The air inside the Royal Palace didn't smell like the soot and ozone of the streets. It smelled of old paper, expensive wax, and the sterile, haunting scent of a vacuum. As Leona vaulted over the marble balustrade and into the Throne Room, the red emergency lights of the self-destruct sequence pulsed like a dying heart.
King Aethelred was not the monster the brochures of the rebellion described. He sat on a simple wooden chair—not the ivory throne—holding the second half of the Gray Book. He looked tired, his eyes reflecting the flickering crimson of the countdown.
"3:42," the King said, checking a clockwork pocket watch. "You're fast, Leona. Silas always said you were the better athlete. He was quite proud of that, you know."
Leona landed in a crouch, her Mithril Arm sparking as it scraped the floor. Her threads were already fanned out, vibrating with a lethal, high-frequency hum. "You knew my father. You didn't just know him—you used him."
"In this 'modern' world, everyone is a tool, Leona," Aethelred said, standing up. He didn't reach for a weapon. He reached for a glass carafe and poured two fingers of amber liquid. "Your father was the scalpel I used to cut the rot out of the nobility. Duke Vane? The Marquis? The 'Accidents' of the last decade? Those were my orders."
Leona's grip on her magic faltered for a fraction of a second. "You're the one who killed the Archduke? You're the reason the South went to war?"
"The Archduke was building a mana-bomb that would have leveled this city," the King replied, his voice devoid of regret. "I sent the King of Assassins to save a million lives by taking one. But the 'modern' world doesn't like secrets, does it? The Duke found out. He couldn't kill me, so he killed the man who did my dirty work."
Leona took a step forward, the floor cracking beneath her frost-laden boots. "You let him die. You let Bram's forge burn. You let my mother become a fugitive."
"I let the story play out," Aethelred countered. "Silas knew the risks. He came to me the night you were born, Leona. He didn't ask for gold. He asked for the Mithril. He asked me to fund the 'Masterpiece'—the bracelet you wear now."
Leona looked at her arm, the silver filigree glowing with a confused, shifting light.
"The Masterpiece wasn't built to be a weapon of war," the King whispered, walking toward her. "It was built to be a Key. Look at the pedestal, Leona. Look at what the self-destruct is actually protecting."
Leona looked past the King. Behind the throne wasn't a bomb. It was a massive, ancient door made of the same starlight-mithril as her arm. It had no handle, no keyhole—only a circular indentation that matched the size of her wrist.
"The Archive of the First Era," the King said. "The 'Modern' world is built on the scraps of what came before. We use mana because we forgot how to use the sun. We use steam because we forgot how to use the stars. Silas didn't want you to be an assassin. He wanted you to be the Guardian of the Reset."
"2:15," the clock chimed.
"If this Palace blows, the Archive is lost forever," Aethelred said, handing her the second half of the Gray Book. "The Duke's secrets are in there, yes. But the cure for the Soul-Bound knights? The blueprints for a world that doesn't need to burn people for fuel? That's behind that door."
Leona clutched the book. Her mind was a whirlwind of "Modern" science and "Medieval" duty. She realized then that her father hadn't retired to a quiet life—he had retired to protect the future. He had trained her not just to survive the Duke, but to be the only person capable of opening the door when the time was right.
"Why tell me now?" Leona asked.
"Because I'm tired of being the villain in a story I can't finish," the King said. He sat back down and closed his eyes. "The Duke's men are at the gates. My own guards have turned. The 'Modern' world is eating itself, Leona. Open the door. Save the knowledge. Let the Palace burn."
"1:30."
Leona didn't hesitate. She sprinted to the mithril door. She pressed her right arm—the arm that was more metal than flesh—into the indentation.
The Mithril Weave screamed.
It wasn't a sound of pain, but of recognition. The silver threads on her arm surged forward, weaving themselves into the door's intricate patterns. The room was filled with a blinding, white-gold light. The cold she felt wasn't biting; it was comforting, like the first snowfall in the mountains with her father.
The door groaned and slid upward, revealing a staircase that descended into a realm of pure, crystalline light.
"Leona!"
She turned. Kaelen was at the entrance of the Throne Room, his face covered in soot. "The Enforcers are through the gates! We have to go!"
Leona looked at the King. He hadn't moved.
"Thank you, Librarian," Aethelred murmured.
"0:45."
Leona grabbed Kaelen by the collar and dove into the Archive, the mithril door slamming shut behind them just as the first shockwave of the Palace's collapse rocked the earth.
The Archive was silent.
It wasn't a basement. It was a city. Miles of glass shelves, glowing with a soft, eternal light, contained the history of a world that existed before the "Modern" era.
Leona stood at the base of the stairs, her mithril arm finally still. She opened the two halves of the Gray Book and placed them on a reading stone. The ink didn't turn silver this time. It turned gold.
The names of the nobles faded away. In their place, a single map appeared.
"What is it?" Kaelen asked, staring at the glowing shelves.
Leona looked up at the ceiling, where she could see the faint, shimmering outlines of the stars, even through the miles of rock above them.
"It's the second chapter," Leona said. "The King was right. The world is built on scraps. But we just found the original manuscript."
She looked at her mithril hand. She wasn't the "Queen of the Cold" or the "King of Assassins' daughter."
She was Leona Argen. And she had a lot of reading to do.