. How many times had she limited herself to executing her duties with strict formality? How many times had she treated the two sisters as royal entities to serve rather than human beings suffering the devastating loss of their parents?
Isabelle leaned forward, extending her hands to gently cup Wren's small fingers.
"Princess... I..." Isabelle's voice shook with emotion. "I apologize if we haven't given you princesses enough care... and if I always seemed so cold."
Isabelle let out a pained sigh, gazing around the imposing gardens.
"Unfortunately, especially with the Sages taking charge of the Kingdom of Opes, there is no room left for peace or laughter," the housekeeper explained bitterly. "The pressure is immense, threats from neighboring kingdoms grow more aggressive by the day, and the court has become a hive of tension..."
Yet even as she spoke those official words, Isabelle's mind drifted back to the pool of her own blood on the floor, Hayjin's severed throat, and the shadows stalking the castle in the dead of night.
"And foreign kingdoms aren't the only threat..." Isabelle thought, a freezing chill running down her spine. "The real danger is already here. It walks our corridors, eats at our table, and wears the clothes of our people."
Wren noticed the shadow of sadness threatening to consume Isabelle's gaze once more. Unwilling to let her new playmate slide back into despair, the little princess took matters into her own hands.
Without a word, Wren channeled her magic. A clear orb of fresh water gathered rapidly in her right palm, drawn directly from the nearby fountain.
With a mischievous, playful smirk, Wren used her magic to lob the water orb straight into Isabelle's stomach.
SPLASH!
The water sphere burst against Isabelle's uniform, soaking her white pinafore and showering her face and hair in a cloud of spray. Isabelle gasped in shock, her mouth agape for three seconds of pure bewilderment. She looked down at the wet patch on her dress, then up at Wren, who was already clapping her hands over her mouth, her shoulders trembling with stifled giggles.
"Princess Wren!" Isabelle gasped, feigning formal outrage that lasted less than a second.
The sight of the child unable to contain herself broke down every remaining barrier in Isabelle. The housekeeper shed her stiffness and the two burst into hearty laughter, their clear, bright giggles echoing through the warm morning air, momentarily dispelling the shroud of terror hanging over the royal palace of Opes.
Meanwhile, the gloom of Hayjin's room offered a dry sanctuary, yet no peace whatsoever.
The drapes were drawn, allowing only faint wisps of light to filter through the gaps in the wooden shutters. The boy lay on the bed with his arms crossed behind his head, staring at the ceiling beams.
The room was steeped in tomb-like silence, broken only by the steady, labored rhythm of his breath.
His eyes remained locked on the dark timber ceiling. Throughout those three hours of total isolation, his mind had replayed every detail of the loop: the blade to his throat, his conversation with Wilder, Riko's gaze from the window, the confrontation in the east corridor, and Arkon's smile from the balcony.
For three hours alone in his room, Hayjin traced every single instant since he had returned in time.
He analyzed Wilder's behavior: his flawless alibi, his confident movements, the ease with which he handled his stiletto. He re-examined the absurd exchange with Riko: her slimy proposition, her manipulative attempt to frame him as insane, her alibi backed by the staff guards.
"Wilder..." Hayjin thought for the thousandth time. "Everything points to him. He's the only one with the training, the stiletto, and the tactical access. But what if he's acting under someone else's orders? What if he's merely the executioner and Arkon is the mastermind? Or what if Riko is covering her tracks by playing the lunatic to perfection?"
He reconsidered Arkon: his sudden disappearance, that serene smile from the balcony that could easily be either a sage's blessing or the cold satisfaction of a puppeteer pulling strings from afar.
The more he reflected, the more he realized the killer didn't just want him dead; they wanted to isolate him, ruin his credibility, and drive him to reckless moves that would get him arrested or executed by Princess Zhilian herself.
"If I keep acting on impulse, I'll play right into their hands," Hayjin concluded, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply to steady his pulse. "I have to be smarter. I have to wait for the killer to make the first mistake."
Just as that thought crystallized in his mind, a sharp, rhythmic sound shattered the quiet of the bedroom.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Three sharp raps, delivered by leather-gloved knuckles against the wooden door.
Hayjin bolted upright on the bed, every muscle tensing instantly. His hand slid instinctively toward the hilt of the dagger resting on the nightstand.
"Who is it?" Hayjin demanded in a raspy, unwelcoming voice.
From the other side of the door came Zhilian's voice steady, stripped of her earlier rage, yet heavy with an uncompromising authority and solemnity.
"Hayjin... it's me. Open the door. I want to talk to you. I know you're in there."
The princess continued in a firm tone, free of reckless anger, but steeped in iron determination and undeniable urgency.
"Open the door. I need to speak with you. Now."
Hayjin stared at the wooden frame for a few seconds, his mind rapidly weighing every potential scenario. Then he released his grip on the dagger, stood up from the bed, and took his first steps toward the door to face the princess.