Chapter 26: Whispers Behind the Curtain

Several months had passed since justice had been delivered and the dust of conflict had finally settled. But not all wounds fade with time—some consequences linger, quiet and unyielding, long after the battle ends.

Within the grand chamber of the Council Hall, a heavy silence hung like a curtain drawn tight. The space was cathedral-like in scale, its arched ceiling painted with sweeping constellations that shimmered like distant memories. Obsidian floors gleamed like glass, reflecting the twelve high-backed thrones that loomed in a crescent above. Seated within them were the council members, each draped in ceremonial garb bearing the sigil of their astrological house. But today, every gaze was fixed not on one another—but on the two standing below.

Conrad Howard stood straight-backed, his figure dignified despite the visible toll etched into his frame. A scar traced his chest beneath the crisp lines of his formal black attire, and though he masked the pain well, there was a stiffness in his movements that hadn't been there before. Still, he held his head high.

At his side stood Magali Artisan, her presence quiet but resolute. Her hand was clasped tightly in his, a silent anchor against the tension that filled the air. Her expression was a delicate blend of composure and concern, the kind that only comes from watching someone you love carry a weight too heavy for one soul. Together, they faced the council not as idols, but as survivors.

At the head of the semi-circular dais sat Scorpio, leader of the Council. His eyes, ever sharp and discerning, bore into Conrad with an unreadable intensity. Hands steepled before him, he spoke with a voice carved from iron and formality.

"Conrad Howard," he began, tone measured and ceremonial, "we are gathered today to deliver the final rulings in the matter concerning Trevor McCatt."

To his right, Libra rose gracefully, her flowing robes shimmering in deep silvers that caught the chamber's ethereal light. She unrolled a parchment with solemn precision, its seal breaking with a soft snap that echoed across the marble floor.

"Trevor McCatt has been found guilty on all counts: conspiracy against the council, corruption of public systems, unauthorized use of council resources, attempted murder, possession of illegal weaponry, and multiple violations of civil law. He has been sentenced to life imprisonment—alongside his son Brandon McCatt—within a maximum-security facility under United States jurisdiction. His estate has been dissolved. His name and legacy… stripped from all records of honor."

There was no applause. Only the austere silence that follows the tolling of a grave bell. Magali let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her shoulders eased slightly. Conrad offered a quiet nod, dignified in its stillness.

But then Scorpio stood. "There is one more matter." His voice, though composed, carried a weight not present before. He turned his gaze solely upon Conrad—no longer the Idol, but the man beneath. "We have reviewed the full medical report from the city hospital. What your body endured was beyond the limits of human resilience. The damage to your heart is… permanent." He hesitated only briefly before continuing. "The medical council has deemed the physical demands of idol performance a direct and immediate threat to your life."

Scorpio's voice lowered, more human now. "As such, by the authority vested in this council, we must enforce Article Thirteen of the city's civic law. You are hereby prohibited from returning to the stage—permanently."

A hush fell like snowfall across the chamber. Magali turned to him, lips parting as if to object—but Conrad was already squeezing her hand, firm yet gentle. "I understand," he said, his voice unwavering. "I knew what I was sacrificing the moment I stood between Brandon and Magali. And I don't regret it." He looked up at the council—at Scorpio, at Libra, and the others seated in their elevated thrones, their expressions a mix of reverence, sorrow, and respect. "If I had to do it again…" He exhaled, steady. "I would."

Scorpio's voice carried the weight of finality as he leaned back into the high-backed seat at the center of the crescent-shaped dais, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, gaze unwavering. "And now," he said, with cool gravity, "we address the matter of restitution."

At his subtle nod, a woman emerged from the shadows behind the council bench—sleek, composed, and unmistakable. Roberta, Scorpio's head secretary, moved with the quiet precision of someone used to operating behind curtains of power. Her auburn hair, streaked with vibrant pink, caught the overhead lights, and her sharp eyes missed nothing. The click of her polished heels echoed faintly through the marble chamber as she approached.

Without a word, she reached beneath her tailored blazer and retrieved a leather satchel—dark, worn at the corners, yet unmistakably elegant. With a shallow bow, she presented it to Conrad, who accepted it with equal formality.

"For you," she said simply.

Conrad exchanged a glance with Magali, then loosened the satchel's brass clasp. The leather creaked softly as it opened—revealing a bed of deep blue velvet, nestled within which sat gemstones. Dozens of them. Polished and faceted to a brilliance that danced in the light, throwing shards of ruby, sapphire, emerald, and topaz across the chamber's dark floor.

Magali inhaled softly. "What… are these?"

Scorpio's voice answered, composed yet resolute. "What you hold are gems—Sweetdance City's executive currency. Rare. Regulated. Reserved for acts of extraordinary merit."

He let the words hang for a beat, then continued, "These gems may be used to purchase land, establish a business, invest in city assets—whatever your future may require. This is not just compensation, Conrad Howard. It is an invitation to begin again. To stay here in Sweetdance, where your presence may still serve the idols who remain."

Conrad's expression shifted—first from surprise, then to something quieter, deeper. Understanding. Acceptance.

"We hope," Scorpio continued, his voice low and earnest, "that you'll consider planting roots here, Conrad Howard. Sweetdance City still needs men like you. The stage may no longer be yours, but your heart beats with the rhythm of this city. The younger idols—they need a guide. A mentor. A pillar to lean on when the spotlight burns too bright."

The words lingered in the chamber, weighty and sincere. A quiet offer wrapped in reverence. Conrad looked down at the satchel, then gently fastened the clasp with a final click. He held it close for a moment, then lifted his gaze. "Thank you," he said, voice steady but laced with emotion. "I… won't waste it."

Magali took his hand, her fingers threading between his. She offered no words—only a smile, soft and proud, the kind that said everything without needing to speak. With nothing left to be said, the two turned and began their walk toward the chamber doors. The towering brass fixtures groaned as they swung open, then closed behind them with a deep, resonant thud that echoed like the end of a chapter.

Their footsteps faded into the corridor beyond, swallowed by the stone. Within the council chamber, silence returned like the tide. One by one, the council members—each draped in robes bearing the sigils of their celestial houses—rose from their thrones and filed into the network of private corridors that branched away like arteries from the heart of the hall. Cloaks whispered. Boots clicked. Quiet murmurs of policy and strategy dissipated into the marble walls. At last, only one figure remained.

Scorpio sat motionless at the apex of the crescent dais, his shoulders square, his gaze fixed on the empty air before him. The chamber stretched vast and silent around him, a cathedral of power now emptied of voices. And yet, beneath the polished surface of order and justice, something restless stirred. He leaned back in his chair, the weight of his years settling over him like dust. For all the city had gained, something had been lost. Or perhaps… something old had simply awakened.

Outside, the city lights flickered like stars. And somewhere within them, a new chapter had already begun.

He lingered. Scorpio's gloved fingers rested lightly on the polished obsidian surface of his desk, as though grounding himself in the quiet that now filled the chamber. The council hall, once alive with voices and verdicts, dimmed around him. The overhead lights softened, adjusting to the presence of a single man in a space built for twelve.

His eyes drifted—not to the grand seal of the council carved into the far wall, nor the faint shimmer of arcane security wards threaded like veins through the black stone—but to a simple photograph nestled at the corner of his desk. Worn at the edges and slightly faded, the picture had been taken years ago. It showed Conrad Howard in his earliest days—bright-eyed, mid-laugh, a young performer standing at the cusp of greatness. Around him stood the original crew that had helped elevate him to stardom, faces frozen in a moment of youth and triumph.

Scorpio's jaw tensed. His hand curled into a loose fist. This—none of this—was just about Trevor McCatt anymore. There were deeper currents swirling beneath the streets of Sweetdance City. Old ones. Subterranean and slow-moving, but stirring. Shifting. Something ancient and dangerous had begun to wake—and only a handful within the city's highest ranks even knew the shape of what they were facing. And even fewer understood how close they were to losing control.

Without looking away from the photo, Scorpio reached beneath the edge of his desk and pressed a discreet button. His voice, when it came, was low but unshakable. "Please send in the Twin Stars."

"Right away, Scorpio," came Roberta's crisp reply through the comm. The line clicked off.

He stood in the gathering gloom, preparing himself for what came next. Because something told him—deep in the bones of the man he used to be, long before he became Scorpio—that this was only the beginning.

Several minutes passed in heavy silence, broken only by the soft, rhythmic ticking of the gilded clock mounted high above the chamber's entrance. Scorpio remained motionless behind his desk, hands steepled, eyes fixed on nothing and everything all at once. Shadows had begun to creep along the edges of the vaulted chamber, curling into the corners like watchful serpents.

Then, at last, the doors opened with a muted click. Valefor Estella—the White Star—entered first, his tall frame wrapped in a long white trench coat that swept behind him like a banner of snow. His steps were unhurried, but there was nothing casual about them; each one struck the floor with a quiet confidence that suggested precision—and danger. The silver trim of his coat caught the ambient light, reflecting faint stars against the dark floor.

Behind him, Hanzo Geum-Eun Byeol—the Black Star—moved like a shadow given flesh. Clad in a sleek black suit with armored accents, he carried himself with the silent threat of a drawn blade. The short, broad sword at his side glinted faintly, its lacquered sheath worn from use. Where Valefor was wind and elegance, Hanzo was gravity and fire. They stopped before the desk, standing like sentinels—perfectly balanced between poise and menace.

"You asked for us?" Hanzo's voice was low, clipped, a blade in itself. His arms crossed over his chest, and though his posture remained relaxed, his eyes held the focus of a soldier braced for either orders or war.

Scorpio leaned forward slowly, the leather of his chair groaning under the movement. His face, framed by gold-rimmed glasses, was unreadable—an old commander weathered by years of responsibility, weariness, and the creeping sense of betrayal.

"Yes," he said at last, his voice smooth but laced with tension. "There's something we need to discuss. Privately."

From beneath the desk, Scorpio produced a slim dossier stamped with the seal of the Twin Stars—two mirrored constellations wrapped around a central sword, pressed cleanly in crimson wax. He slid the folder across the obsidian surface without ceremony, its weightless drift somehow ominous.

"I've read your report," he said, each word measured like a judge passing sentence. "I have several questions."

Valefor stepped forward, the soft click of his boots echoing like punctuation in the silence. His gloved hand came to rest on the dossier, fingers trailing along the edge. "Bien sûr, monsieur," he said, voice smooth as silk and laced with his signature lilt. "Ask away."

Scorpio's gaze sharpened. "The pink creature," he said, eyes locked on Valefor's. "Show it to me."

Valefor's expression didn't change, but a faint sigh slipped from his nose, like a man asked to explain gravity one more time. "Ah. You mean elle," he murmured, reaching into the folds of his coat. "As you wish."

From beneath the pristine layers of white fabric, a faint shimmer of pastel light emerged. In a soft flutter of ethereal motion, the small unicorn—Amalthea—rose from the concealment of Valefor's coat and hovered into the space between them. Her pearlescent mane drifted like stardust, and her soft pink coat glowed faintly in the ambient gloom of the chamber.

She landed gently on the desk before Scorpio, hooves barely making a sound on the polished surface. Her lavender eyes blinked once, twice, then fixed on Scorpio with cautious awareness.

"So," Scorpio murmured, his voice low with intrigue. "This is what Trevor referred to in his final interrogation… an 'elf.' A strange name for such a creature, but…" He leaned in slightly, studying her with the fascination of a man standing before an ancient relic. "Trevor had one of his own. Which implies there are more."

"I suspect so," Valefor replied, folding his arms neatly. "Please remember, monsieur, we apprehended a member of the trainee group Darkness' Eyes. Ze scoundrel carried a strange egg. It hatched shortly after he was placed in holding. Amalthea appeared soon after."

Hanzo's voice joined the space again, colder this time. "The implications are not good."

Scorpio exhaled slowly and shook his head, his expression darkening. "That means others may already know. Others outside this council." The unicorn gave a soft, barely audible snort—as if in warning. "Things are unraveling," Scorpio muttered. "And we've barely pulled the first thread."

Hanzo, who had remained as still and silent as a shadow, stepped forward. The movement was small, but in the echoing chamber, it felt seismic. His eyes locked onto Scorpio's, unwavering. "We have even more grave news," he said, his voice flat—controlled—but with an edge that could slice through steel.

Scorpio's brow arched, his grip on the desk tightening slightly. "Go on."

Hanzo took a breath. "The dragon… When Amalthea defeated it, it didn't just vanish. It left something behind. A spirit. Dressed like an idol." He hesitated—but only for a breath—before delivering the name with quiet certainty. "I recognized the idol. It was Kael Ignis."

The chamber seemed to fall into deeper silence, as though the name itself had weight enough to push the air out of the room. Scorpio's breath caught. "Kael Ignis?" he echoed, stunned.

Slowly, he rose from his chair, every motion heavy with disbelief. The old name echoed inside him like thunder. A memory. A legacy. A wound. He turned to his desk with a mechanical kind of care and opened his laptop, the screen casting a soft glow against his aged features. His fingers moved, stiff with emotion, navigating the government's secured IDOL REGISTRY database. He paused at the search bar—then typed. KAEL IGNIS.

A profile blinked into existence, illuminating the room with long-lost brilliance. There he was—young, bold, magnetic. Kael stood in the photograph wearing his iconic crimson stage coat, embroidered with golden flames that shimmered as though they might leap from the screen. His smile blazed with the same fire that had once captivated a nation.

Scorpio's gaze lingered on the image. A thousand memories flickered behind his eyes. The roar of the crowd. The heat of the stage lights. The moment when Kael's voice seemed to set the world on fire. He inhaled—and pressed a single key. The photo dimmed. A gray banner slashed across the top of the screen like a scar. "STATUS: DECEASED."

The word hung there. Cold. Final. No sound followed—only the quiet hum of electronics and the whispering flicker of the security wards embedded in the chamber walls. "This…" Scorpio said at last, his voice low and raw, "will be difficult to explain to his family. We have no remains. No body. No final goodbye. Just…" His eyes didn't leave the screen. "An echo of who he once was."

Valefor lowered his head, his white coat rippling softly with the motion. "Il a brûlé plus fort que la plupart," he said gently. "He burned brighter than most. It's only fitting he vanished in flame."

Scorpio nodded, the corners of his mouth tight. "And yet… even fire leaves behind ash." His fingers drifted from the keyboard, trembling faintly. "We will honor him. As an idol. As a warrior. As one of our own."

Then his eyes sharpened, glinting behind his glasses. "But this also confirms what I feared. The wounds in Sweetdance City go far deeper than we ever imagined. If Kael was tied to that dragon, then this rot is older than Trevor McCatt. More insidious. And more dangerous."

Hanzo cracked his knuckles, the sound like gunfire in the quiet. His voice returned, low and resolute. "Then it's time we start digging."

Scorpio's gaze drifted back to the small unicorn perched on his desk. Amalthea sat motionless, her silken wings twitching faintly in the lamplight. Her eyes—violet and endless—seemed to glow with something old. Something not entirely of this world. She wasn't just a creature. She was a mystery wrapped in myth.

"In your report…" Scorpio began, his voice hushed, gravel-soft with the weight of what he was about to say. "Trevor claimed these creatures—these 'elves'—are forged using the essence of a Savant." He paused, letting the silence speak the rest of the horror. "An idol's Savant."

The room chilled as the words took shape. "If that's true," he continued, his tone darkening, "then what exactly are we looking at here? Are these beings—these elves—born from the sacrifice of idols? Of people who once held the power of a Savant?"

Across from him, Valefor stood very still. The usual glint of cunning in his silver eyes dulled. "We can't confirm it," he said slowly, the edge of his French accent more pronounced under pressure. "Pas encore. Not yet." He hesitated. "But… if that's true…" His voice caught, a rare crack in the composure of the White Star. "Zat may explain why madamoiselle Magali was targeted."

Scorpio leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning beneath the shift of weight. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, as if the room itself pressed down on his chest. What kind of darkness had they been blind to all this time?

"I would hate to think that is the truth," Valefor said, softer now. "Je déteste même y penser. I really would."

Scorpio's eyes opened again—tired, but sharper. His hand found the edge of the desk, grounding him in the present, though his voice drifted toward the past. "Meredith…" he said quietly. "Conrad's mother. One of the finest idols Sweetdance has ever seen. Her voice could stop a riot. Her presence could move crowds to tears." His fingers curled slightly. "She's been missing for over twenty years. Vanished. No trail. No answers."

He looked at Amalthea again, and this time there was something different in his stare—less curiosity, more dread. Like a man staring down the truth he never wanted to find. "I would hate to learn that her fate… was the same as Kael's." The silence that followed was long and brutal. The air grew heavier with every heartbeat. Amalthea looked back at him, expression serene, unblinking, unbothered by the enormity of their suspicions. As if she already knew.

Hanzo's jaw tightened. The tension in his shoulders built like a bowstring being pulled. "Then we better make damn sure no one else disappears," he said. His voice was low. Hard. A promise.

Scorpio rose from his chair, the weight of revelation hanging heavily on his shoulders like an old, worn cloak. His expression—rigid, composed—betrayed only the faintest flicker of exhaustion as he offered a silent nod of dismissal.

Valefor and Hanzo bowed in unison, their movements fluid and precise, then turned without another word. Their footsteps echoed softly against the polished stone until the chamber doors groaned shut behind them with a deep, solemn thud—a sound that lingered like the final note of a dirge echoing through a cathedral of power.

The silence that followed was complete. Alone once more, Scorpio allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability. He sank slowly back into his seat, eyes drawn to the now-closed file on Kael Ignis—The Red Dragon. A name once synonymous with fire and fury on the stage. A legacy now reduced to whispers, ash, and questions that stung like open wounds.

The image of Kael's youthful face—full of brilliance, ambition, and pride—still burned behind his eyes. So many sacrifices. So much silence. He exhaled deeply, the sound barely audible over the oppressive quiet, and reached for the discreet intercom embedded in the desk.

His fingers hesitated a moment. Then he pressed the button. "Roberta," he said, voice even but threaded with tension, "send in Codename: Scarlet Nexus."

"Right away, sir," came Roberta's voice—crisp, efficient, ever-reliable.

Minutes passed. The chamber's light dimmed slightly, casting longer shadows across the arched ceiling. The vast council chamber felt more cavernous than ever, the very air thick with secrets unsaid. Then, the door opened with a smooth, mechanical hiss. Kalari entered like a spark slipping into dry brush.

Her strides were slow, deliberate, each step punctuated by the sharp click of stiletto heels on polished stone. A white blouse, crisp and tailored, clung to her frame with military precision, tucked neatly into a sleek black skirt that accentuated her long, statuesque silhouette. Her red hair—untamed and cascading in waves—glinted like molten copper beneath the council's overhead lights, giving her the appearance of a flame made flesh.

She stopped at the base of Scorpio's dais, tilting her head ever so slightly. Her eyes, cool and unreadable, regarded him with a flicker of amusement—or was it disdain? "Yes, Scorpio?" she asked casually, her voice low and velvety, touched by the effortless confidence of someone used to being watched. The way she spoke, smooth and dispassionate, made it impossible to tell if she was curious, annoyed, or simply playing a role.

Scorpio said nothing for a beat, just studied her—really studied her—reading Kalari like a page half-written in ink and fire, one smudge away from turning illegible. The silence between them stretched, taut with the tension of unspoken history. Then, at last, he spoke. "You were supposed to be watching Brandon."

Kalari arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her expression one of effortless detachment. "I was watching him," she replied smoothly, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from her blouse. "But I couldn't exactly make him sing. I tried everything—short of sleeping with him." Her eyes rolled, lazy and dismissive. "Not that I'd want to. He's far too young for my taste."

Scorpio folded his hands in front of him, slowly, deliberately. The look in his eyes could flay skin from bone. He wasn't in the mood for her games—and she knew it. Kalari, undeterred, leaned back against the nearest chair, the silk of her blouse catching the low council light. "What gave it away?" she asked, her tone feather-light. "What made you suspect the McCatts were up to something?"

Scorpio's jaw tightened. "Trevor requested that Gemini assign Magali Artisan to the same class as his son. Gemini found the request strange and brought it to me. Education is not under Virgo's jurisdiction. That alone raised red flags."

He stepped around his desk with slow precision, his voice cooling like tempered steel. "That's when I assigned you to watch Brandon. After all… he is your best customer."

Kalari laughed softly, a sultry sound laced with just enough venom to sting. "Please. If you're trying to imply I'm emotionally attached to the boy, don't embarrass us both." She flicked her wrist, manicured fingers slicing through the air like a blade. "He's rich, he's cute, and he's just broken enough to buy every product I sell. But I'm a professional, Scorpio. I sell to idols—I don't raise them."

"Even so," he snapped, the irritation bleeding into his voice like oil on water. "We lost a highly talented idol. And worse—we put Julian's daughter in grave danger. If something were to happen to Magali…" He paused, the thought cutting too deep. "This city would never recover."

Kalari's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "So dramatic," she said, then shrugged lightly. "Why not send Aries, then? Isn't idol surveillance supposed to be her domain?"

Scorpio's eyes darkened, his gaze narrowing into slits of cold gold behind his glasses. "Because I suspect there may be other council members involved in this." He let the words hang in the air, heavy and damning. "Which means I can't trust anyone wearing a council sigil."

Kalari's smile deepened, amusement blooming like wildfire behind her eyes. "Ahh… and I suppose this has nothing to do with the fact that Tellu is my dear baby sister?"

"We both know that seat was yours by merit," Scorpio said evenly, voice laced with quiet caution. "But you turned it down."

"No," Kalari corrected, her tone suddenly sharp. Her green eyes flared like struck embers. "I was denied that seat. Not for lack of talent, but because I wasn't palatable enough for the council's politics." Her voice dipped to something darker. "And now, you're using my hatred for her to spy on the council?" She gave a low, impressed whistle. "Bold move, Scorpio."

He didn't flinch. "As Head of the Council, I'll use whatever means I must to protect Sweetdance City. Even if that means turning the council's gaze inward. No one is above suspicion."

Kalari tilted her head, watching him like a cat weighing the twitch of a mouse. "No one?" she repeated. "Not even your precious Gemini?"

Scorpio's jaw clenched. The muscles in his temple twitched. His voice dropped to a low growl, laced with restrained fury. "Get out," he said, each word ground through gritted teeth. "You're dismissed."

Kalari raised her hands in exaggerated surrender, a smirk curving like mischief across her lips. "Okay, okay," she drawled. "No need to get your tail in a twist. Just joking."

She pivoted with feline grace, her crimson hair cascading down her back like a velvet curtain. The sharp clicks of her stiletto heels echoed through the chamber, slicing through the tension like a blade tapping against glass. Every step was a performance, a deliberate display of composure and contempt.

Her fingers had just brushed the ornate handle of the chamber doors when— "Scarlet Nexus, wait."

The voice halted her mid-step. Not loud, but heavy. Commanding. She turned her head slowly, her gaze flicking over one shoulder. Scorpio hadn't moved from his place behind the crescent desk. His expression was still carved from stone, but there was a new weight in his voice—a gravity that cut through the chill.

"Continue your surveillance of the idols in the crew halls," he said. "If anyone else goes missing… I want to know immediately."

Kalari studied him for a beat, her smirk lingering like smoke. Then she gave a shallow, mocking bow—elegant and insincere. "As you wish," she purred, her tone laced with theatrical flair.

Without another word, she slipped through the doors and vanished into the shadows beyond. The heavy metal groaned as it closed behind her, sealing the chamber with a resonant thud that echoed like a final note in an unfinished symphony. And then—silence. Cold, absolute.

Scorpio remained still, alone once more beneath the vaulted ceiling and the watchful gaze of the astrological emblems etched in obsidian above. The quiet pressed in, filled with unspoken truths and a storm yet to come.

Scorpio stood alone in the echoing stillness of the council chamber, the last echoes of Kalari's departure fading into the high arches above. For a moment, the weight of silence was absolute—no voices, no judgment, no masks.

With a weary sigh, he raised his hands and removed the deep brown wig that had become part of his carefully curated persona. It came off with a whisper of synthetic strands, revealing the truth beneath: his real hair, thinning and streaked with silver, clung damply to his temples. The illusion slipped away, like fog peeling from glass. The stoic, sharp-edged council leader faded, leaving only the man behind—older, heavier, worn by years of battles both public and hidden.

His name echoed through the cavern of his thoughts like a memory too fragile to speak aloud. Every decision, every betrayal, every sleepless night spent poring over intelligence reports and surveillance footage—it had all carved lines into his face and stolen color from his eyes. Sweetdance City, once a beacon of light and harmony, was fraying at the edges. The idols who had once been the heartbeat of its people were disappearing. Some to fear, some to fate. And the council was no longer unified. Most of them were circling around him now. Watching him. Waiting for the moment he stumbled… so they could take his seat.

He turned and walked toward the corridor beyond the chamber, his footfalls muffled by the polished marble beneath. The doors groaned shut behind him, casting him into the long, vaulted hallway lined with gilded columns and cold council banners.

And then—her voice. "Robert?"

He stopped. His eyes closed. Only one person still called him that.

Slowly, he turned. Gemini approached, her soft footsteps nearly silent on the stone. The light caught her blue wig, turning each strand to liquid sapphire. The sigil of the Twins was embroidered in shimmering thread across the bodice of her flowing blue dress, the fabric fluttering around her like a constellation come to life.

"I told you," he murmured, voice low and taut with fatigue. "While we're on duty, we use our code names."

He turned to walk away, but she was already moving. In one graceful motion, she stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. Her body pressed gently to his back, her head settling in the space between his shoulder blades like a final piece sliding into place. "I'm not speaking to you as a council member," she whispered. "I'm speaking to you as your wife."

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then—Scorpio exhaled. The tension that had bound his muscles for days unspooled beneath her touch, slipping away like mist from stone. He reached up and covered her hands with his own, holding them there, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence.

"Rose…" His voice was soft, strained with the weight of too many years and too little rest. "You know we can't show affection in public. It's bad enough they already whisper that I favor you above the others."

"I don't care what they think," she murmured, holding him tighter, her arms firm and unwavering. "Let them whisper. I care about you—not their poisoned tongues or hollow traditions. You've been carrying the weight of this city alone, Robert. I see it. You're exhausted."

He looked away, his jaw tightening, eyes shadowed by something older than fatigue—disillusionment. Shame. Loneliness. "They were all descended from Super Idols," he said bitterly. "Legacies born of glory, power… bloodlines carved in starlight. Each one bred with impossible expectations—and they met them. Surpassed them. Every last one." He paused, his lips curling into a humorless smile. "Astrological royalty. Gifted from birth. And then there's me."

A laugh slipped from his mouth—low, brittle, broken. "An ordinary man with no lineage, no prestige. A footnote in the city's laws that only remembers legends. A placeholder in a chair meant for someone more… divine." He said her name then, barely more than a breath, "Katrina."

The name drifted into the silence, and for a moment, it seemed to fill the corridor with the weight of ghosts. "I was never meant to keep this title," he continued quietly. "It was hers. Always hers. I was just holding it until she became a Super Idol. The Council agreed to that. I trusted that." His voice faltered, roughening. "But she died before she ever got the chance to sit. And now… I remain."

He exhaled sharply, as if trying to purge the ache from his lungs. "I became the exception. A technicality. A compromise they learned to tolerate because Julian left." His eyes hardened, glassy with restrained fury. "They've never truly accepted me as leader. They nod in meetings, bow in public—but in private? They mock. They plot. They whisper that the city is stagnating under my hand. That I don't belong in the seat of legacy."

His voice dropped, colder now. "They don't see strength in restraint. Or vision in caution. They don't respect quiet endurance. They see weakness. And now… Now they want my seat."

Rose's hand slid into his—warm, gentle, defiant. "Then they'll have to go through me," she said, fierce and unwavering. "You didn't ask for this. I know that. But you've protected this city longer than any of them could've dreamed. You've held it together with sweat and blood and sanity fraying at the edges. And whether they admit it or not… that means something." Her grip tightened, grounding him like the roots of a tree holding against a storm. "You are not ordinary," she added. "You're the only one of them who still remembers what it means to serve."

For a moment, the weight on Robert's shoulders seemed to lift—if only slightly. He looked at her then, really looked, and found no judgment in her gaze. Only quiet, stubborn, beautiful faith. The kind that didn't ask for reassurance. The kind that simply believed.

He nodded slowly, his fingers curling around hers like an anchor. Whatever the rest of the council had planned, let them come. Let the wolves circle. The fight wasn't over. Not yet.

"Come on," Rose said, her voice gentler now, tugging him forward. "Let's go home. My favorite show just dropped a new season, and I've been dying to binge it."

Robert gave a tired chuckle. "You know I'm still not a fan of those bizarre foreign cartoons you love so much."

She smiled and leaned in, giving his arm a teasing squeeze. "You weren't complaining when I got pregnant with Roberta."

He laughed then—really laughed—and the sound was lighter than it had been in weeks. And for just a moment, as they walked together beneath the dim hallway lights, Robert Scorpio allowed himself to forget the city, the council, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. Tonight, he was just a husband, heading home.