[For the sake of those with faint hearts, the next ten Chapters will contain a series of psychological burdens on not just Julian but on the readers as well. Well, it’s not that bad, but just in case, reader’s discretion advised.]

Julian sat by the window after he had discarded his coat on the bed. The sleeves of his white inner shirt waved in the sudden, cooling wind, the fabric snapping softly against his arms as he leaned his head back against the chair’s frame.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, drawing in a long, shaky breath of the air that finally felt thin enough to breathe.

The oppressive, golden sun of the afternoon had finally been shielded.

Moving clouds—heavy and grey—were rolling in from the horizon, swallowing the light and turning the world a muted, somber grey.

Dark clouds. It looked like it was going to rain soon; the scent of rain-soaked earth was slowly beginning to rise from the gardens below.

The shift in the weather felt like a physical relief, a cooling hand on the fever of Julian’s raw, scrubbed skin.

Clack.

The bolt on the door slid back, the sound echoing sharply through the quiet room. Julian didn’t move; his eyes were still closed even as the door creaked open.

He heard the light rattling of a silver cart being pushed over the threshold—the ’mercy’ the Emperor had promised.

A maid entered with her head bowed. Then, silently, she set the meal on the small table near the window, the one Julian was sitting at.

There was a platter of flavored sweets—candied violets, honeyed almonds, and sugar-dusted pastries that smelled of orange blossom and spice—and in the center, a simple porcelain bowl of broth.

The steam from the soup rose, catching the dimming light of the storm-heavy afternoon. The maid bowed one final time and retreated, the bolt sliding back into place with a definitive thud.

Julian stared at the tray for a long time. His mind, still trapped in the [Paranoid Anticipation] of his 29% Stability, screamed that this was another hook, another way for Aurelian to sink his fingers into his mind.

But the hollow ache in his stomach and the shivering in his limbs were louder than the suspicion.

He reached for the bowl, his fingers curling around the warm porcelain. The heat seeped into his palms, a small, grounding mercy.

He took a cautious sip. It was delicious—salty, rich, and perfectly seasoned.

It felt like a liquid hug, warming his throat and settling the oily coil of nausea that had plagued him since the bathhouse.

For a few minutes, he allowed himself to simply exist in the warmth of the steam, closing his eyes as the first heavy drops of rain began to patter against the balcony stones.

Maybe I can enjoy the warmth before the storm truly breaks, he thought, the sweetness of a honeyed almond lingering on his tongue.

But as the rain began to pick up, he felt it again, that hollow and cold void trapped in his heart.

How long could the warmth from the broth last? How long until the sugary taste of the pastries dulls the bitterness of his current situation?

How long...?

The next morning didn’t arrive with light, warmth, or sweetness; it arrived with the sensation of drowning in a dry room.

Julian woke with his face pressed into the pillow that smelled of the room’s sachet scents and his own cold sweat.

For a fleeting second, his mind was blank, something that rarely happens, and he almost felt hopeful.

But then, the Waking Madness dashed that hope in less than a second and washed over him like a frigid wave.

His lungs seized, and just like before, his heart was being squeezed by an iron fist.

He couldn’t breathe.

He clawed at the sheets, his mouth opening in a silent, desperate gasp, but no air came. His vision tunneled, the edges of the room fraying into dark shadows. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

He tried to count his heartbeats to steady himself, but his pulse was a frantic, irregular thrumming that he could feel in his very teeth.

The room was deathly silent, yet his ears rang with a high, thin wail that vibrated in his marrow. It was the sound of something he couldn’t even name.

All he knew was that he couldn’t breathe and that he was suffering.

It was unfortunate that this madness was not enough to kill him, and was similar to a mirage that came from his displaced soul residing in this body.

If it had been real enough to kill him, he wouldn’t have had to pass through this every waking moment.

Chime.

> [Mental Stability: 28% — Status: Severe Respiratory Constriction]

With tears in his eyes, he forced himself to sit up, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. The madness had subsided, giving him room to breathe.

He stayed there, hunched over his knees, for what felt like hours, forcing the air into his lungs one agonizing, shallow sip at a time.

By the time his vision cleared, his inner shirt was damp, and his hands were shaking so badly he had to drop them on the bed.

’I survived, once again,’ he thought, but he didn’t really look like someone who was surviving.

He looked just like a ghost... or a shadow. One whose color was fading gradually.

Then, just as Julian felt he could have some peace to recover from the madness, a sharp knock at the door broke the silence.

"Master Astrea. The Emperor requires your presence in the Dust Archive."

Julian didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He simply sat still, his back resting on the headboard.

The Emperor was at it again. What did he want this time?

The door opened, and the maid walked in with a wash basin. She bowed her head and walked out.

Julian stood up, heading for the washbasin, and even with the system mocking him at his mental instability, he tried to wash off the darkness under his eyes.

Slowly, he got ready and then stood before the mirror, smoothening the wrinkles from his shirt with numb, fumbling fingers and adjusting his coat carefully.

There was no hiding the exhaustion in his eyes, and the Emperor would definitely nitpick him for it, but what could he do?

Julian allowed the Golden Guards to lead him into the heart of the Emperor’s Palace.