Chapter Text
Cale Henituse had never once in his life thought I want to be part of a diplomatic envoy.
And yet here he was, seated in a royal carriage with gold trim and obnoxious embroidery, being dragged to another empire’s palace because Alberu had smiled too widely while saying, “if you don’t, ill make you Prime Minister.”
So, of course, Cale came. Anything but that horrid sentence.
Now, with his forehead pressed lightly against the cool glass of the window, he sighed for what felt like the fifth time since they'd teleported over the imperial borders.
Choi Han, seated opposite, looked slightly concerned. “Are you feeling unwell, Cale-nim?”
“No,” Cale muttered. “Just regretting every decision that led to this exact moment.”
A soft snoring came from the pile of cloaks beside him. Raon, tail flopped over Cale’s leg, was curled up into himself and drooling lightly on a silk pillow with the Imperial Seal stitched onto it. Hong and On were somewhere in the other carriage with Eruhaben, and likely enjoying themselves far more.
“Don’t frown so much,” came Alberu’s smooth, perfectly-polished voice from the seat next to Choi Han. “You’ll ruin your image before we even arrive.”
Cale cracked one eye open to glare. “My image is retired man who wants to go home.”
“Unconvincing,” Alberu said brightly, “considering your diplomatic reputation has grown to the point where even this empire is rolling out the castle suites for us.”
“Suites can’t be eaten.”
“You have no taste.”
“I have stress ulcers.”
Alberu quirks a brow, knowing full well that Cale did NOT just say that out loud, as the resident #1 cause of stress for Alberu.
Choi Han politely did not smile. The horse hooves clacked steadily on the stone road, and soon the Imperial Palace crested into view — white and gold, sprawling like a sunburst. There were guards at the gates in black and crimson armor, and waiting just beyond them stood a man in sleek ceremonial robes, crown tucked into a circlet of braided gold, with golden-red eyes like fire trapped in ice.
Cale recognized him instantly.
Crown Prince Callisto of the Ahn Empire.
Rumors were plenty. Most described him as strategic, ruthless, bloodthirsty, a man who’d once executed a general for suggesting surrender. Others claimed he’d personally ended a rebellion with a blade still slick with the rebel leader’s blood.
The prince bowed slightly as they exited the carriage, expression carefully neutral. “Welcome to the Ahn Empire. I am Crown Prince Callisto. You honor us with your presence.”
‘I guess even mad dogs have to heel when unnecessary war could be threatened.’
Cale stepped out last, having first tugged Raon awake and made sure he went invisible.
Cale stood beside Alberu and bowed just enough to be polite. Alberu dealt with the talking. “We’re grateful for your invitation, Your Highness.”
Callisto’s gaze lingered —like a predator. Then his eyes flicked to Cale and froze.
Just for a moment.
Cale noticed. Of course he did. So did Choi Han.
The moment passed, the prince’s expression smoothing into perfect diplomacy again. He gave the rest of the formal greeting, promising accommodations, a welcome feast, and the Emperor’s best regards.
They followed him into the receiving hall — white stone, towering arches, soldiers at every post — and were shown into the quieter vestibule just before the suites.
It was there, as the courtiers departed and things settled into relative quiet, that Callisto spoke again.
“Commander Henituse,” he said lightly, “if I may ask a… personal question.”
Cale tilted his head. “That depends.”
Callisto’s lips curved faintly. “Do you happen to have a sister?”
There was a beat.
Cale responded smoothly, “yes, I have a younger sister back home.”
“No, apologies, I meant one perhaps around your age?”
Alberu turned toward Cale, expression faintly curious.
Cale’s face was as flat as ever, though the ghost of a frown was present. “My mother died when I was a child,” Cale said flatly. “And she had no other children.”
Silence.
Callisto met his gaze — the sort of measuring look Cale knew far too well. And then, just as quickly, the prince gave a smooth nod, as if it had only been idle curiosity.
“My apologies,” Callisto said calmly. “You reminded me of someone. I meant no offense.”
Alberu stepped in with a practiced diplomatic smile. “Of course. I’m sure many travelers have resemblances. I was once mistaken for a baron’s cousin at a summit in Breck.”
Callisto chuckled softly at that, then offered a final word. “Please, think nothing of it. You’re all most welcome in the Empire, and I do hope your stay is comfortable.”
He excused himself soon after, leaving the hall with the same quiet grace he’d entered with.
—
Once he was gone, Cale turned to Alberu.
“Did that seem normal to you?”
Alberu hummed. “Depends. You don’t think you have a long-lost sibling, do you?”
“I’d know.” Cale’s eyebrows furrow in the tiniest micro movement that Ohn might not have been able to catch.
“Would you?” Alberu looked too amused. “Your family does have a history of omitting important things.”
Cale scowled. “Every family does.”
Choi Han, ever helpful, added, “Maybe there’s someone in this Empire who looks like you.”
“God forbid,” Cale muttered.
Raon buzzed beside him. “Human! Maybe someone tried to clone you!”
Cale rubbed his temple.
All he wanted was a week in his life where no mysteries fell into his lap. He’d even packed light.
But now, apparently, someone in this country looked like him — enough for a war-hardened crown prince to pause mid-formality and ask if they were blood.
Fantastic.
Just once, Cale thought bitterly as he was shown to his lavish guest room with silk sheets and a fireplace he’d never use, just once, he wanted to be the forgettable one in the background.
But fate, apparently, was in a particularly cruel mood.
—
Dinner with the Eckhart family was an exercise in etiquette and silence.
Penelope sat quietly, posture perfect, surrounded by her adoptive father and brothers at the long, gleaming table. The chandeliers flickered above them, casting halos over untouched dishes. No one ever came here to enjoy the food. Conversation was rare and, when it came, deliberate.
Which is why the Duke’s voice cut so sharply through the stillness.
“We’ll be attending the imperial ball in a week and a half,” Duke Eckhart said, eyes fixed on his wine glass. “All of us. As a family.”
Reynold stiffened subtly beside her. Derrick paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.
“A diplomatic envoy is arriving,” the Duke continued. “The ball will be hosted by the Crown to honor them. Naturally, we will be expected to attend in full force.”
“A Roan Kingdom envoy, certainly?” Derrick asked, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin.
The Duke nodded. “Yes. Their Crown Prince will be leading it. He arrives with a small retinue of nobles and knights—decorated war heroes it seems.”
Penelope’s fingers went numb around her fork.
Reynold scoffed. “There’s no way they won that war already.”
“They have.” The Duke replied mildly. “From what I understand, most of it is attributed to the eldest son of their new Duke.”
“Cale Henituse, right?” Reynold adds.
Derrick nods seriously. “If he ended that war in only two years, he must have a genius mind for battle.”
“Which is exactly why you’ll both be on your best behavior,” the Duke said, voice cool. “The Empire cannot afford insult. Nor can we.”
Penelope didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. They all knew that the jab was directed at her.
And yet her mind was a screaming thunderclap of realization.
Red hair.
Commander.
Roan Kingdom.
Ball.
One week.
Her stomach twisted.
She waited two more minutes. Ate a bite of chilled meat she didn’t taste. Kept her expression blank even as her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird behind her ribs. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and practiced.
“I’m not feeling well. May I be excused?”
The Duke gave a nod without looking at her. That was all she needed.
—
The moment her bedroom door closed behind her, Penelope collapsed against it, hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the noise that nearly tore out of her throat.
“Shit. Shit.” She hissed.
She staggered to her desk. Yanked open drawers. Tore open her wardrobe. Scattered notebooks and loose paper across the floor.
“I forgot—how did I forget this one—?!”
She’d known this world. Known its traps and flags and plotlines and hidden endings. She’d mapped them, written them, lived them. Even in her worst moments here, she'd held on to that knowledge as her one protection.
But this one… this one she’d let slip.
She stared at the window in front of her face.
[Route:“A Crown Stained Crimson”
A diplomatic envoy arrives from a foreign kingdom.
You are invited to the Imperial Ball.
One guest is not who they seem.
Objective:Stop a War
Prevent the diplomatic envoy from being blamed for the assassination attempt.
Uncover the true culprit.
Survive the night.
Penalty:
Death
Rewards:
Access Hidden Content]
She remembered now.
A random event. Triggered only if the Empire’s favorability was above a certain threshold and Roan's was neutral or higher. A scene where the ball was interrupted — a detonation, a scream, someone framed — and the only thing the player could do was act fast.
Or die.
Her hands trembled. Her breath stuttered. A cold, sick feeling crept into her stomach like ink bleeding through paper.
She hadn’t heard the name in years. Not since that single cursed playthrough — the one with the branching diplomacy route she’d chosen out of boredom. The one that ended in blood and smoke and a split-second choice that determined whether she died in an execution or barely scraped by.
“Oh gods—” she pressed both palms against her temples, trying to force her breath to steady. “That’s why I didn’t recognize it… It was buried behind Callisto’s route. I only got it once.”
The man who was blamed for the attack—who wasn’t the culprit, but him being accused got Penelope executed for treason.
She hadn’t even been able to click on him. No portrait. No name. Just “Crimson Commander.” She’d been imprisoned. Alone. Executed in a dark room. That was one of the game’s hardest to escape instant death ends.
But she’d forgotten.
She’d let it slip away, convinced the event would never trigger because the Roan Kingdom was background noise in most routes. They were never supposed to be relevant. In most routes, they were still stuck fighting their war!
“Why the hell are they here now?” she hissed, pacing in her room like an animal in a trap. “Why is that flag here now?! I haven’t even—!”
Cale Henituse.
She whispered his name like a curse, heart slamming against her ribs.
She closed her eyes. Saw the blood. Callisto injured. Her own head separated from her shoulders, a game over screen she hadn’t taken seriously at the time.
She collapsed into her desk chair and pulled her knees to her chest.
If she did nothing, everything would spiral. War would be waged. She could die.
Penelope buried her face in her arms. Her breathing shook. The paper scattered around her seemed to mock her, all her contingency plans too shallow, too vague.
“Think. Think. What was the trigger?
What started it?”
She remembered someone pointing at the commander.
“He looks like her.”
“He has to be her kin.”
“They both need to pay!”
Her face.
Penelope was the one waving her own death flag.
Her breath caught in her throat.
If someone said she looked like him—if Cale Henituse was linked to her in front of the wrong person—then the knife would fall.
And she had less than two weeks to change the ending.