Chapter 132 : Symphony of the Silver Trigger
Chapter 132 : Symphony of the Silver Trigger
✷✧✷ A hush before the storm, a breath poised on a blade. ✷✧✷
At the very instant Johannes pulled the trigger, I tasted the chill of the underworld.
Of course, in the sacred ledger of fate, I know that Johannes—and the royal family—remain untouched until the chronicle truly begins. Therefore, no tragic crack of gunfire should have echoed.
Yet my body trembled, helpless, for terror cares nothing for destiny’s rules.
What if my presence shifts the weave of events?
What if the story has already veered from its course?
A pallid weakness overtook me, and I sank to the stone floor. Around us, the spectators—who seconds ago roared with blood‑bright excitement—fell into stunned silence. None had imagined a real revolver would find its way into a festival booth.
The hush broke, replaced by murmurs that swelled like restless surf. I looked up, hands pressed to the cold flagstones, and found only Johannes in my vision.
He offered his hand, face unreadable marble. The host cried questions, but his words flowed past me like wind through a broken window.
“Shouldn’t we do it right—if we plan to defeat Windsor?”
Edward. Even in absence, his shadow crawled beneath my skin.
Johannes—who had waited outside while Edward spoke poison into my ear—now seemed to possess impossible knowledge. How? No escort lingered, no whispered spy.
My voice cracked. “How—?”
He answered by flipping the revolver, offering it grip‑first.
“Curiosity will eat you alive,” he murmured. “Take it.”
I accepted the cold iron, fingers trembling.
“Apart from loving you,” he said to the startled host, “I trust no one—not even her.”
His words fell like snow in a graveyard: soft, silent, deadly.
The revolver was still half‑loaded.
He thinks I doubt him, I realized—and perhaps he is right.
The memory of all the times I questioned him fluttered before my eyes like torn letters. A happy day, shattered into dust.
I closed my eyes against the weapon’s chill. “I…”
Could I ever confess Edward’s threats?
Would Johannes believe the weight of that darkness?
“Carlos Roulette was Edward’s favorite childhood sport,” Johannes said, voice iron‑cold. “You never cared for such games—until tonight. The conclusion is obvious.”
Truth glimmered between us like a naked blade. And I knew, irrevocably, I would never share it. Edward’s warning pressed upon me with the gravity of a collapsing star.
Johannes Schulz—the born apex predator—could never grasp my fear.
I steadied my grip, steel in silk. “It’s a battle I must fight alone,” I whispered. “I saw no need to burden you.”
“A battle? What can you do?”
His doubt cut deep.
I met his gaze. “Anything.”
For there was one feat only I could perform—perfectly.
I spun the chamber, senses sharpened to knifepoint. The faint drag of the live round kissed my fingertip.
Click—I arrested the cylinder.
“Remember this,” I said.
Before Johannes could react, I pressed the muzzle to my temple and pulled the trigger.
The hammer snapped on an empty chamber.
Johannes’ eyes flared iceberg‑blue as he tore the gun from my hand.
“Edith!”
His fingers shook; so did mine, though I wore the mask of resolve.
“I learn quickly,” I said, voice calm as winter moonlight. “Thanks to you, I’m unscathed—again.”
He stared, breathing ragged. Around us, the booth master cursed, dismissing the crowd; bystanders drifted away like leaves on a dying wind.
I held Johannes’ gaze—blue depths thrashing, lost.
“Can you fathom my terror now?” I asked.
He inhaled—a sound like breaking. “They say I act on impulse… but so do you.”
“We’re shards from different mirrors,” I began, yet words failed as he seized me in a trembling embrace. His shoulders quaked; damp warmth spread where his face met my neck.
“Johannes… are you—?”
“I’m not crying,” he protested, voice quivering like a bow‑string.
I rested my hands on his broad back, soothing. Only when his breaths slowed did he release me.
From the edge of the emptied square, a solitary figure advanced—neither hurried nor sluggish. A lean man in a weather‑beaten fedora, beard framing a sharp jaw.
Déjà vu prickled my skin. He halted before us, lifted his brim—and our eyes locked.
My heart stuttered.
In a voice as familiar as my own heartbeat, he spoke:
“Care for a wager, my lady?”
