Chapter 42: Beatrice’s Smile Means Someone’s Dying

The capital always smells like money and secrets.

The escort drops me at a restricted annex tucked behind the Council’s main spire. The stone is pale, flawless, and cold. The guards wear velvet under their armor, like war is a fashion choice. Everything is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels engineered.

“You made it.”

I step through the archway, and my boots sound disrespectful on the polished floor.

“Yeah, because refusing you people is a hobby I can’t afford.”

Beatrice waits inside like she owns the air, and she kind of does. Her dress looks casual at first, then my eyes catch the threads, the subtle shimmer, the warding embroidery. She smiles like I’m meeting her for dessert, not for classified doom.

“Aw, you sound so romantic.”

My shoulders stay tight, and my gaze scans corners anyway.

“This the part where you offer me tea, then ruin my life.”

Beatrice walks closer, her steps soft, like the building is scared to echo her.

“I did offer tea.”

I glance at the side table, and of course there’s a silver tray, steaming cups, tiny pastries.

“You’re insane.”

Beatrice lifts a cup, like she’s toasting.

“I’m thoughtful.”

I don’t touch anything, because poison in the capital wears perfume.

“So why am I here.”

Beatrice’s smile turns brighter, and my stomach drops on reflex.

“Because your family problem is becoming a national problem.”

My fingers flex once, and the room feels smaller.

“I don’t have family problems, I have family traumas.”

Beatrice circles me like she’s checking a weapon for cracks.

“Trauma is expensive. Problems are actionable.”

I watch her hands, because her hands decide outcomes.

“Don’t talk about it like a budget line.”

Beatrice pauses, her gaze locking onto mine, playful and sharp.

“You are a budget line.”

My jaw clenches, and I hate that it hurts because it’s true.

“I’m not your asset.”

Beatrice’s voice stays soft, like she’s petting a knife.

“You are an asset who keeps insisting on being a person.”

I take a slow breath, and I taste incense in the air.

“Cut the cute act.”

Beatrice tilts her head, like she’s actually considering it.

“Fine.”

The hallway behind her stretches long, lit by crystal lamps that don’t flicker. The walls hold murals of old heroes, all perfect faces and clean victories. Every step deeper feels like walking into a museum built over a grave.

“Where are we going.”

Beatrice points down the corridor like she’s guiding a tour.

“Restricted wing. Council annex. The part people pretend does not exist.”

I follow because the alternative is dying slowly in paperwork.

“Love that for me.”

Beatrice glances back, eyes gleaming.

“You say that like you do not enjoy attention.”

I keep my gaze forward, because if I look at her too long, she wins something.

“I enjoy breathing.”

Beatrice laughs, light and pretty, and it does not fit this hallway.

“Breathing is optional for most men here.”

I stop beside a statue of some legendary mage, all marble confidence.

“What exactly is the crisis.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, and it has teeth this time.

“Your brother.”

My throat tightens like someone just hooked a chain under my ribs.

“Don’t.”

Beatrice walks again, and the lamps seem to lean toward her.

“Your brother is waking.”

My hand reaches for my pocket, then stops, because there’s nothing there to grip.

“He’s in a coma.”

Beatrice’s voice turns careful, like she’s savoring the word.

“He is in a ‘coma.’”

The air in my lungs turns sharp, like I inhaled glass.

“Don’t put quotes on that.”

Beatrice’s eyes stay steady, like she expected this flare.

“I will put quotes on it until you stop pretending it is medical.”

I keep walking, because stopping means falling apart.

“It was a coma.”

Beatrice’s smile flickers, then settles into something almost gentle.

“It was stasis.”

My heart beats once, hard, and my vision narrows.

“Stasis is still sleep.”

Beatrice’s tone stays light, which makes it worse.

“Sleep is natural. This is not.”

The corridor bends, and a new set of guards appears, all black cloaks and silver runes.

“Why are you telling me now.”

Beatrice lifts her hand, and the guards step aside like she owns them too.

“Because it is moving.”

I swallow, and my tongue feels dry.

“Moving how.”

Beatrice’s gaze flicks toward the far door, like she can hear something through stone.

“Pressure. Signal. A shift in the lock.”

I hate how my brain fills gaps with old sounds, metal, shouting, my name.

“Who put him in stasis.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, small and satisfied, like she likes the question.

“You know who.”

I shake my head once, sharp, like I can cut the thought off.

“I know nothing.”

Beatrice walks closer, and her perfume hits me, clean and floral, like a funeral trying to be cute.

“You know enough to be dangerous.”

I stop again, and my hands curl into fists.

“Stop speaking in fragments.”

Beatrice’s eyes sparkle, amused, and it makes me want to break something.

“You always hated fragments. Even as a child.”

My spine goes rigid, and the floor feels like it tilts.

“Don’t talk like you knew me then.”

Beatrice’s voice drops lower, still playful, still lethal.

“I know you now.”

I force my breath to steady, because panic is exactly what she wants.

“What does waking mean.”

Beatrice’s smile widens like she’s about to show me a card trick.

“It means the spell is weakening.”

My stomach churns, and my skin prickles under my shirt.

“Who is weakening it.”

Beatrice’s gaze slides away for a half second, then back.

“That is one of the questions you will earn.”

I let out a short laugh that sounds like I’m choking.

“You’re really doing the hostage thing with information.”

Beatrice shrugs, graceful, like she’s adjusting a ribbon.

“I prefer incentives.”

I stare at her, and my vision catches on the edge of her smile.

“Your smile means someone’s dying.”

Beatrice’s eyes soften, and that should scare me more than the sharpness.

“My smile means someone is about to stop being a problem.”

I step closer, because fear makes me reckless.

“Is it him.”

Beatrice blinks slow, like she’s choosing a filter.

“Not yet.”

My jaw tightens until it hurts.

“Then who.”

Beatrice turns and continues walking, casual again, like we’re late for brunch.

“Depends on your choices.”

I follow, and the corridor gets colder with each step.

“You keep saying that like I have choices.”

Beatrice’s voice stays cheerful.

“You have options. They are just ugly.”

We pass a set of doors with gilded handles, then another with no handles at all. Runes crawl over the stone like veins. The air smells like winter, sharp and sterile.

“This is not a hospital.”

Beatrice’s tone turns amused again.

“No, Rian. Hospitals are for bodies.”

I swallow, and my throat aches.

“This is for monsters.”

Beatrice’s smile grows, and I swear the light shifts.

“This is for things that do not fit the world.”

I stop at a door sealed with seven runes, each one pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The metal frame looks new, but the stone around it looks tired, like it’s been holding its breath for years.

“You kept him here.”

Beatrice lifts her hand toward the runes, but she does not touch them.

“We keep the lock here.”

My stomach flips, because that word keeps echoing.

“You’re calling my brother a lock.”

Beatrice glances at me, and her expression turns almost sympathetic.

“I am calling your brother a door.”

My fingers twitch, and my nails scrape my palm.

“A door to what.”

Beatrice’s eyes brighten like she’s proud of the setup.

“To a problem the Council cannot solve.”

The guards behind us do not breathe loudly. They do not move. They look like statues that learned how to kill.

“So you brought me because I’m special.”

Beatrice’s smile turns playful again.

“You are special. Unfortunately.”

I snort, bitter.

“Love being a national hazard.”

Beatrice nods like she’s agreeing with a cute compliment.

“Highkey, yes.”

I stare at her, and my mouth pulls tight.

“Stop using my slang.”

Beatrice’s eyes sparkle.

“No.”

The runes pulse once, and my skin prickles like static crawled under it. The air near the door feels wrong, like it has a taste, like a penny on my tongue.

“What changed.”

Beatrice’s gaze locks onto the rune pattern, focused now.

“The rhythm.”

I lean in without meaning to, and my head aches like a low drum is tapping behind my eyes.

“It feels like…”

Beatrice’s voice cuts in, soft and pleased.

“Like something is listening.”

My throat goes tight, and I hate how true it feels.

“He can hear us.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, and it is so casual it’s sick.

“He can feel you.”

My hands shake once, and I force them still.

“That’s impossible.”

Beatrice tilts her head, and her earrings catch the light like tiny knives.

“Nothing is impossible here.”

I breathe out through my nose, slow, controlled, pretending I’m not spiraling.

“Tell me what stasis means.”

Beatrice turns toward me, and her gaze slides over my face like she’s memorizing it.

“It is a reality-lock.”

My eyes narrow, because that phrase hits like a slap.

“Explain.”

Beatrice smiles, and the warmth in it makes my stomach twist.

“No.”

My laugh comes out sharp.

“Seriously.”

Beatrice’s tone stays sweet, like she’s offering candy.

“You want the truth. You want it now. That is adorable.”

I take a step closer, and my voice drops.

“I’m not here to be adorable.”

Beatrice’s eyes darken, just a shade, just enough.

“You are here because the lock recognizes you.”

My stomach drops, and my blood feels cold.

“You used me.”

Beatrice’s smile softens, and she looks almost regretful.

“I used what you already were.”

I stare at her, and the part of me that hates her is loud. The part that trusts her is worse.

“So the council can’t touch it.”

Beatrice nods once.

“They can. They just cannot survive it.”

My hands tighten into fists again.

“And you think I can.”

Beatrice’s voice turns quieter, and her gaze sharpens.

“I know you can.”

I swallow, and my throat burns.

“Why.”

Beatrice steps closer, and the guards do not react. The air around her feels heavy, like the room leans toward her too.

“Because you have been holding monsters together for years.”

I stare at her, and my chest tightens, relief and anger mixing like poison.

“That’s my job.”

Beatrice’s smile turns faint, almost tender.

“That is your nature.”

I look at the sealed door, and my skin crawls again.

“What happens if he wakes.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, and it is bright, and it is wrong.

“The capital loses control.”

My mouth goes dry.

“What does that look like.”

Beatrice’s eyes flick to the rune nearest my hand.

“It looks like the world remembering it can break.”

I force a breath, because my lungs feel too small.

“You’re enjoying this.”

Beatrice’s smile shifts, and for a second it looks like she hates herself for it.

“I enjoy solutions.”

I stare at her, and I see the layers, the terror, the ambition, the obsession that wears perfume.

“You’re not a simple villain.”

Beatrice laughs once, quiet.

“Do not insult me like that.”

I glance at the guards, at the walls, at the runes, at how expensive this cage is.

“Then be honest.”

Beatrice’s smile fades to something more serious, and that’s when I feel the trap close.

“I will be.”

My pulse hammers, and my hands feel too warm.

“Now.”

Beatrice lifts her chin, like she’s making a contract in her head.

“Truth in exchange for compliance.”

I stare at her, because she always charges for air.

“What kind of compliance.”

Beatrice’s voice stays calm, steady, like a judge.

“You do what I tell you, when I tell you, until this is contained.”

My jaw tightens.

“And if I refuse.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, and there it is again, that playful menace, that soft threat.

“Then I tell the council you are unstable.”

My stomach twists.

“That’s a death sentence.”

Beatrice’s eyes soften, and the softness makes me feel worse.

“It is a cage sentence.”

I breathe in, and the air tastes like cold metal.

“Fine.”

Beatrice’s smile brightens like I just agreed to dance.

“Good.”

I glare at her, because anger is all I can afford.

“Start talking.”

Beatrice turns toward the door, and she gestures at the runes like she’s presenting art.

“Your brother’s ‘coma’ was never a coma.”

I swallow, and my tongue feels numb.

“It was stasis.”

Beatrice nods once.

“It was reality-lock. It was a stop button on something the world rejected.”

I force my voice to stay flat, because shaking is humiliating.

“Who pressed the button.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, thin.

“You will earn that.”

I clench my jaw so hard it aches.

“You’re still doing fragments.”

Beatrice’s eyes gleam.

“I am still in control.”

I hate that my hands itch to grab the door, to rip it open, to prove I’m not powerless.

“What changed now.”

Beatrice’s gaze flicks to the runes again, and the nearest one pulses, slower, heavier.

“Someone is touching the lock.”

My skin prickles, and my vision blurs for a second, like the air warps.

“From outside.”

Beatrice’s voice turns soft.

“From inside.”

I stare at the sealed door, and my heart beats like it wants out.

“He’s pushing.”

Beatrice smiles, and her expression holds pride, fear, and something that looks like devotion.

“He is waking.”

I swallow, and my throat burns.

“So you want me here to hold it.”

Beatrice nods.

“To speak to it. To anchor it. To keep it from becoming a headline.”

I laugh once, short and bitter.

“My family is a national security issue. That’s literally insane.”

Beatrice’s smile turns warm, like she’s entertained by my suffering.

“Welcome to the capital.”

I stare at the runes again, and I feel it, that wrongness, that pressure on the edge of reality.

“What do I do.”

Beatrice steps closer, and her voice drops, intimate, like this is a date after all.

“You walk with me. You obey. You do not panic.”

I hold her gaze, and my paranoia screams.

“And you tell me the truth.”

Beatrice’s smile widens, and her eyes shine like she’s collecting something from me.

“As much as you earn.”

I breathe in, and the cold air scratches my lungs.

“Show me.”

Beatrice turns toward the sealed door, and she lays her palm on the outer ring of runes. The light flares once, and the air drops ten degrees, like the building just inhaled winter.

“Stay close.”

I step beside her, and my skin crawls as the runes start to hum. The sound isn’t in the room, it’s in my bones. The pressure builds, quiet and heavy, like a storm trapped in a bottle.

“I’m close.”

Beatrice’s smile flashes, casual, terrifying, fond.

“Good boy.”

The seal clicks like a lock deciding to wake up, and the cold that spills out feels like the world forgot how to be normal.