Chapter 83: Chapter-83

The aunt looked at Estov as she swirled her cup of tea, watching the liquid move in slow, deliberate circles. Then she set it down and fixed her gaze on him.

“You said you wanted to help her,” she said. “May I ask how, exactly, you intend to do that? And while we’re at it—who are you, really, to be carrying the Aston name?”

Estov flashed his most charming smile, the one that had worked on nobility and commoners alike across multiple worlds. “Great Aunt, it’s me—Aston. Surely you remember? We used to play together when I was small.”

The aunt’s expression didn’t change.

She simply turned to her servant and gave a single, silent nod.

The maid bowed deeply, her movements precise and practiced. She walked to the door, closed it with a soft click, then pressed her palm flat against the wood. A faint green light began to spread from her hand, tracing the doorframe in delicate, glowing lines. Within seconds, the entire door was sealed in a shimmering barrier that pulsed once before settling into near-invisibility.

Estov’s casual smile faltered.

*Damn.*

This woman was *powerful*.

Yes, this world had mages—but they were about as common as phoenix feathers. Even the imperial family, with all its wealth and influence, only had a handful of mages, and those were kept so hidden and so protected that most people went their entire lives without seeing one. The Magic Tower, the only legitimate institution that trained and regulated magic users, kept its gates firmly shut to outsiders. Its members were notoriously reclusive, preferring dusty libraries and arcane research to human interaction. Getting a mage to work for you required permission from the Tower itself—a process so bureaucratic and restrictive that even emperors had been denied.

And yet here was this woman, the Duchess, with a mage serving her as a *personal attendant*.

Even Heena, the *Empress*, didn’t have a personal mage. [1]

The aunt picked up her teacup again, took a slow sip, and set it down with deliberate care.

“Now,” she said, voice still perfectly pleasant, “I will ask you one more time. Who are you?”

Estov kept his smile in place, though it felt a little tighter now. “Aunt, I already told you. I’m Aston—”

“I did not ask,” she interrupted gently, “who this *body* belongs to.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“I asked who *you* are. The one who is currently *wearing* Aston’s skin.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Estov’s heart slammed once against his ribs, hard enough to hurt. His mind raced. *She knows. How does she know? No one should be able to tell—*

He looked at her. She looked back, calm and patient, as if she had all the time in the world to wait for his answer.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Estov laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Aunt. Are you feeling all right? Perhaps the travel—”

Her smile didn’t waver.

“As you wish,” she said. “Play your games if you like. As long as you do not harm my child, I do not particularly care who—or *what*—you are.”

Estov let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“But,” she added, and her tone didn’t change at all, “do remember this.”

In one fluid motion, a knife flew through the air toward him.

It stopped exactly one centimeter from his forehead.

Estov went completely still.

The blade hovered there, suspended in midair by nothing he could see, its edge sharp enough that he could feel the faint pressure of displaced air against his skin. His pulse thundered in his ears. He didn’t move. He didn’t *dare*.

“Magic,” he breathed.

The aunt tilted her head slightly, and the knife rotated.

First it turned to point at his left eye. Then his right. Then back to the center of his forehead, where it hovered, trembling faintly, as if straining against invisible strings.

She moved her fingers, a subtle flick of her wrist, and the blade spun once—a slow, lazy rotation—before it shot back across the room and landed perfectly in her open palm.

She set it down on the table beside her teacup, as casually as if she’d just retrieved a fallen napkin.

“Well,” she said, voice still warm, still pleasant, “now you understand what I *can* do to you. Yes?”

Estov’s throat felt very dry.

“…Yes, Aunt,” he managed.

“Good.” She picked up her tea again, took another delicate sip, and smiled over the rim of the cup. “Now. Let us have an honest conversation. What are you *really* doing here? And how, precisely, do you intend to help my niece without making her situation infinitely worse than it already is?”

Estov sat very, very still.

For the first time in a long time—across multiple worlds, multiple identities, multiple close calls—he genuinely wasn’t sure if he was going to survive the next five minutes.

He swallowed once, straightened his shoulders, and decided that honesty, for once, might actually be his best option.

“I’m here,” he said carefully, “because someone very powerful sent me. My mission is to support the Empress and help stabilize this world before it collapses under the weight of its own narrative.”

The aunt’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes—interest, perhaps, or recognition.

“Go on,” she said.

Estov took a breath. “The five husbands, the heroine, the systems, the prophecies—it’s all tangled. The original plot was supposed to lead to the Empress’s downfall and the heroine’s rise. But the Empress changed. She’s not following the script anymore. And that means the world is… unstable.”

He hesitated, then added, “I’m here to make sure it doesn’t implode.”

The aunt set down her cup.

“And you think,” she said slowly, “that pretending to be her fiancé and parading around banquets is *helping*?”

Estov winced. “It’s… a work in progress.”

She studied him for a long moment.

Then, to his surprise, she laughed—a short, sharp sound, more genuine than anything else she’d said so far.

“You remind me of someone,” she said. “Reckless. Clever. Too charming for your own good.” Her smile turned sharp. “Very well. I will allow you to continue. But know this—”

She picked up the knife again, turning it slowly in her hand.

“If you betray her,” the Duchess said, voice soft as silk and cold as winter, “I will find you. I will peel you out of Aston’s body layer by layer, and I will make sure whatever comes after knows what happens to those who harm my family.”

Estov nodded quickly. “Understood, Aunt.”

“Good.” She set the knife down again and waved a hand. “You may go.”

The green barrier around the door dissolved. The maid opened it without a word.

Estov stood, bowed deeply, and left as quickly as dignity allowed.

The moment he was outside, he leaned against the wall and let out a shaky breath.

*That woman is terrifying.*

Back in the apartment, the aunt poured herself another cup of tea, expression thoughtful.

“My lady,” the maid asked quietly, “do you truly believe he means to help?”

The Duchess smiled faintly.

“I believe,” she said, “that he is too afraid of me to do otherwise. And fear, my dear, is an excellent motivator.”

***

Meanwhile, back in Heena’s study, System 427 suddenly shivered, his fur standing on end.

“Host…” he said nervously. “I think something bad just happened to Estov.”

Heena, still laboriously writing her ten-thousand-word apology letter with her left hand, didn’t look up.

“If it’s happening to Estov,” she said, “then it’s probably fine.”

She paused, then smiled faintly.

“Or it’s *very* funny. Either way, I’m sure he’ll survive.”

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