After getting inside, Elliott and Aiden finally retired to sleep. Since Aiden had managed to eliminate all six shadows, they could rest easy— for now. Blood magic had its limitations, as Gabriella had explained to them—at one time, only six shadows could be created and released upon a target. Hence, for now, Carlson was safe. Still, as a precaution, they kept the guildmaster under watch at the temple.
The next day arrived. Sunlight streamed through the high palace windows, sharp and golden, spilling across the rumpled bedding where the two of them had slept uneasily. Aiden woke first, keeping a watchful eye on Elliott as though daring the sun itself to disturb him. Elliott stirred eventually, pale and fragile-looking in the light, and Aiden couldn't stop himself from brushing a hand down his hair, muttering something about "my idiot emperor" under his breath.
After a quick breakfast and a change of clothes, they were ready. Soon, the pair was back at the temple, Gabriella trailing alongside them. They were led into one of the inner sitting rooms, where the High Priest and Carlson were already waiting.
The chamber felt still and solemn. It was obvious the two men had been waiting for a while. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and fresh flowers—the daily morning worship rituals leaving a trace of the sacred in every corner.
"I apologize for the delay," Elliott said politely as they entered. His voice was soft but regal, steady despite the faint shadow under his eyes. Carlson and the High Priest stood immediately, bowing in respect before they all sat down again.
Once the greetings ended, silence thickened again. They sat in a circle of ornate chairs—Elliott, pale but every inch the emperor, at the head of it. Aiden sat to his right, posture taut and coiled with tension. Gabriella sat to his left, calm and unreadable as always. The High Priest fidgeted nervously with his hands while Carlson, usually so smooth and sure of himself, looked more like a man dragged onto the battlefield of a war he had no intention of fighting.
The High Priest was the one who broke the silence at last. He cleared his throat, hesitant.
"We can rest easy...for now. I consulted the scriptures, and... for the shadows to be created, certain conditions must be met. That too, on a full moon night. Assuming these shadows— six of them, since that is the maximum number that can exist at one time— were created on the previous full moon, then there are about fifteen days until the next full moon, where the witch could create more. However..." He swallowed. "Since the prince 'killed' them, the blood witch who created them will know soon, when the shadows do not return to her summons."
Elliott's brow furrowed, his lips tightening. "That means Cyrus will soon know. And by extension... he'll be able to figure out that we know James is alive. And know who he is." His tone was calm, but the worry was plain in his eyes.
By this point, almost all of them were convinced Carlson was James—even if the man himself still looked faintly skeptical.
"Not yet," Gabriella said softly. "We don't know who James is. Not yet. We suspect Carlson. But we don't know for sure."
Elliott looked at her in faint surprise. Before, Gabriella had seemed certain that Carlson was James. "You think Carlson isn't James?"
She shook her head. "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying... we should have tangible proof. Both for ourselves, and to present later if need be."
Elliott nodded slowly, accepting her words. Aiden, however, spoke next, his eyes narrowing at Gabriella with sharp calculation.
"You have another possible candidate in mind," he observed flatly.
Gabriella didn't deny it. "I have certain suspicions." She didn't elaborate. Aiden's jaw flexed, but he didn't press. Instead, his hand moved subtly, brushing against Elliott's sleeve as if to anchor himself.
Gabriella then turned her attention to the High Priest. "Did you search for what I asked you to?"
The old man scrambled upright, flustered at being addressed. "Oh—yes. Yes, of course." He unfurled a scroll he had kept by his side. "As Lady Gabriella requested yesterday, I searched for a ritual to confirm the Moon Heir's heritage. There is... one way."
He laid the scroll carefully on the table, his fingers halting at a particular passage written in old Vellurian—a tongue only preserved now in ancient incantations and rituals. He squinted, then began to read.
"To confirm a Moon Heir's heritage, one must stand under the full moon, upon a clear body of water, preferably a still pool. The person should stand beneath the open sky. Then, a flat dish of silver—flat enough to float upon the water—is filled with honeyed milk and set upon the surface. Once the milk stills, the person is to gaze into their reflection. If the reflection remains clear, unchanged, then the Moon God acknowledges them. If the image is distorted, and the milk curdles—it means rejection."
The words hung in the air, heavy.
Fifteen days. They would have to wait fifteen whole days to be sure. A span of time none of them felt they truly had, not with the blood witch soon to discover her shadows had been destroyed—and by extension, their knowledge of James.
"That's the only way?" Gabriella asked, her voice edged.
"Only what we could find in the scriptures we have access to," the High Priest replied helplessly. "More moon-centered records exist in Altheria. There are certainly more methods and means there. But since we do not have access to them, this is the only way we know."
Gabriella gave a slow, dissatisfied nod. "I see," she murmured.
Aiden, meanwhile, wasn't even looking at the scroll. His gaze kept sliding back to Elliott. The emperor sat composed and straight-backed, but his skin was still sullen, and his hands trembled slightly whenever he thought no one noticed. Aiden noticed. He noticed everything. Without even realizing it, his hand drifted again, covering Elliott's on the table. Protective. Possessive. Quietly staking a claim as if to provide a quiet sense of comfort and reassurance.
And Elliott, perhaps without realizing either, leaned into that warmth just slightly, just enough, like someone who had finally come home.