CHAPTER 16: FIVE MINUTES

The room was plain, one of the smaller study chambers the academy built to remind nobles that stone walls and silence don’t care about their bloodlines. A single desk, two chairs, a narrow window that let in gray light. The dust on the sill was neat, as if even dust had learned not to misbehave where Ariadne spent her hours.

She stepped inside without hesitation, her sworn taking position outside the door. When it shut, the sound seemed louder than it should have been. Five minutes had begun.

She stood, arms crossed, back straight, every line of her posture saying I do not owe you patience.

I stayed by the desk for a beat, then pulled one chair out and gestured to it. "Please."

She didn’t move. "Say what you mean, Armand. Wasting time was always your hobby."

Her voice was flat, but the edge in it had practice behind it. She’d said my name a thousand times before, but now it carried weight, like she was pressing me down with it.

I sat. Not a power move, not a plea—just the opposite of what she expected. "I came to say sorry."

Her eyebrows rose, only slightly. "Sorry," she repeated, as if the word were foreign. "Do you think it’s a coin you can hand over after years of debts?"

"No," I said. "It’s not payment. It’s just the truth. I was cruel. To you most of all."

Her mouth tightened. For a moment, silence reigned—heavy silence, the kind that wanted to sit forever. She didn’t sit.

"Cruel?" she asked finally. "That’s the word you use for humiliating your own twin in front of every hall we ever walked through? Cruel, when you called me lesser, when you mocked me for caring about the family’s reputation while you dragged it through the dirt?"

Her words hit like clean strikes. The memories they summoned weren’t mine, not really—but they lived in this body, echoes of old choices. They landed anyway.

I folded my hands on the desk, letting her speak.

She shook her head, braid swaying. "You think one word fixes years of being treated like your shadow. No apology makes me forget how often you laughed when others used my name as a punchline."

’I didn’t do those things,’ I told myself. ’But they’re mine to answer for anyway.’

Out loud, I said, "I don’t ask you to forget. Or to forgive. I only want you to know I see it now. I was blind before. Blind and proud."

Her eyes narrowed. "And suddenly your sight has returned?"

"Yes."

"From what?"

I let out a slow breath. I couldn’t tell her from death, from waking up in your brother’s skin with his sins tied to me like chains. She wouldn’t believe it, and it wouldn’t matter.

"From nearly not coming back," I said instead. "The dungeon showed me something. That living for pride leaves you dead and empty. That’s not who I want to be anymore."

She stared at me for a long beat, searching for cracks. "You say it like you believe it."

"I do."

Her arms stayed folded, but her weight shifted, the smallest tilt in her posture. A soft crack in the wall, not enough to step through yet.

"You want me to believe you’ve changed," she said.

"I want to prove it," I corrected. "Not with words. With what I do. For the family. For you."

That word—for you—hung between us like a bridge she didn’t trust enough to cross.

She looked away, toward the window where gray light spilled in. Her profile was sharp, her jaw tight. She was silent long enough that I almost spoke again, but I forced myself to wait. Soldiers learn that silence wins more ground than shouting ever will.

Finally, she said, "You can’t undo the years you wasted. You can’t undo the shame. But if you mean this... then show me. Don’t stand in my way. Don’t disgrace me again."

I nodded. "I will show you. Not to clear my name, but to live like someone worth carrying the name."

That drew her eyes back to mine. For the first time, something in them softened—not trust, not even hope, but the recognition that at least I knew what I’d broken.

She exhaled, long and sharp, like a soldier lowering a sword after a drill. Then she sat opposite me. The scrape of the chair legs on the floor sounded like a small victory.

"Five minutes," she said. "You have four left."

A wry smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. "Then let me use them well."

Her eyes flickered again—just once, and gone.

I leaned forward slightly. "I’ll train harder than before. I’ll control myself. I’ll be stronger—not just in fights, but in keeping my word. You’ll see it. And when you do... maybe one day, you’ll stand with me, not against me."

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was uncertain, suspended, like the room itself was waiting.

She stood again, chair sliding back neat as her braid. "We’ll see," she said. Her tone was cold still, but it didn’t bite as hard.

At the door, she paused. "Do not expect kindness just because you spoke today. Earn it."

"I will," I said.

She left without looking back. The door shut, and the silence that returned felt different. Not empty. Not condemning. Waiting.

I sat there a long time, hands still folded.

’This won’t be quick,’ I thought. ’But step by step... maybe I can rebuild what he broke.’

The Compass coughed lightly in my head. "Progress: not stabbed. Mood: cautiously improved. Goal: sustain."

I almost laughed. Almost.

Then I thought of the second goal I’d set for myself. Strength. Ariadne’s respect was one pillar, but strength was the other. Without it, all the words in the world would mean nothing.

’Both,’ I promised myself. ’Redemption and strength. I’ll have them both.’

The gray light slid across the desk. Outside, the academy kept moving, the world refusing to wait for me.

I stood, adjusted the sabre at my hip, and stepped out of the room, five minutes heavier and a little more certain.