Read Chapter 28: The Interrogation

The corridor stank of powder smoke and horse sweat, but Harrow barely noticed. He was staring through the open door of Wellington's command post at the sight before him: Major Auguste Whitworth, his twin's uniform torn at the shoulder, held fast between two red-coated grenadiers.

Not ten minutes into this loop. Harrow hadn't even reached the farmhouse yet. He'd ridden hard from the morning mist, ready to burst in with his accusations, to shout the name until someone listened—and instead he'd found the man already in irons.

"Captain Harrow." Wellington's voice cut through the murmur of aides. The Duke stood at a field table littered with dispatches, his thin lips pressed into a line. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"Your Grace." Harrow stepped inside, his boots loud on the plank floor. "May I ask—"

"Curious business." Wellington gestured at the prisoner. "Major Whitworth here was found in the act of burning correspondence from the French lines. My own quartermaster caught him red-handed." A pause. "You knew something of this?"

Harrow's throat worked. On every previous loop, he'd arrived with evidence and been dismissed. Now the world had moved without him. History was changing.

"I knew he was false," Harrow managed. "For different reasons."

Auguste laughed—a sharp, derisive sound that drew every eye in the room. Even in chains, even with his collar torn and a bruise flowering along his jaw, he looked triumphant. "There he is. The little historian who walks through yesterday like a ghost. Still trying to pin his tale to the board?"

Wellington's brow furrowed. "You know this man, Major?"

"For what he is, yes." Auguste's eyes found Harrow's, and they gleamed with something close to affection. "We've met. Many times. He's never once managed to finish the story."

Harrow took a step forward. "Your Grace, I request leave to interrogate this prisoner. Alone."

Wellington studied him for a long moment. Outside, artillery rumbled in the distance—the opening movements of the battle that would decide the continent. The Duke had perhaps an hour before he'd mount and ride to his fate at the ridge. His time was worth more than gold.

Yet something in Harrow's face must have moved him.

"Ten minutes," Wellington said. "The men outside will hold the door. If I hear shot, I'll have you both hanged."

The guards shoved Auguste into a chair and withdrew. The heavy door swung shut with a thud that seemed to seal them in amber.

Harrow stood across the table from the murderer. He could feel the weight of every failed loop pressing on his shoulders—the shell bursts, the powder burns, the cold mud of a dozen deaths.

"You're enjoying this," Harrow said.

"Immensely." Auguste shifted, chains rattling. "Do you know how long I've waited to see that look on your face? The great Captain Harrow, who knows every hour of this cursed day, arriving late to his own performance."

"You killed DuPont."

"I did." No hesitation. No denial. Auguste leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "And I'd do it again. Do you know what he was planning, your precious French colonel? He'd found a way into Napoleon's ear. The Emperor was wavering—the night before, he'd spoken of ghosts and premonitions. DuPont was going to tell him not to attack."

Harrow's blood chilled. "He was going to advise retreat."

"Withdrawal. Delay. Anything to avoid the field." Auguste's chains clinked as he spread his hands. "You know what that means, don't you, historian? If Napoleon doesn't attack today, the coalition must pursue. The timing breaks. The Prussians arrive late or not at all. The battle of Waterloo becomes a skirmish, a rumor, a thing that never happened."

"And France is saved."

"France is *victorious*." Auguste's eyes blazed. "My brother died because that Corsican tyrant couldn't bear to lose a single squabble on the Peninsula. He was executed for letters he never wrote—forged by French agents to discredit a man who'd refused to turn his coat. Edmond died in disgrace." A bitter smile twisted his lips. "I swore I'd see the man who ordered it destroyed."

Harrow shook his head slowly. "You killed a peacemaker to start a war."

"To secure France's destiny!" Auguste slammed a fist on the table—the chains barely muffled the sound. "If Waterloo never happens, if Napoleon is allowed to sue for terms and rebuild, then history would drift. Who knows which tyrant might rise, which empire might fall? No." He settled back, calm descending over his features. "The battle must happen. Napoleon must lose. It is the only fixed point in a turning world. And DuPont would have unmade it."

Harrow felt the world tilt beneath him. He'd spent so many loops assuming the murder was an aberration—a wound in time that needed healing. But Auguste spoke as though he'd stitched the timeline shut.

"You know about the loop," Harrow said slowly. "You know we reset."

"I know you've died a dozen times chasing answers." Auguste smiled. "I've watched you from the staff gallery, running across the fields like a man possessed. You think yourself unique, Captain. You think this burden is yours alone." He leaned forward. "What if I told you that you're not the first to walk this road? That others have tried to break the cycle before you? And each one failed—because they set out to stop a crime instead of understanding one."

Harrow's hands found the edge of the table. "Understanding what?"

"The pattern." Auguste's voice dropped to a whisper. "Why do you think you wake at dawn at Waterloo, of all days? Why here, of all battles? Because something in this moment is *unbalanced*. The murder is a symptom, Captain. A stone dropped in a pond. You're trying to fish it out, but the ripples—" He gestured vaguely. "The ripples are the point."

Harrow's teeth ground together. "You're speaking in riddles."

"I'm speaking in truth. The one thing you've never stopped to ask." Auguste's face went slack, and something strange passed over it—almost pity. "You want to end the loop, yes? Stop the killing, save the peacemaker, present your evidence to Wellington and ride off into the sunset of history?" He laughed, soft and sad. "You'll reset a hundred more times before you learn. The loop will only break when you understand what you truly need to change."

Harrow opened his mouth to respond, but Auguste moved first—a convulsive jerk, his jaw clamping shut. His eyes went wide, whites showing. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his lips.

"Auguste—"

But it was too late. The twin's body seized, then slumped sideways in the chair, chains clattering against the wood. A faint scent rose from his mouth—bitter almonds.

Cyanide. A capsule hidden in a tooth.

Harrow stood frozen as the door burst open behind him. Wellington's voice, sharp. The guards shouting. But all Harrow could hear was the echo of Auguste's final words.

*The loop will reset when you understand what you really need to change.*

He looked down at the dead man's face—twin features slack in death, brother to the man whose name he'd worn. And for the first time in a hundred loops, Harrow wondered if he'd been hunting the wrong quarry entirely.

Outside, the first cannon of the day roared over Mont-Saint-Jean.