Leocadio glanced back at Marisol and Bastien, their faces indistinct in the dying light, before turning to follow the guard. The ornate doors of the Orangerie closed behind him with a soft click, severing him from their confusion. The walk through the palace corridors was swift, the guard’s pace urgent. Leocadio tried to piece together his great-aunt's motives. She rarely acted without considerable forethought. This summons was not a request; it was an order.
He was led to a smaller salon, one he rarely visited, adorned with rich velvet and dark, polished wood, far from the airy, bright aesthetic of his own villa. The Dowager Marchioness stood by a tall, arched window, her back to him, observing the moon rise over the capital’s spires. Her silhouette was deceptively frail. When she turned, her eyes, usually soft and crinkled at the corners, held an unnerving clarity, a sharpness he hadn’t seen directed at him before.
“My dear Leocadio,” she began, her voice calm, devoid of its customary warmth. “You’ve been rather busy, haven’t you? Manipulating the Rose Hunt, exposing the treasonous minister, and now… a public spectacle at the Midsummer Masquerade. Quite a dramatic flair for someone who prefers the shadows.”
Leocadio straightened, a flicker of his usual arrogance returning. “Aunt, you summoned me. If you wish to scold me for disrupting the social order, I assure you, my reasons were sound.”
She offered a small, knowing smile. “Oh, I have no intention of scolding you for that. In fact, I commend your ingenuity. It proves you have a spine, a mind, and a capacity for decisive action. Qualities the Valenti line has sorely lacked for generations.”
Her words, though seemingly complimentary, carried a disquieting undertone. Leocadio felt a prickle of unease. “What is this about, then?”
She gestured to a pair of plush armchairs. “Sit, Leocadio. This conversation requires a certain… gravity.”
He settled into the velvet, a sense of foreboding tightening in his chest. His elder remained standing, her gaze piercing. “You’ve been trying to save this world, haven’t you? To finish your ‘story’.” The last word was uttered with a hint of dry amusement, an almost imperceptible curl of her lip.
Leocadio froze. His carefully constructed facade shattered. The color drained from his face, leaving him feeling hollow. “What… what are you talking about?” His voice was thin, reedy.
“The fading,” she continued, ignoring his stuttered denial. “The increasingly brittle world, the strange gaps in memory, the crumbling pages of history you found in the archives. You think it’s because the narrative isn’t complete. You think a canonical climax will set everything right. Am I correct?”
Leocadio could only stare, dumbfounded. The world tilted on its axis. The marchioness, his supposedly gentle patron, knew. Not only knew, but spoke of it with a frightening casualness, as if discussing the weather. His trust, so carefully placed, felt like dust in his mouth.
“You orchestrated it,” he managed, a bitter taste rising. “The information in the archives. My ‘discovery’. You set me up.” Betrayal burned through his composure.
She nodded slowly, without remorse. “Indeed. You are not the only one aware of the precarious nature of our existence, Leocadio. For decades, I’ve felt the slow decay, the subtle unraveling. And for decades, I’ve sought a solution. When I learned of your… unique perspective, your knowledge of this world’s underlying structure, I knew you were the key.”
“The key to what?” he demanded, pushing himself forward in the chair. “To guiding the main couple to their final resolution?”
She scoffed, a short, sharp sound. “No, Leocadio. The key to ensuring the Valenti Kingdom, and perhaps this entire realm, survives. A storybook resolution for two lovers is a romantic trifle when the very fabric of existence is fraying. What we need is stability, a strong hand, a leader capable of uniting a fracturing world. We need a king.”
Her dark eyes pinned him without wavering. “And you, Leocadio, for all your feigned weakness and your obsession with fictional romances, have shown remarkable aptitude for strategy, for manipulation, for inspiring loyalty when you choose. The people are confused by you, yes, but they also find you compelling. They saw you protect them during the Rose Hunt. They saw you challenge the treasonous minister. You are an unknown quantity, a blank canvas upon which a new future can be painted.”
“You want me to seize power?” Leocadio’s voice was incredulous. “I’m the sickly third royal, politically invisible. My brothers would never stand for it. The court would erupt.”
“Precisely,” she countered, a cunning gleam in her eyes. “Your brothers are weak, predictable. And the court… the court can be swayed. It’s a dance, Leocadio, one you’ve already proven adept at leading. Your ‘Reader’ is accelerating the decay, using the chaos to their advantage. They seek to shatter this world, not merely rewrite it. And I believe I know what they’re truly after.”
She paused, letting the silence press heavily into the parlor. Leocadio connected the scattered threads: the archives, the accelerated fading, the Reader’s malicious intent. His aunt had been playing an even longer, grander game.
“The Veridian Core,” she stated, her voice dropping to a near-reverent tone. “It is not merely a source of immense magical power, as the legends claim. It is an amplifier. It takes the will of its holder, their deepest intent, and weaves it into the very fabric of existence. It can solidify reality, make it vibrant and whole again, or, in the wrong hands, it can tear it apart completely. It can make a fictional world real, or dissolve a real one into nothing.”
The realization struck Leocadio hard. The kingdom's relic. The ultimate MacGuffin of his original novel, a plot device he had used to grant the main couple a boon in his superficial romance. He had dismissed its true potential, never writing beyond its superficial power. Now, Silvana unveiled a truth far grander, far more terrifying than he could have conceived. It wasn’t just a source of power; it was the very loom of creation.
“The Arcane Tournament,” he murmured, the realization dawning on him. “The Reader isn’t just disrupting it for chaos. They want the relic.”
“Indeed,” the marchioness affirmed. “And so, Leocadio, you have a choice. You can continue your fool’s errand, chasing a scripted conclusion for people you imagine are mere ink on parchment, hoping it will somehow mend a breaking world. Or you can help me. You can step into the light, claim the throne, secure the relic, and use its power to stabilize the realm. Not just save a story, but save *us*. The world needs a king to guide it, not an author to finish a tale.”
Her words were a gauntlet thrown, demanding he abandon his cherished goal for a burden he never sought. The path of the author, carefully manipulating from the shadows, was now revealed as a naive fantasy. There were two paths to salvation, both requiring him to leave behind the very premise of his reincarnation. The prospect of a crown pressed down on him like iron.
“What if I refuse?” Leocadio’s voice was a barely audible rasp.