"Tell me," Cassian said, eyes fixed on hers, "who betrays me?"
Astelle became acutely aware of the distance between them. One step. Two at most. Close enough that she could see the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated. Close enough that if she chose the wrong name, she would not make it to lunch.
You wanted to rewrite the story. This is the first sentence you change.
"Lord Marcellin Duret," she said.
The name fell into the room like a stone into still water.
Cassian did not react immediately. No sharp breath. No flash of temper. Only a slow, thoughtful stillness.
"Duret," he repeated.
"Yes."
"Explain."
Astelle swallowed. "In the original sequence, he stands by you through the border dispute. Publicly, he defends your policies. Privately, he begins meeting with palace envoys."
Cassian's gaze sharpened. "Why?"
"Because you escalated the enforcement order."
A beat.
"You authorize full military oversight in the eastern territories," Astelle continued. "Duret objects. You override him. He believes you're pushing too far. That you'll turn a temporary crisis into permanent consolidation."
Cassian's expression didn't change, but something in the air did, the faintest shift in pressure, like the room itself bracing.
"And so," he said calmly, "he betrays me out of moral discomfort."
"Yes."
Not greed. Not blackmail. Not jealousy.
Conviction.
Cassian turned away from her then, walking toward the tall windows that overlooked the estate grounds. Morning light spilled over the polished floor. From behind, he looked composed. Untouchable.
"Describe the evidence presented at my trial," he said.
Astelle forced her mind back into the book's final arc. The pages came like cuts, clean, precise, unavoidable.
"Financial ledgers," she replied. "Correspondence implying intent to destabilize the throne. Witness testimony from two minor nobles claiming you orchestrated shortages to provoke unrest."
"I did not orchestrate shortages," Cassian said flatly.
"I know."
A pause.
"In the story," Astelle added carefully, "the evidence aligns too perfectly. Each piece appears at the precise moment public opinion turns."
Cassian's reflection in the glass regarded her. "Convenient."
"Yes."
He was silent for a long time.
Astelle felt the seconds like a wire pulled too tight. Say something. Decide something. Do not dismiss me.
Instead, he asked, "When does the enforcement order occur?"
"Three weeks from now."
"And what triggers it?"
"A border altercation. A minor skirmish was exaggerated into a threat."
Cassian nodded once.
He did not look surprised.
"Then the skirmish must occur regardless," he murmured. "The border tension exists already."
"Yes."
"And Duret's objection is not fabricated."
"No."
He turned back toward her fully.
"If I do not escalate," he said, voice precise, "Duret has no cause to oppose me. If he has no cause, he has no reason to seek alternative alliances."
"Yes."
"And without his testimony," Cassian continued, "the trial collapses."
Astelle's pulse quickened. He was already reconstructing the timeline like a strategist moving pieces on a board she had only glimpsed from above.
"However," Cassian added softly, "if I do not escalate, the eastern territories may interpret restraint as weakness."
He was not arguing.
He was calculating.
Astelle stepped forward before she could think better of it. "In the original story, your escalation secured short-term order but created long-term fear. The heroine used that fear."
Cassian's gaze flickered at the mention of her.
"How?" he asked.
"She framed you as a man who prioritizes control over people," Astelle said. "She visited the eastern provinces personally. She listened. She publicized grievances. She made you look detached."
Cassian's jaw tightened slightly, not at the heroine's action, but at the tactical elegance of it.
"And the crown prince?" he asked.
"He hesitates," Astelle said. "Until she convinces him that your authority is expanding beyond necessity."
Cassian's eyes held hers.
"So my miscalculation," he said quietly, "is not policy. It is perception."
"Yes."
Silence settled between them again.
Astelle felt something unfamiliar rising in her chest, not fear.
Hope.
She realized, dimly, that her eyes had steadied sometime during his questioning, less stormy, less frayed at the edges as if the act of being taken seriously had calmed something inside her.
He was listening.
Cassian walked back toward her, unhurried.
"If I reduce the enforcement order," he said, "and implement civilian oversight alongside military presence—"
"Duret's concerns are addressed," Astelle finished.
"And the heroine," Cassian continued, "finds less moral leverage."
"Yes."
He stopped in front of her.
Close enough now that she could see the faint scar behind his ear, half-hidden by dark hair.
"You are asking me," he said softly, "to choose the slower path."
"Yes."
"The less decisive path."
"Yes."
"And you believe this deviation prevents my execution."
"I believe," Astelle said carefully, "that it removes the catalyst."
His eyes searched her face as if looking for fracture lines.
"Very well," Cassian said at last.
Astelle's breath caught.
He crossed to the writing desk near the window and pulled a sheet of parchment toward him. His handwriting was controlled and elegant as he began drafting amendments to the enforcement order.
No dramatic declaration.
No violent purge.
No summoning of Duret for interrogation.
Just ink.
This is it, Astelle thought. The first deviation.
A knock came at the door.
Cassian did not look up. "Enter."
A uniformed retainer stepped inside and bowed.
"My lord, a courier from the eastern watchtower has arrived."
Astelle's stomach dropped.
It's early.
Cassian's pen paused.
"Report," he said.
The retainer cleared his throat. "There has been a minor altercation at the border, my lord. A supply caravan was seized. No fatalities."
Astelle's heart pounded.
This is it. This is the trigger.
Cassian's gaze flicked to her for a fraction of a second before returning to the retainer.
"Was the caravan under official escort?" he asked.
"No, my lord. It appears to have been traveling independently."
Cassian considered this.
"In the original timeline," Astelle whispered, "it's reported as an act of aggression by a neighboring state."
Cassian gave no sign he'd heard her.
To the retainer, he said calmly, "Send word to Lord Duret. Inform him that I request his counsel before any formal response is drafted."
The retainer blinked, just slightly. "My lord?"
"You heard me," Cassian said.
"Yes, my lord."
The retainer bowed and left.
The door shut.
The room felt different.
Not triumphant.
Unstable.
Cassian set the pen down slowly.
"In the version you remember," he said without looking at her, "I would have issued immediate military authority."
"Yes."
"And now?"
"Now," Astelle said, pulse still racing, "you involve Duret."
Cassian nodded faintly.
"We will see," he murmured, "whether the story resists."
Astelle felt it then, something she hadn't noticed before. A faint tension in the air, like the silence before a storm breaks. The border skirmish had happened.
But not the same way.
No official escort.
No casualties.
A detail had shifted.
Cassian turned to her, eyes cool but alive with something sharper than before.
"If you are correct," he said quietly, "today is the first page we tear."
Astelle met his gaze.
"And if I'm wrong?" she asked.
His expression did not soften.
"Then we discover," Cassian said, "whether I was ever meant to survive."
Outside, somewhere beyond the walls of the estate, a bell tolled once.
It sounded almost like an answer.
The door had barely clicked shut before Astelle realized she was holding her breath.
Cassian remained by the desk, one gloved hand resting on the parchment he'd just altered, ink still wet, the first deviation drying into permanence.
For a heartbeat, he didn't move at all. Not triumph, not relief. Just that unnerving stillness of his, like a blade laid flat on velvet.
Astelle flexed her fingers, trying to restore circulation. The ring felt heavier now, as if it approved of ink more than vows.
Cassian finally looked up.
"You should understand something," he said, voice level. "I do not necessarily believe you."
Astelle blinked. That's your follow-up? Not "thank you for saving my life"? Not "how extraordinary"? Just—
"But," he continued, eyes on hers, "your information has been… useful. Accurate enough to be dangerous."
A laugh threatened to escape her, mostly because her body didn't know what else to do with the tension. "So I'm on probation."
"You are in my house," Cassian corrected.
Which was not an answer.
Astelle swallowed. "And if my information is ever wrong," she said, aiming for lightness and landing somewhere near hysteria, "what happens? Do you execute me?"
It was a joke.
She even tried to smile like it was one.
Cassian studied her for a brief moment, too long for comfort, then said, without hesitation, "I might."
The words slid into her spine like ice.
Astelle's smile froze in place and then crumbled.
And, traitorously, her eyes shifted with it, gray darkening at the edges again, storm-thick with sudden fear.
Cassian's gaze flicked there.
This time, he didn't pretend he hadn't noticed.
"Your eyes," he said, almost idly.
Astelle's throat tightened. "What about them?"
"They change," Cassian replied, tone still calm, as if he were commenting on the weather. "When you're afraid."
Heat rushed into Astelle's face so fast it felt like being caught doing something obscene in public. "They— I—"
Cassian's mouth curved, barely. Not kind. Not cruel. Observant.
"Continue," he said.
Astelle dragged in a breath and forced her shoulders to steady. The gray lightened, subtly, reluctantly, as she wrestled control back into place.
"Right. Honesty. Great," she muttered, mostly to herself.
Cassian's gaze moved, not to her face, but to her hands, her ring, then back. "Why did you do it?"
Astelle frowned. "Do what?"
"Come to me," he said. "Say any of this. Risk being called mad, imprisoned, quietly buried in an estate chapel." His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "You confess to possession. To foreknowledge. To the world, being a book." He paused, the slightest tilt of his head. "Why?"
Astelle stared at him.
Why? The question landed strangely, as if he'd asked her why she'd chosen to breathe this morning.
Cassian continued, calm as a judge.
"You could have divorced me."
Astelle's mouth opened, then closed. Divorced?
"Or requested separation," he amended, as if it were all the same to him. "A political marriage can be dissolved when it no longer serves." His eyes didn't flicker. "You are the daughter of Duke Arclaire. Your family has more wealth than most provinces. If you stopped… whatever Astelle Arclaire was known for—"
"The villainous acts," Astelle supplied faintly.
"—then you would not be reprimanded," Cassian finished. "Not meaningfully. You could retreat to your father's estate, live luxuriously, host salons, wear jewels, spend your days in comfort until you die of old age."
He said it like he was reading a menu.
Astelle's fingers curled at her sides. He's not wrong. If I were thinking like a normal person, that would be the plan.
"So," Cassian said softly, "why risk this?"
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Is it pity?" he asked. "Pity that I die in your remembered story. Is that why you decided to warn me?"
Astelle's first instinct was to deny it, reflexively. No, I'm not some saint.
But the word pity snagged on something in her chest.
Because… had it been pity?
She didn't know.
That was the problem.
Astelle looked down at the desk, at the clean black lines of his handwriting. A man rewriting his future with ink and calculation. A man who'd just admitted he might kill her if she became inconvenient.
And still, she had told him.
She forced herself to sit with it rather than flee the question.
Why did I walk into the lion's den and offer my throat?
Silence filled the room. The kind that demanded truth.
Astelle swallowed.
"I—" She stopped. Tried again. "I don't think it was pity."
Cassian didn't move. He waited, as if he'd decided she was most honest when she had nowhere to run.
Astelle closed her eyes for a heartbeat, searching the mess of her own motives like rifling through drawers that weren't hers.
Comfort.
Safety.
Luxurious boredom.
A life where nothing mattered.
…boredom.
Her eyes opened.
She lifted her gaze and met his.
"Because I was bored," she said.
Cassian blinked.
It was tiny, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
"Bored," he repeated, like he'd misheard a foreign word.
Astelle winced. "In my previous life," she said quickly, "everything was… dull."
Cassian's mouth tightened, not with anger but with something faintly incredulous. "You crossed worlds out of… boredom."
"It wasn't like that," Astelle protested, then paused, realizing she didn't actually know how it was. "I mean— I didn't choose this. I just… woke up. But—"
Astelle exhaled, then said more carefully, "In my world, I did well. I got awards, achievements, all the things people tell you should make you feel something." Her voice softened without permission. "And it didn't. It was like… collecting proof that you exist and still feeling empty."
Cassian's gaze stayed on her, sharp and unreadable.
Astelle continued, words spilling now because stopping would mean thinking too hard. "So I turned to fiction. Stories. They were the only things that could make my heart race. The only places where anything happened. The only places choices mattered."
Her fingers brushed the ring unconsciously.
"And then I woke up here," she said, quieter. "In a world where everything is beautiful and expensive and… sharp." She laughed once, without humor. "What's the point of living luxuriously if it's boring?"
For a long moment, Cassian said nothing.
Then, to Astelle's surprise, he let out a low sound, a breath of amusement.
A chuckle.
It was warm and real.
"You are," he said, and there it was, the curve at the corner of his mouth—"crazy."
Astelle's face went hot so fast she almost hated herself for it, and her eyes betrayed it too, gray clearing a fraction, the storm thinning as embarrassment replaced fear.
"I am not—"
"You are," Cassian said smoothly, the amusement deepening. "Or you are lying. Either way, the result is the same."
Astelle huffed, flustered and annoyed, and, unfortunately, relieved that he was laughing at all. "You're enjoying this."
"I am assessing this," Cassian corrected, though his eyes betrayed him.
Astelle narrowed hers at him. "Fine. Then let me assess you."
Cassian's brow lifted a fraction. "Oh?"
Astelle folded her arms, trying to recover some dignity. "Are you not depressed? Even a little? If what I said is true, if this world is fiction, doesn't that bother you?"
Cassian's amusement faded, replaced by something more thoughtful.
"I have not fully believed everything you said," he replied. "Including the book."
Astelle opened her mouth—
"And even if it were true," Cassian continued, voice calm, "it would be useless to dwell on."
Astelle stared. "Useless?"
"We are here," he said. "We are living. We are breathing. We bleed when cut. We hunger. We tire. We lose people."
His eyes sharpened. "If it is a fiction, it is one that can kill."
Astelle's throat tightened.
Cassian's gaze held hers with quiet intensity. "So tell me," he said, and his voice lowered slightly, "what good does despair do?"
Astelle hesitated.
He's not dismissing it. He's refusing to let it own him.
Before she could shape a response, Cassian stepped closer.
Not aggressively.
Deliberately.
Close enough that Astelle's body remembered, very suddenly, that he was her husband, not in romance, but in law. In proximity. In inevitability.
Astelle's pulse jumped, and the gray in her eyes deepened again at the edges, subtle, involuntary.
Cassian's gaze flicked there once more.
A quiet little confirmation.
He leaned in just enough that his voice was meant only for her.
"What if your world was fiction?"
Astelle's mouth went dry.
My world?
She hadn't thought about it like that. Not seriously.
She tried to speak, but the words caught behind her tongue.
Cassian watched her struggle to find an answer, and the faintest hint of something, satisfaction? curiosity? passed through his eyes.
Before she could respond, he murmured, almost conversationally, "Every world that exists could be inside a book."
Astelle stared at him, startled.
Cassian's gaze didn't waver. "Perhaps yours is. Perhaps mine is. Perhaps the next world is nested inside another, endlessly." His voice was low, calm, as if he were discussing politics again. "The only ones who would truly know are the gods."
Astelle swallowed hard.
She tried to find a joke to defuse the way those words made her skin prickle.
Nothing came.
Cassian straightened slightly, but not away. Still close enough that his presence was a quiet pressure.
"Which brings us back," he said, tone returning to that surgical precision, "to what matters."
Astelle's breath hitched. "And what matters is…?"
Cassian's eyes dropped, briefly, to the ring on her finger.
Then back up.
"What you can change," he said softly. "What you cannot. And what you are willing to pay when your information fails."
Astelle forced herself to breathe. "So we're back to executing me."
Cassian's mouth twitched. "Only if you become useless."
Astelle's spine chilled again. She hated how calmly he said it.
But she also hated more that she believed him.
Cassian turned away from her at last, crossing to the desk again. He picked up the parchment and read the altered decree as if it were nothing more than morning correspondence.
Then, without looking up, he said, "Lord Duret will arrive within the hour."
Astelle's heart thumped. Here we go.
Cassian's voice remained steady. "You will sit with me."
Astelle blinked. "Me?"
"You named him," Cassian said. "You understand the sequence you remember. You will watch his face when I change it."
Astelle's mouth went dry all over again.
Cassian's pen hovered over the paper.
"And Astelle," he added, quiet and sharp, "do not mistake my amusement for trust."
Astelle swallowed. "I wouldn't dare."
Cassian's eyes flicked up, catching hers.
"Good," he said.
Then the bell outside tolled again, closer this time, a servant's signal moving through the estate like a ripple.
Cassian set the parchment down.
"The story begins to resist," he murmured, almost to himself. "Let us see how."
Astelle's fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve.
Bored, she'd said.
She wasn't bored anymore.