Chapter 512: The Afternoon Takes a Turn

The private washroom suite at the end of the balcony corridor was quiet. A heavy marble basin sat near the entrance, accompanied by a pitcher of fresh water and a stack of folded linen towels. Beyond the outer vanity nook lay three secluded wooden stalls, each equipped with carved oak commode seats and brass latches.

Derrick immediately walked over to the middle stall, pushing the door open with a faint creak. "Ah, thank goodness this place is empty," he sighed, unbuckling his outer coat belt. "I hate waiting in those long lines on the main floor."

"Go ahead," Cherion said, stepping over to the marble washbasin to pour a bit of water over his hands. "Take your time."

Reiner stood near the heavy entrance door, his hands resting naturally in front of his belt while his eyes swept the quiet room. "How did you find the play, Lord Cherion?" he asked, keeping his voice low so as not to carry into the stalls.

"It was alright," Cherion replied, rubbing his wet hands together before grabbing a fresh linen towel from the shelf. "A bit dramatic toward the end, but Derrick seemed to love it. What about you, Reiner? Did you enjoy it?"

Reiner smiled softly, leaning his back lightly against the paneled wall. "Actually, I did, my Lord. It’s rare to see a performance where everything doesn’t devolve into utter misery. Usually, the plays in the capital end with everyone poisoned or dead in a ditch. A happy ending, or at least a reasonable one, is a nice change of pace once in a while. Most of the plays I watched growing up either ended in tragedy or were so confusing you needed a scholar to explain the plot."

Cherion chuckled, setting the damp towel back on the marble tray. "I hear you. Nothing ruins a good afternoon like two hours of confusing philosophy." He turned toward the first stall. "I’ll be right out, Reiner."

"Of course, my Lord. I’ll be right here," Reiner said.

Cherion stepped into the stall, sliding the brass latch into place with a small metallic click. Inside, the quiet was almost total, save for the faint, muffled hum of the theater audience far down the hallway.

For a few moments, everything was completely mundane. Cherion handled his business, adjusting his trousers and buttoning his coat back up.

Then, just as he reached for the latch to unbolting the stall door, he froze.

A soft, strange sound echoed from the outer vanity area. It wasn’t a footsteps, nor was it the creak of the main entrance door. It was a faint, muffled thud, like a heavy sack of flour dropping onto a thick wool rug, followed immediately by a soft, sharp gasp that was cut off almost as soon as it started.

Cherion paused, his fingers lingering on the cold brass lock.

"Reiner?" Cherion called out. "Derrick? Is everything alright out there?"

Silence.

Not a single reply came back.

"Derrick?" Cherion called again, his eyebrows pulling together as a cold instinct flared in his chest. "Reiner?"

Still, total silence.

Cherion’s pulse quickened slightly. He didn’t rush, nor did he panic. He carefully undid the latch, pushing the stall door open slowly until it rested against the wooden frame. He peeked out into the main vanity area, expecting to see Reiner standing near the washbasin or Derrick washing his hands.

The room was completely empty.

"Did they go back out to the hallway without me?" Cherion murmured under his breath, stepping fully out of his stall.

It made no sense. Reiner would never leave his side without a word, especially in a public venue, and Derrick wouldn’t just vanish into the corridor without saying something first.

Cherion turned toward the middle stall, the one Derrick had stepped into just minutes earlier. The door was slightly ajar, swinging open by a mere inch or two.

Cherion took two slow, cautious steps forward, reaching out with his right hand to gently push the wooden door all the way open. "Derrick...?"

The moment the door swung open, Cherion’s breath caught in his throat.

Derrick was slumped awkwardly against the side paneling of the stall, his head tilted back at an unnatural angle against the dark wood, his arms dangling limply at his sides. His eyes were closed, his chest barely rising and falling in a deep, unnatural sleep.

"Derrick!" Cherion gasped under his breath, dropping to one knee beside his friend. He reached out, grabbing Derrick’s shoulders and shaking him firmly. "Derrick, wake up! Hey! Can you hear me?"

Derrick didn’t flinch. His head merely rolled slightly to the side, his body remaining completely limp.

Panicked, Cherion pulled back and turned around instantly, rushing toward the corner near the main entrance where Reiner had been standing guard.

There, tucked into the narrow shadow between the heavy velvet curtain and the wall paneling, lay Reiner. He was slumped sideways on the cold stone floor, his sword still sheathed at his hip, his face pale and entirely unmoving.

"Reiner!" Cherion stumbled over, kneeling down beside his chief attendant. He raised his hand, lightly slapping Reiner’s cheek once, twice, three times. "Reiner! Come on, open your eyes! Reiner!"

No response. Reiner’s pulse was steady, but no matter how hard Cherion shook him, his attendant remained utterly unconscious, trapped in an instant, drug-induced stupor.

Knockout powder? Incense? Cherion thought frantically, his mind racing through possibilities. He hadn’t smelled anything unusual when he stepped out of his stall, nor had he felt any sudden dizziness himself. Whoever had done this had struck with terrifying precision, targeting Derrick and Reiner before either of them could even shout for help.

Cherion’s hand instinctively drifted toward his chest, his palm glowing with a faint, warm aura as he prepared to channel his innate healing power to flush whatever toxin was in Reiner’s bloodstream.

Hold on, Cherion thought, his hand going still.

He didn’t activate the magic. Instead, he slowly froze in place, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

Cherion didn’t hear a single footstep, but he knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that he was no longer alone in the room.

Someone was standing right behind him.

Cherion slowly lowered his hand, withdrawing his magic, and stood up from the floor. He took a deep, steady breath to compose his face, forcing his expression into a sharp calm before he slowly turned around.

Standing near the closed entrance door, blocking the only exit out of the washroom, was a tall figure wrapped in a long, dark traveling cloak. The hood was pulled low over his face, concealing most of his features in shadow. Cherion could barely make out anything beyond the vague outline of his nose and chin. But Cherion could clearly see a pair of cold, piercing eyes tracking his every move from beneath the dark fabric.

It was the same figure who had watched him from the alleyway near the restaurant.

The cloaked man didn’t draw a weapon. He simply stood there, his arms folded loosely inside his heavy sleeves, his posture relaxed and entirely confident.

A low, raspy voice leaked out from under the hood, carrying a quiet, mocking warmth that sent an icy chill straight through Cherion’s chest.

"We meet again, Cherion."