3 minutes prior to Caspian and Julius's phone call
The hallways of Blackwood Tower, long and labyrinthine, stretched before him like the frozen veins of some ancient creature. Shadows gathered in the corners where candlelight failed to reach, and the heavy carpet beneath Caspian's boots absorbed the sound of his footsteps almost completely, muffling each movement until it seemed he floated rather than walked. The weave was dense and silken, a deep forest green threaded with subtle gold—luxurious, but practical in its sound-deadening thickness. He placed his steps deliberately, each motion calibrated and silent, like a man who knew he was being watched even when the corridors were empty.
Overhead, sconces affixed to the arched stone walls glowed with a soft amber pulse, each one crowned with a faceted glass dome that caught and fractured the light like crystalized breath. The flickering illumination cast prismatic refractions across the carved stone pillars and gave the illusion that the walls were subtly shifting, breathing in unison with the silence. That silence was dense, unnatural—an absence not born of peace, but of something restrained. It was as if the tower itself, stone and steel and ancient mortar, had drawn in a collective breath and was holding it, waiting for something unspoken.
Caspian moved forward, not with urgency, but with the poise of one for whom arrival is inevitable. He was not a man given to nervous energy or wasted motion. Each step was smooth, each shift of balance exact. Though alone, his posture remained precise, composed, as though the walls themselves required he maintain a certain dignity. His coat swayed lightly behind him, dark fabric brushing the sides of his legs, catching hints of the warm light and then slipping back into shadow.
The upper levels of the tower were deserted at this hour—no patrolling guards, no wandering servants. The structure felt deserted, a mausoleum preserved in elegance and time. Yet the solitude wasn't comforting. There was a kind of aloof beauty to it, cold and untouched. The tower stood like a cathedral to discipline—its marble floors too clean, its polished railings too smooth, its hallways too perfect in their symmetry. Even the occasional sound—a wooden beam creaking softly in the cold, or the whisper of the wind brushing narrow windowpanes—only heightened the silence rather than breaking it.
As Caspian advanced, his left hand hovered ever so slightly near his side, fingers brushing the edge of his coat in a motion so subtle it might have gone unnoticed by anyone less observant. It was not the twitch of fear, but of readiness—a gesture as practiced as a dancer's breath before the first step. He felt the quiet weight of inevitability settle more firmly across his shoulders, not as panic, but as something heavier: acceptance. Not of what he had to do, but of what it would mean afterward.
Eventually, his path brought him to a door unlike any other on this level of the tower. Whereas the others were composed of dark lacquered wood with iron latches and harsh angles, this one was an anomaly: whitewashed, simple, elegant in its restraint. A gold-trimmed handle gleamed softly in the light, its sheen subdued rather than ostentatious. It seemed almost to glow from within. Beneath the door, a sliver of light spilled into the hallway, golden and warm. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. A detail. A warning.
Caspian approached without breaking stride. His fingers curled around the handle.
It turned easily.
Unlocked.
He eased the door open with slow precision, his muscles moving in fluid, controlled tension. No sound escaped from the hinges. He entered like a shadow, and the door whispered shut behind him with a soft click.
The difference was immediate.
The room was warm. Not just in temperature, but in feeling. Where the tower outside had felt like a crypt wearing the finery of kings, this space held something that breathed. A desk lamp glowed from the far corner, its shade tilted just enough to cast a cone of amber light across a crowded writing desk. The desk itself was chaos barely held together—stacks of notes, envelopes torn open at their seams, crumpled parchment, and notebooks brimming with margin scrawlings.
A fragrant haze hung in the air: lavender, faint and clean, laced with something citrus-sweet, perhaps lemon balm or orange peel steeped into tea. Beneath that, subtler scents—the musk of old paper, a trace of beeswax polish, the faintest whisper of something floral and almost forgotten.
Books filled nearly every wall, the shelves packed and overflowing. Where the shelves ended, stacks began—books piled like miniature towers around the bed and beneath the windowsill, nestled into corners and under the desk. Some bore neat labels penned in black ink; others were bare and battered, their leather bindings cracked, their titles long faded into obscurity. A soft cream rug spanned the center of the floor, plush and worn in a circular patch from pacing—an unconscious trail etched into fiber.
The bed in the corner was low to the floor, its blanket folded crisply, but surrounded by a scatter of pillows and stuffed animals in serene formation. They weren't juvenile, but they were clearly beloved: a fox with button eyes, a bear with one paw stitched in darker thread, a rabbit with one ear hanging by a thread. Their placement was deliberate. Each one faced the door, as though standing watch.
Layla sat among them, cross-legged in the center of the bed, her back half-leaned against the headboard. A hardcover book lay open across her lap. She looked up as he entered, her fingers still holding the page. There was a flicker of alarm in her expression, but it passed quickly. She relaxed when she recognized him, her shoulders easing, her lips parting with a faint breath.
"Oh—" Her voice was quiet, the syllable light, almost swallowed by the warmth of the room. She set the book aside on the quilt with deliberate care, as if placing it down too quickly might shatter something in the air. "I wasn't expecting any visitors at this hour, but do come in" she welcomed.
Her gaze lingered on him. Something thoughtful flickered there, a silent question she chose not to voice.
A pause unfurled between them, the kind that wasn't heavy but elastic—quiet, stretching at the edges like silk pulled taut.
"Is something wrong?" she asked after a moment, her voice softer now, more cautious. The question didn't come from alarm, but from intuition—like a bird tilting its head at a change in the wind.
He stepped fully into the room, letting the door click softly shut behind him. The sound was minor, but it sealed them in as surely as if a gate had closed.
"No," he said, his tone even, precise. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to speak with you. About the ball."
Layla drew her knees up slightly and shifted on the bed, tucking one foot beneath her leg as she folded her hands in her lap. Her hair fell slightly forward, catching the glow of the lamp.
"I've heard people whispering about it all day," she murmured. "Through the walls. In the hallways. Everyone acts like it's this… grand event. Like the world will tilt on whether I wear the right shoes."
Caspian's eyes drifted to the bookshelves. "It matters," he said. "Not for what it is. For what it appears to be. There are people in that room who will weigh your worth without hearing you speak. They'll listen for what you don't say, and watch for what you try not to show."
She frowned slightly. "So I'm going to be watched."
He nodded once. "Yes."
The warmth in the room seemed to cool by a degree. The pause that followed was not empty, but laden with something unsaid.
"Can I ask you something?" she said quietly. "Something not about the ball."
Caspian didn't move at first, and when he spoke, his voice was low, steady, devoid of inflection. "If you wish."
"I heard something strange." Her eyes wandered, catching on the spine of a nearby book as though she sought refuge in the printed titles. "You play the violin."
A faint tension ghosted across his jaw, not overt, but perceptible to those who knew how to look. "Where did you hear that?"
"Oh, just from Andrew," Layla replied, her tone laced with a practiced innocence.
"Yes, I do play," Caspian answered, each word weighed and measured.
There was a pause before she spoke again. The question, though simply worded, fell into the space between them like a stone through still water. "Would you play something for me?"
There was no mischief in her tone, no coaxing or expectation. It was unguarded in a way few things in Blackwood Tower ever were—an invitation rather than a request, the kind that asked for no performance, only truth.
He lowered his eyes to the floor. The silence lingered.
Then, without further hesitation, he stood.
"Yes," he said, a single word, quiet and certain.
Her brows lifted slightly, not with disbelief, but with surprise at the honesty of it. "You will?"
"I'll retrieve it," he replied, already moving toward the door. "Wait here."
The corridor outside had cooled, as though the air itself held its breath. The stillness hung like frost, and his footsteps on the stairs echoed with a new precision, each one striking like a metronome ticking toward something inevitable. He reached his chamber without pause, entered, and closed the door behind him.
His room was stripped of identity, a cell shaped by necessity rather than comfort. Dark walls and minimal furnishings gave it a monastic sterility. No paintings, no photographs, no ornaments—only the stark geometry of solitude. A heavy desk sat by the window, its surface immaculate, and at the foot of the bed rested a single black case.
He knelt before it and unlatched the clasps.
Inside lay the violin—sleek, pristine, its varnished surface like a mirror polished by countless evenings of use. The bow nestled beside it, the strings perfectly tuned, each part a testament to care, to memory, to something he no longer allowed himself to pursue.
But he did not reach for it.
Instead, his hand slid beneath the velvet lining and emerged with an object far less delicate—a hammer, compact and silent, its leather-wrapped handle familiar in his grip. The head was matte and unreflective, made for a single purpose and shaped with grim precision.
He turned it once in his hand, testing its weight.
Then he concealed it beneath his coat.
The violin remained untouched in its case, a beautiful fiction.
When he returned, the hall outside Layla's room had grown quieter, the silence no longer benign. He opened the door and entered soundlessly.
Layla had risen and now stood at the far bookshelf, trailing her fingertips lightly across the bindings as though reading stories through touch alone. Her posture was casual, but her focus was drawn inward. A soft, tuneless hum drifted from her lips, comforting in its unconsciousness.
"You have a remarkable collection," Caspian said, his voice no more than a murmur.
She turned slightly and offered a fleeting smile. "Most of them aren't mine. I just organized them until they made sense. I like when stories sit beside each other, even if they're not meant to."
The door clicked shut behind him, and she turned back toward the shelves, reaching up toward the highest row. Her body stretched, balanced briefly on the balls of her feet, fingers outstretched toward a green leather volume nestled near the top.
Caspian moved.
The air around him smelled of cedarwood and old parchment.
His hand slid beneath his coat.
She leaned further.
And then—without pause or mercy—he brought the hammer down.
The sound was buried in flesh and fabric, a sickening, muffled thud that left no room for screams or resistance. Her body collapsed instantly, folding at unnatural angles, the book slipping from her fingers to the floor beside her with a dull, accusing sound.
Blood began to pool beneath her head, soaking into the rug.
Caspian knelt, his fingers pressing against the hollow of her neck.
Alive. Unconscious.
He inhaled slowly, controlled and clinical.
From his coat, he produced a narrow blade, and without ceremony, pressed it into his palm, the steel parting skin in a single, practiced motion. Drops of blood welled, thick and red, falling in measured rhythm. He bent and drew a jagged line across her cheek, another down her collarbone, and a third through her hairline. The shapes were irregular, asymmetrical—intentional in their chaos, meant to provoke the right kind of fear.
He rose again, drew out his phone, and captured a single image.
No flash. No adjustment. Just proof.
The frame held her lifeless on the rug, blood haloing her head, the small plush fox curled near her hand, its glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling like a witness that could never speak.
He studied the image—not with sorrow, but with the steady gravity of a man who understood the stakes. The weight did not crush him. It settled into his spine like iron.
He turned to the shelf, placing a hand against it—not because he needed balance, but because some part of him demanded to acknowledge what came next.
An immense surge of energy welled inside him, not raw or chaotic, but orchestrated—a deep, resonant current that coursed beneath the surface of his skin like molten cobalt. The air thickened, dense with unseen pressure, and the light around him darkened into a deep, saturated blue that pulsed with each beat of his heart. The very world around him began to shift, responding to the invocation he had summoned countless times but never without cost.
He closed his eyes.
Then, barely audible, he whispered the word: "Encore."
In an instant, the architecture of reality began to collapse inward.
Light twisted into itself, colors draining into a vanishing point until all hues bent to a luminous singularity. Sound fractured and reversed, every creak, breath, and heartbeat unraveling like thread pulled from a tapestry. The walls shimmered as though breathing, and the scent of blood was replaced with the crisp, ozone-tainted silence of time recoiling upon itself.
Time exhaled—then inhaled.
What had been moments ago no longer held dominance over the present. Memory reformed not as recollection but as tangible re-creation. The blood vanished. The breath stilled. The broken moment restored its symmetry.
When Caspian opened his eyes, Layla stood once more before the shelf, her fingers grazing the same book, her breath unbroken, her body whole.
And then, as though no rupture had occurred, she spoke again. "Would you play something for me?"
Her voice was gentle, undisturbed by what had transpired—because to her, nothing had.
Caspian regarded her with a quiet that was neither avoidance nor guilt, but something older, heavier. His gaze softened. The magic—his magic—was not a gift freely given. It rewrote truth at a cost only he could carry.
"Maybe," he said. "Some other time."