Christian de Villiers

The day of the Head of the Secret Council and Keeper of the State Seal resembled an endless, second-perfect judicial proceeding. From dawn, Christian de Villiers had been locked within the gilded cage of his duties. Interrogating those accused of treason, deciphering encrypted dispatches, the endless bickering with ministers at the Small Council—every hour demanded absolute concentration, cold blood, and unshakeable severity.

In public, he remained impeccable. His scarlet cloak rustled against the marble tiles, causing courtly schemers to press themselves against the walls. Christian offered calculated smiles to the ladies, making their hearts race, while casually soothing their migraines with his warming aura, and confidently issuing commands to the guards. But no one saw the cost of his day. Every fragment of magic spent maintaining order echoed within him as a dull, dragging ache. The Phoenix was slowly burning out. By evening, his skin seemed paler, and his amber gaze colder than usual.

When the palace halls emptied, and Celestia, after gently scolding her brother for his stubbornness, retired to her own chambers, Christian did not go to his quarters. He knew sleep would not come again. The internal heat, mingled with icy exhaustion, would not allow it. Leaving his heavy judicial cloak behind, dressed only in a snow-white shirt and a black vest with gold filigree, he made his way to the Royal Library. At this hour, access was strictly forbidden to all. Christian personally secured the massive oak doors with the Keeper's Seal, leaving even his personal guard outside. Here, amidst hundreds of shelves smelling of old leather and parchment, a blessed twilight reigned.

He lit only a single candle, poured a bitter herbal infusion into a chalice to soothe the fire in his chest, and sank wearily into an armchair. He twisted his family signet ring, eyes closed, listening to the absolute silence. His hot palms were cooled by an ancient tome. In his thick, wine-red hair, golden sparks smoldered faintly—the remnants of the day's tension. The Head of the Council was finally alone. He allowed himself to relax, to breathe, and to simply enjoy the stillness.

Suddenly, in the depths of the hall, between the distant shelves, came a barely perceptible rustle—as if someone had brushed against a hem or the spine of a book. Christian’s amber eyes snapped open, his gaze piercing the darkness. The golden sparks in his hair flared brighter.

— I know someone is here, he said softly, yet with a terrifying clarity that sent his voice echoing beneath the vaulted ceilings. — Come out voluntarily, or must I personally inspect these aisles?