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## **Chapter 11: The Apothecary's Secret**
The old apothecary on Rue Margrave had been shuttered for five years—its windows clouded with dust, its door chained more for appearance than security. Few remembered the woman who once brewed remedies there, and fewer still remembered the man who had died on the threshold, clutching a glass vial of poison in his palm.
Which made it the perfect place for a midnight rendezvous.
Adrien Valcorne arrived just before the hour struck. No guards. No fanfare. Only a bottle of wine cradled beneath one arm and a hand on the hilt of his blade. He paused, then knocked once.
Twice.
A pause.
Then three times.
The door opened without sound.
Seraphina de Alvere stood in the gloom beyond, candlelight catching in her eyes like twin embers. She wore no jewels, no corset—only a dark velvet cloak and a simple silver pin shaped like a lily torn in half.
"You're late," she said.
Adrien arched a brow. "I'm five minutes early."
"Exactly. Which means you're late to *my* standards."
He stepped inside without being asked. "Still fond of games, I see."
She closed the door behind him. "You'll find that truth and theater are married in this kingdom. I'm just the wedding planner."
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The room was a skeleton of its former self—shelves thick with cobwebs, dried herbs curling into brittle fists, mortar bowls cracked with age. But a single table had been cleared in the center, and on it rested a stack of documents, bound loosely with red string.
Adrien uncorked the wine and poured two glasses without asking. "So. What is this?"
"A reckoning," Seraphina said, handing him a letter. "This was taken from the archives of the Temple of the Dawn Saint. An orphanage ledger from five years ago."
Adrien skimmed it, brow furrowing. "Numbers don't add up."
"Because the children don't add up," she said softly. "Two hundred orphans recorded as received. Only one hundred and twenty accounted for in follow-up visits."
Adrien looked up sharply. "Are you saying—"
"I'm saying the Saint's 'charity' may have funded more than choirs and bread loaves. I'm saying she's laundering both money and bodies."
Silence pressed between them like a held breath.
"And I suppose," Adrien said carefully, "you're bringing this to me because…?"
"Because you still believe in *something*," she said. "Not gods. Not kings. But justice."
He stared at her. "Do you?"
Her smile was sad. Honest, for once. "No. I believe in the last breath before the blade falls. I believe in knowing who sharpened it."
Adrien drained his glass. "Then what do you want, Seraphina?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Help me rewrite the ending."
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### Elsewhere: In the Cloister of Shadows
Saint Serene stood before a polished mirror. Not to admire herself—but to speak to the thing that lived *through* the mirror.
A shimmering distortion rippled across the glass.
"She is starting to dig," Serene said calmly. "She found the first ledger."
A voice answered—a chorus of whispers, as though spoken by many throats.
> "Let her dig. The deeper she goes, the closer she comes to our truth."
"She will not survive it."
> "No. But she will be useful."
The Saint smiled.
Then struck the mirror with a candleholder.
It cracked—not broken, but *veined*, like a spiderweb made of lies.
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### Back in the Apothecary
Adrien stood, his hand resting on the table.
"I'll help," he said at last. "But I want the truth. All of it. Why you're really fighting this. Why now."
Seraphina hesitated.
Then reached into her satchel and pulled out a black-bound book. She placed it on the table.
He recognized the crest.
And the title.
**"Chronicles of the Kingdom's Fall: The Year of the Crimson Lily."**
She met his eyes.
"I've read the last chapter," she whispered. "And I die in it."
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**End of Chapter 11**