Chapter 58: Chapter 58: Misunderstanding?
Rowan’s expression shifts through a kaleidoscope of confusion, his eyebrows performing an elaborate dance from furrowed to raised to completely disappearing into his hairline. For two excruciatingly long seconds, his brain scrambles like an egg on a hot skillet, desperately rifling through recent memories. The synapses in his exhausted mind finally connect to the hushed conversation in Alaric’s study three days prior—the same conversation where Alaric had tugged nervously at his cravat while explaining Carlton’s sudden ’amnesia’.
A dawning realization breaks across Rowan’s face like the first light of morning—though considerably more panicked. The equation finally balances in his mind: Carlton + Not attempting murder + asking administrative questions = memory loss confirmed.
That explains why Carlton hasn’t transformed into a homicidal maniac at the mere sight of Kastiel! Under normal circumstances, Carlton’s Kastiel-detection systemfunctions with the supernatural precision of a bloodhound tracking its prey. The Empress could sense Kastiel’s presence within a twenty-meter radius, triggering what the palace staff had taken to calling "The Imperial Hunt"—a spectacle where Carlton would abandon all diplomatic pretense to pursue his husband’s former confidant through corridors and gardens alike, ceremonial sword raised high above his head.
Rowan winces as he recalls how three days of marathon bedroom activities with Kastiel had apparently pickled his brain, causing him to temporarily forget the Emperor’s revelation about Carlton’s condition. Eleven years of memories—gone! Including all the jealousy, rage, and sword-chasing incidents that defined Carlton’s relationship with Kastiel.
Meanwhile, Kastiel stands in increasingly bewildered silence, the handkerchief still protruding from his mouth like some bizarre fashion statement. His eyes dart between Carlton and Rowan with increasing desperation, clearly attempting to decode this conversation through mime alone. The irony drips thick as honey—in another world, he functions as Alaric’s most trusted confidant, the keeper of imperial secrets, the man who could predict Alaric’s thoughts before Alaric himself (not after the arrival of other Carlton). Yet here he stands, reduced to a confused spectator with fabric filling his mouth, entirely excluded from whatever game of political chess unfolds before him.
The universe certainly has a twisted sense of humor: the man who once orchestrated diplomatic relations between six warring nations can’t even remove a handkerchief from his own mouth without fear of imperial retribution.
Rowan shifts Kilian’s weight to his left arm, the child watching this adult theater with fascination only children can muster when witnessing grown-ups behaving inexplicably. A resigned sigh escapes Rowan’s lips as he meets Carlton’s penetrating gaze.
"Your Majesty," he begins, his voice dropping to ensure only those immediately present can hear, "the one handling everything now is Johan, your cousin whom you trust..."
Rowan watches with mounting horror as Carlton’s expression transforms before his eyes. He’d expected Johan’s name to soothe Carlton’s concerns—to see the Empress’s shoulders relax, perhaps even a satisfied nod acknowledging Alaric’s wise appointment of his trusted cousin.
Instead, what unfolds is meteorological terrorism.
The temperature plummets so dramatically that Rowan half-expects ice crystals to form in the air between them. The warmth that had tentatively returned to the corridor evaporates like morning dew under a vengeful sun. Even the maid who had been edging away from the royal spectacle—having nearly achieved her escape—freezes mid-step. Her entire body seizes in primal terror, her brain sending urgent telegrams to her muscles: "DO NOT MOVE. PREDATOR DETECTED."
Carlton’s face—normally a masterpiece of aristocratic restraint—contorts into something primal and terrifying. His features sharpen to dangerous points, his eyes narrow to glittering slits of concentrated venom. He doesn’t merely look angry; he looks like fury itself has taken human form and decided to wear imperial regalia for the occasion.
Rowan instinctively retreats, his body operating on survival instincts older than civilization itself. But for every backward step Rowan takes, Carlton advances—a precise, methodical stalking that reminds everyone present why predators at the top of the food chain never need to rush.
"I trust him?" Carlton’s voice drops to a register normally reserved for summoning demons or announcing tax increases. "That Johan? Are you crazy, Rowan?" Each syllable crystallizes in the air, forming visible question marks of frost that hang accusingly between them. "You know what he was like from when he was a kid!!! And how many murder attempts he’s made on us?!"
The words emerge as crystallized contempt, each syllable a shard of ice embedding itself into Rowan’s rapidly diminishing courage. He clutches Kilian tighter against his chest, the child’s warmth the only thing preventing Rowan from surrendering to hypothermia induced by pure imperial wrath.
Contrasting his father’s terror, Kilian vibrates with barely contained excitement in Rowan’s trembling arms. Where others see a terrifying display of royal rage, Kilian perceives only the magnificent spectacle of his idol in full glory. His eyes transform into starbursts of adoration, pupils dilated to their limits as if attempting to absorb every millisecond of Carlton’s magnificent fury. To Kilian’s worshipful gaze, Carlton isn’t angry—he’s transcendent, a sovereign predator asserting dominance over lesser beings, magnificent in his terrible power.
The surrounding environment responds accordingly to Carlton’s emotional climate change. A line of determined ants that had been industriously transporting cake crumbs dropped by the royal children abruptly abandons their mission, performing a synchronized retreat into nearby cracks in the stonework. A spider, sensing the disturbance through its web, quietly packs its belongings and submits resignation from palace duty. Even the dust motes in the air seem to freeze in place, afraid that movement might attract the Empress’s attention.
"Your Majesty," Rowan blurts with the desperate velocity of a man watching his life flash before his eyes, "there was actually a misunderstanding between you and Johan! But the two of you already settled that misunderstanding 10 years ago!"
The words tumble from his lips in a panicked avalanche, his body instinctively curling around Kilian as if the child might serve as a thermal shield against the imperial winter emanating from Carlton’s very being. Sweat beads at Rowan’s temples despite the chill—the peculiar physiological response of prey cornered by apex predator.
Carlton’s brow furrows deeper, a geological event occurring across his forehead as new canyons of confusion form between his eyebrows. The cognitive dissonance strikes him with the force of a battering ram. A recollection surfaces from the turbulent sea of his thoughts—the stark realization that personalities in this world often diverge dramatically from their counterparts in his original reality. The same faces wear entirely different souls.
Could Johan be among those whose character had undergone a fundamental transformation across dimensions? The Johan he knew—had dedicated his existence to orchestrating Carlton’s downfall since childhood, a vendetta so persistent it bordered on artistic dedication—a malevolence so refined it could have been framed and hung in galleries. The catalog of Johan’s treacheries sprawled across decades like a masterpiece of malice, each betrayal more elaborate than the last.
Most haunting was the battlefield incident barely six months past, when Johan had clandestinely corresponded with their enemies, revealing Carlton’s strategic position with surgical precision. Carlton would have been slaughtered like a ceremonial lamb had Alaric not experienced that inexplicable premonition—that whisper of wrongness that prompted him to divert reinforcements against all tactical wisdom. Alaric had arrived just as enemy forces descended, his unexpected presence transforming certain defeat into improbable victory. They’d not only survived but managed to eliminate the enemy general, uncovering correspondence that linked the ambush directly to Johan’s betrayal.
The memory of driving his blade into Johan’s abdomen flashes vivid and visceral in Carlton’s mind—the resistance of flesh, the startled widening of Johan’s eyes, the metallic scent of blood mingling with battlefield smoke. He’d deliberately angled the blade away from vital organs, preserving Johan’s life not from mercy but from a desire to see him rot in imperial dungeons, to extract every secret from his treasonous mind.
Yet here stands Rowan, claiming reconciliation occurred a decade ago? That the blood-feud spanning generations had been resolved with, what—a handshake and apology? The contradiction crashes against Carlton’s certainty like waves against cliffs.
Carlton’s lips curl into an internal sneer, his mind replaying the finale of Johan’s treachery like a particularly distasteful opera. The memory unfolds with cinematic clarity—Johan refusing arrest with the indignant outrage of a cat caught stealing cream, his aristocratic features contorted in defiance at the mere suggestion of imprisonment. The prospect of torture chambers and public disgrace had apparently offended his delicate sensibilities more than his own betrayal of the kingdom he’d sworn to protect.
What haunts Carlton most is not Johan’s escape, but that final moment—that damnable smile. Despite a stomach wound that should have left most men curled in agony on the ground, Johan had straightened his spine, blood-soaked fingers adjusting his cravat as if preparing for a royal portrait rather than fleeing justice. His laughter had echoed against stone walls, a sound devoid of warmth or humor, more akin to glass shattering than human mirth.
Then came that theatrical leap into the ravine—arms spread wide like some demented bird taking flight, his eyes locked with Carlton’s in a final act of defiance. Carlton’s fingers had grasped empty air, closing around nothing but the memory of that smile—that insufferable, knowing smile that whispered of secrets buried deeper than Johan’s supposedly broken body at the ravine’s bottom. It wasn’t the smile of a defeated man, but of a chess player who had sacrificed his queen to set up an endgame Carlton couldn’t yet see.
The official records declared Johan dead—a traitor’s end, unmourned and unmarked. But Carlton knows better. Johan possesses the supernatural resilience of household pests—the kind that survive nuclear explosions and the most determined swats of royal slippers. Death seems too mundane, too convenient an end for a man who elevated betrayal to an art form.
Now, standing in this corridor in a world where apparently Johan is not only alive but trusted, Carlton feels his reality tilt on its axis. What bizarre alternate history has unfolded here? Is this Johan a saint where his counterpart was a serpent? Does he rescue kittens from trees and help elderly ladies across cobblestone streets?
Carlton’s curiosity burns through his initial rage, transforming it into something more calculated. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies Rowan’s panicked face, noting how the man clutches Kilian like a living shield against imperial wrath.
"So..." Carlton drawls, his voice deceptively soft, like velvet wrapped around a dagger, "what misunderstanding actually happened...?"
