29. Rowan
There are a lot of things I’ve done that I don’t think about twice.
Breaking into places.
Taking hits that weren’t meant for me.
Lying when it keeps someone alive.
And then there are things like this.
Things you don’t do because they’re easy.
You do them because everything else has already failed.
Caelum was asleep when I left.
Not the kind of sleep that looks peaceful.
The kind that happens after too much breaking and not enough holding together.
I stayed for a while longer than I should have.
Just watching him breathe like it was something I needed to make sure still worked.
Then I left.
Quietly.
Because if I stayed any longer, I would’ve started confusing “protecting him” with something I had no right to think about.
The palace corridors at night feel different.
Less like structure.
More like memory.
Like the building remembers things people try to forget.
I moved through it without being seen.
That part was easy.
It always is when you know exactly where to look and exactly where not to exist.
The uncle’s wing was still too clean.
That was the first thing that bothered me.
Even at this hour, even with most of the palace asleep, it looked maintained.
Like someone expected it to be observed.
Or used.
I waited in the shadow outside the corridor for a while.
Listening.
Counting movement patterns.
Guards rotate every twelve minutes here.
Three routes. One blind spot near the service alcove.
Too predictable for someone in his position.
That alone told me something.
Either he was confident no one would come here...
or he wanted someone to.
I slipped in through the service entrance.
No alarms.
No resistance.
Again, too easy.
That bothered me more than anything else.
His office light was on.
Of course it was.
People like him don’t sit in darkness. They sit in control.
Even when no one’s watching.
Especially when no one’s watching.
He wasn’t inside.
That made the second wave of calculation hit.
If he wasn’t here yet, I had time.
If he arrived unexpectedly...
I’d already lost advantage.
I moved quickly.
Desk first.
Drawers second.
Nothing obvious. No hidden files this time. No open records.
Just surface paperwork.
Intentional surface.
That told me more than absence did.
Then I saw the decanter.
Sitting near the side table.
Crystal. Expensive. Unnecessarily so.
Half full.
A glass already poured beside it.
Not touched yet.
That was when I made my decision.
Not carefully.
Not emotionally.
Just logically.
I pulled a small vial from my inner pocket.
Not something I like using.
Not something I use often.
Truth serum variants aren’t clean. They don’t create honesty. They strip away resistance.
Which means you don’t always get truth.
You get what’s left when a person stops filtering themselves.
Sometimes that’s worse.
Sometimes it’s useful.
I poured a measured amount into the drink.
Stirred it once.
Set it back exactly how it was.
No change in appearance.
No visible interference.
Then I stepped back into shadow.
And waited.
He arrived eight minutes later.
Exactly on rotation cycle deviation.
Predictable even in his unpredictability.
He didn’t notice me immediately.
That was the mistake most people in power make.
They assume invisibility means absence.
Not discipline.
He loosened his coat as he entered.
Didn’t look around.
Didn’t check corners.
Didn’t hesitate.
That told me something too.
He wasn’t afraid here.
He felt safe.
That was important.
People tell the truth easiest where they feel safest.
He poured himself a drink.
Slowly.
Almost absent-minded.
Then sat at the desk without turning on any additional light.
Just the dim glow from the wall fixtures.
Comfortable darkness.
Controlled visibility.
I waited until he drank.
One sip.
Then another.
Enough.
The shift isn’t immediate.
That’s the thing people misunderstand about truth compounds.
It doesn’t flip a switch.
It lowers resistance.
Softens edges.
Turns control into suggestion.
He frowned slightly after a minute.
Paused mid-page of whatever document he had opened.
Then leaned back.
“…Strange,” he muttered.
I stepped forward slowly.
Not announcing myself.
Just becoming visible.
He didn’t react sharply when he saw me.
That was also telling.
His focus was already dulled.
Not enough to be unconscious.
Just enough to lose precision.
“You,” he said.
Not surprised.
Just acknowledging.
“I have questions,” I replied.
A faint smile.
“That’s bold for someone standing in my office at night.”
“I didn’t ask permission.”
“No,” he said slowly. “You didn’t.”
Silence.
I watched him carefully.
Waiting for the shift to deepen.
It was there already.
Subtle.
His pupils slightly less focused.
His posture looser than before.
“Who are you protecting?” I asked.
He laughed lightly.
“That’s a large question.”
“Answer it.”
Another pause.
He tilted his head slightly.
Like the question itself was amusing.
“I protect the continuity of order,” he said.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only answer that matters.”
I stepped closer.
Just enough.
Not threatening.
But enough to pressure the space.
His gaze tracked me slightly slower than normal.
That confirmed it.
“You are involved in something,” I said.
He exhaled slowly.
“I am involved in many things.”
“With the royal family,” I clarified.
That changed something.
Subtle.
But real.
He blinked once.
Then leaned forward slightly.
“That family is involved in everything,” he said.
“Specifically,” I pressed, “Caelum’s past.”
Silence.
Longer this time.
Then...
“Oh,” he said softly. “That one.”
That reaction wasn’t surprise.
It was recognition.
My jaw tightened.
“What happened to his mother and sister?” I asked directly.
The question landed differently under the influence.
Less defended.
More exposed.
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then smiled faintly.
Not kind.
Not cruel.
Just knowing.
“Still chasing that,” he murmured.
“Answer it.”
A pause.
Longer.
The serum was working more now.
I could see it in how his control kept slipping in small increments.
“I wasn’t there,” he said finally.
That wasn’t what I asked.
I stepped closer again.
“Who was?”
His fingers tapped once on the desk.
Slow.
Unsteady.
“Different hands,” he said quietly.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the closest you’ll get.”
My patience tightened.
“Were you involved?” I asked.
Direct.
No room for interpretation.
A pause.
Then...
“Yes.”
That word hit heavier than expected.
Not because it was shocking.
Because it was clean.
Unavoidable.
My expression didn’t change.
But something inside me did.
“In what capacity?” I asked.
He leaned back slightly.
Eyes unfocused now.
The serum pulling more surface control away.
“Facilitated,” he said.
“Facilitated what?”
Silence.
Longer.
Then...
“Access,” he said finally.
That wasn’t enough.
But it was something.
“Who gave the order?” I pressed.
His gaze flickered slightly.
Resistance fighting through.
Not fully gone yet.
“I don’t remember,” he said.
Then added, slower:
“Or I do. And I’m not supposed to.”
That mattered.
Not the answer.
The hesitation.
I leaned in slightly.
“Was it the King?”
A pause.
Then...
“No.”
Immediate.
Clear.
That surprised me.
Not because it cleared guilt.
Because it redirected it.
“Then who?” I asked.
His jaw tightened faintly.
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then...
“People above titles,” he said.
That wasn’t helpful.
But it was consistent with everything I had seen so far.
Power structures that didn’t appear on official records.
Absences in lineage files.
Gaps where names should be.
I straightened slightly.
Processing.
“You are not the source,” I said quietly.
A faint, tired laugh.
“No,” he said. “I’m a tool that was used.”
Silence.
He blinked slowly now.
The serum wearing deeper into cognition.
Not fully truthful state.
But less filtered.
More raw.
“I didn’t kill them,” he said suddenly.
Then paused.
“But I didn’t stop it either.”
That was the closest thing to full confession I was going to get.
I stepped back.
Slowly.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on desk.
Breathing uneven now.
Not panic.
Just instability.
“Why are you here?” he asked after a moment.
“To understand,” I said.
“Dangerous hobby,” he muttered.
I didn’t respond.
Because I had already gotten what I came for.
Not answers.
But confirmation.
He was involved.
Not as mastermind.
But as function.
As part of system.
And systems like that don’t exist alone.
They exist in networks.
I moved toward the door.
Behind me, his voice lowered slightly.
“Tell Caelum…” he started.
Then stopped.
I paused.
Looked back slightly.
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Just leaned back again like the effort of speaking was becoming too much.
I left before the serum fully collapsed his coherence.
Before he could say anything more useful...or more dangerous.
Outside, the air felt colder.
Clearer.
But nothing about what I had learned felt clean.
Because I had gone looking for truth.
And what I found instead...
was structure.
Something bigger than one man.
Bigger than one betrayal.
Something that had existed long before either of us entered this story.
And Caelum was standing at the centre of it.
Whether he knew it yet or not.