[reverse] knife trick

Damian walked down the hallway, bittersweet nostalgia washing over him.

A lifetime or more had passed since he'd seen these walls. He wanted to simply stop for a moment, to sit down in the middle of the corridor, and breathe in the familiar-yet-forgotten scents of the Palace. The hustle and bustle of the royal residence had momentarily been concentrated on another floor, where the ball was taking place.

Damian didn't remember the party very well.

With no small amount of effort, he forced himself onwards, his heavy boots sinking into the plush carpet. He saw a maid or two, but they were scurrying about, too busy with the festivities to pay attention to one lone man. Damian walked with a single-minded confidence, and anyone who might've puzzled at his presence simply saw someone clearly heading elsewhere, and moved on with their own tasks.

He didn't take the elevator—that was too high a risk, even with the Rosa Regalia tucked away in his pocket—so he took the inner stairwell. The concrete steps and metal handrails felt like the skeleton of Rossheim Palace, as though he was intruding into the Palace's body. He took the steps two at a time, expending just a tiny fraction of the Angel's Blessing to keep his heart-rate at a moderate level.

Floor numbers flashed past him, and he slowed as he reached the nineteenth floor. One more flight of stairs, and he'd reach his old quarters—though nothing of note waited for him there. One more, and…

Damian hesitated, a lump swelling in his throat.

Father…

There, at the very top of Rossheim Palace, were the King's Quarters.

Right at this very moment, Xavier V, King of Sidralis, would be inside his room, surrounded by Priests and staff. 

Damian's hands trembled, and cold sweat rolled down his cheek.

I could… I could see my father again. One last time, I could see my father.

He squinted his eyes shut and clenched his fists tight, his fingernails tearing into his skin. The pain reminded him of his mission. The pain kept him focused. He couldn't jeopardize his mission—the reason he'd come here. If he allowed himself to give into wistful nostalgia, if he allowed his emotions to get the better of him, then everything—the past he was in, the future he'd left—would all be ruined.

I'm sorry, Father. Please forgive me.

Damian opened the door to the nineteenth floor.

The Flame-blessed lights here were dimmer than usual—not because they were running out of power, but because their very essence was being combatted by their mortal enemy. Here, and here alone, the Deep was given the smallest amount of freedom—the only place in the entire city aside from Tenebrae. 

Damian exhaled, his breath shaky. 

I hope my memories are right, or else this will get ugly…

Cautiously, he proceeded down the hallway, one hand reaching into his coat pocket and seizing the ruby-studded ring. If he was wrong—and he prayed to all the Angels he wasn't—he'd need to make a quick exit. He was confident in his fighting ability, and even more confident in his mastery of the Angel's Blessings, but against his Uncle in his prime?

That might just be a fair fight, hey Leon?

Damian stopped outside the spymaster's quarters. There was no point being stealthy—in the corners of the corridor, the Deep pooled like spilled ink. If Leon was in the room beyond, he'd already be aware that an intruder had snuck inside the building, disguised as a member of the press. 

In that case, the room beyond was either empty or a trap.

I'll take those chances.

He weighed down on the handle and opened the unlocked door. The quarters beyond were darkened; the hearth was smoldering, with a few natural embers still glowing amidst the logs. On the sofa, the black cat named Janus was curled up, asleep. As Damian entered, Janus sat and opened his yellow eyes warily, his tail flicking hard against the sofa.

Cautiously, Damian proceeded around Leon's desk, the black cat watching him the entire time. Paperwork was neatly piled on the timber desk, along with a half-open packet of cigarettes. It seemed that the spymaster had only recently left the office—fortune had smiled on Damian.

Ironic. I'm the last person deserving any good luck.

On the wall sat the telephone, with its shapely horn and rotary dial. There were also a number of switches, designed to quickly connect the caller to a specific number.

Damian unhooked the telephone and pressed the horn to his ear. With his spare hand, he flicked the very first switch.

A whirling noise came from the telephone, as the Deep's shadows writhed into a miniature Aspect of Void, connecting his voice to a distant place.

This is the riskiest part of my plan. Ideally, I'd have just gone there myself, but—that's probably even more dangerous right now.

After a few moments, a cold and curt voice answered.

"Yes?"

Damian swallowed.

Please forgive me. This is all for your benefit, I swear.

"This is Damian Roswald. We need to talk."