Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Duet of Swords and Secrets- By John Carver

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.” — Lamentations 3:22-23

This was Contra Malum’s favourite passage. He would murmur it daily, each word emphasized by grunts and battered breaths as he laboured among the endless rows of sun-soaked vines. His calloused hands, stained in deep magentas, seemed baptized in the crushed cries of the vineyard’s bounty—each grape weeping as it was pulled from the branch. And always, as he worked, he felt it: a gaze, ancient and weighty, searing into the crown of his head. It burned hotter than the marigold sun above, and when he looked up at last, he found its source.

Standing at the edge of the vineyard, radiant against the green-gold hills, was Curat Sum—his wife, his anchor, once his commanding officer during the war, now the queen of his quiet world. At her side, their sons: Malus Sum and Malum Caedo, cradled in a polished platinum pram like divine offerings. The sight of them carved joy into his chest, washing away fatigue like spring rain. He ran, abandoning work and worry, and wrapped Curat in his arms, lifting her with effortless strength. They twirled, laughing—a brief reunion of souls that had known too many partings.

Contra’s head fell against her chest, her hands threading into his sweat-matted hair, and she pressed a single, lingering kiss to his brow. The world blurred, only the closeness mattered. A soft clink at his heel—he had bumped the pram’s handle mid-spin. As the couple pulled apart, Contra turned, heart pounding, to look upon his sons for the first time.

In the kingdom of Ganymede, it was tradition for expecting mothers to retreat to The Peak—a sacred mountain where, long ago, a priest's prayers for his dying daughter were answered with a miracle. Ever since, the mountain was seen as a cradle for the chosen. Curat had lived there alone through her entire pregnancy, enduring isolation for the promise of a divine gift.

Contra lifted the pram’s silk shade and found himself staring into mirrored reflections. Two identical boys. Neither cried. They merely watched him—curious, ancient in their stillness. But then he saw it: the eyes. Malus had one pale blue and one green, while Malum’s gaze held a uniform, brilliant emerald.

“Malus was blessed, Contra!” Curat whispered, her voice reverent as she pressed close to him. “Do you see? God has marked him.”

Contra said nothing. He gently lifted Malum into his arms and kissed the boy’s soft forehead. “We already have two blessings, my love,” he said, voice hoarse with emotion. “And I will make it my life’s purpose that our sons grow up knowing they are each the most special thing in this world to us.”

And so he did.

Years passed. The family, dubbed the Emerald Merchants for their legendary green eyes, became the backbone of the empire’s northern region. From wine and textiles to rare medicines and weapon oil, their name was carved into the very soil of Ganymede. The twins grew in a house of plenty, every birthday a festival, every argument resolved with fierce affection. Malum, bookish and precise, often resented the physical work expected of him. Malus, ever the mischief-maker, teased him constantly about Natasha, the neighbour girl who trained with them every morning. She was named after the 'Nation’s Bloom' the very flower the Emperor Dessel Ordo claimed granted him visions of the future. That same flower now adorned the empire’s crimson banner.

But peace was never eternal in Ganymede. The Emerald family's influence often eclipsed the local lord, a woman more figurehead than authority. Tensions flared in courtrooms and at ballroom banquets alike. And then, on the twins’ eleventh birthday, words gave way to swords. Blood was spilled in their own vineyards. The 'Oakvale Massacre', as it came to be known, marked the end of innocence.

Malus saw it all.

It was the day before the twins’ eighteenth birthday. A thick blanket of golden morning light spilled into the east-facing windows of the estate’s northern wing, casting long shadows across the walls lined with family portraits and scroll racks. In a study dominated by the scent of ink and sweet wine, Malum Caedo sat hunched over his intricately carved cedarwood desk. The smooth sheen of his bare chest glistened with a faint sheen of sweat as he adjusted his posture. His white robes, embroidered with threads of gold and held fast by a verdant sash, hung loose over his shoulders and pooled around the arms of his high-backed chair.

Stacks of parchment lined the desk—most marked with notes and half-finished calculations. As he reached for another scroll, Malum’s hair—silken and dark as cured bark—slipped over his shoulder. With a sigh, he twisted it into a topknot, the practiced motion elegant and precise. His fingers, ink-stained and jewel-adorned, moved gracefully as he dipped a golden nib into a glass inkwell shaped like a serpent. His emerald eyes scanned the expense report—but this was no mundane audit.

This was a rewriting of history.

Another lavish feast. Another night of dancers twirling in candlelight. Another crowd of flatterers whose names he never remembered. He signed off on costs without flinching, but his mind lingered, as it always did, on the absences. The two he most wanted to impress—his brother Malus and the formidable Natasha—never came. Not once. Not even for the firework displays or the aerial wine pouring. Malus always claimed fatigue or early training. Natasha simply never replied.

Malum stood, his soft robes shifting like clouds around him. His body was not weak—he’d trained, once—but he was far more scholar than soldier now. He walked to the tall, arched window carved from imported glass. The vineyards below, rows upon rows of violet and emerald, stretched toward the forest. He rubbed his jaw, where soft fat had begun to press beneath his angular cheekbones, and sighed.

A knock broke the quiet.

"Master Malum? May I come in?" a voice called, muffled through the heavy oak door.

"Of course, Hilde," he replied smoothly, not turning away from the view.

The door creaked open and Hilde stepped inside. She was young, with a heart-shaped face framed by chestnut curls tied back in a modest ribbon. Her maid’s uniform, though clean, bore the wrinkles of haste. In her gloved hands she held a silver platter, and upon it lay a scroll bound in crimson wax bearing the unmistakable Sigel of a bloomed flower—vivid and accusatory.

Malum turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "Is that—?"

Hilde nodded, her hands trembling.

"The Mad Emperor?" he said softly, his tone dropping.

Hilde’s knuckles went white on the tray. "It came by courier hawk. Landed right on the statue outside the greenhouse."

Malum approached, his steps quick and silken. He took the scroll and examined it, the seal burning red like an open wound.

"This is nothing," he lied, his voice honeyed and steady. He placed a reassuring hand on Hilde’s shoulder, his smile soft and almost paternal. "We are the Emerald Family. Requests like this are expected."

He dismissed her with kindness, pressing her arm as he guided her out of the room. The moment the door clicked shut, his knees buckled. He gripped the edge of the bed’s carved frame, breath ragged. The scroll felt heavy in his hand—ominous.

With trembling fingers, he broke the wax.

“Lord Contra Caedo, His Grace is elated to have received your letter regarding your sons and their education, but I regret to inform you that regardless of the Emerald Family's contributions to the empire's economy, your children are not exempt from mandatory service...”

The letter spiralled into hollow niceties, platitudes about duty and destiny. But Malum saw the truth. They were being conscripted. No matter their name. No matter their worth.

Fury and disbelief surged through him. He burst from the room, robes billowing like storm clouds behind him. His footsteps echoed down the marbled corridor. At his parents’ suite, he stopped, bracing himself. He smoothed his hair, adjusted his sash, rolled the scroll tight. Two sharp knocks.

A pause. Then, "Come in," Curat’s voice—calm but curious.

Inside, the room smelled of crushed sage and orange blossom. Curat, still radiant even in her dressing robe, stood brushing her silver-streaked hair. The bed was unmade. The wardrobe door, slightly ajar, moved with breath.

“Oh my sweet Malum!” she cooed, planting kisses on his cheeks.

“Mother, please. I need to see Father.”

“He’s at the stables with Malus,” she answered, smoothing her robe. She noticed the scroll. The bloom.

Her lips parted. “Oh.”

She didn’t say another word. She pinned her hair with a green comb shaped like a grapevine and strode out with purpose. The temperature in the room dropped. Her fury was colder than any blade.

Malum lingered, alone. Or nearly alone.
The wardrobe creaked again, and Malum rolled his eyes.

“Oh, for the love of—just get out here already.”

The door opened slowly, and a man—barefoot and shirtless—stepped forward into the light. He was younger than Malum by a few years, perhaps a local noble’s son or an ambitious social climber. His dark hair clung to his brow with sweat, and he kept his hands raised, as if Malum might strike him.

"Master Malum," the man said quickly, bowing his head. "I—I'm so deeply sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect—"

Malum raised a hand sharply. The boy fell silent.

Malum stepped closer, his emerald eyes scanning the man from head to toe. “What’s your name?” he asked softly.

“Caius, my lord,” the man replied.

Malum circled him like a hawk, stopping just beside him, close enough for the tension to thrum like a bowstring. “Caius,” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know what day tomorrow is?”

Caius hesitated. “The twins’—your birthday, my lord.”

“Very good,” Malum said, with a flicker of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And do you know what today is?”

Caius swallowed hard. “The day before—?”

“No,” Malum interrupted, his voice sharpening. “Today is the last day I get to pretend that the world isn’t pulling my family into its bloody teeth. Today is the last day of peace in this house. And you chose this day to warm my mother’s bed?”

Caius opened his mouth, but Malum raised a finger. “Don’t answer. There is no answer that won’t make me despise you.”

He turned his back to the trembling man and walked to the door. Just as he gripped the handle, he paused.

“If I find out you’ve said a word of this to anyone,” Malum said without looking back, “I’ll bury your family’s vineyards under stone and salt. And I’ll watch your father beg me for mercy while I drink his best vintage.”

Caius whimpered but said nothing.

Malum opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

Curat was gone.

He didn’t need to guess where she’d gone—he knew. She was on her way to find Contra. And if the letter had rattled her even half as much as it rattled him, then things were already in motion.

He picked up his pace, the stone floor cold under his feet as he followed the scent of her perfume—sage and bitter orange—and the distant echo of her heels clicking against polished marble.

The grand estate was a maze of history: arched windows, domed ceilings painted with ancient wars, and tapestries depicting the Emerald family’s ascent through trade and tragedy. Each corridor was a parade of legacy, but right now it all felt hollow.

As Malum turned a corner, he spotted her far ahead, her figure silhouetted by the sun pouring through the glass hall. Curat walked like a general again, spine straight, shoulders squared, her robe billowing behind her like a battle cloak.

“Mother,” he called out, quickening his steps.

She didn’t turn. Her pace remained constant.

“Mother, please wait!”

Finally, she paused near the marble staircase leading down to the stables. She turned, eyes sharp and unreadable.

“I know,” she said flatly. “You think you’re the only one frightened by that letter?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.” She looked him over. “You think I don’t see how scared you are, Malum? I see it in your eyes. You hide it with wit and wine, but I remember holding you when you had nightmares about wolves in the cellar. You haven’t changed as much as you think.”

Malum looked down, shame cutting through his bravado. “I thought we were safe. I thought Father had dealt with this already.”

Curat gave a bitter laugh. “So did I.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She turned away again, descending the stairs. “To remind your father that we didn’t survive the war, build this empire of vines and velvet, just to hand our sons to a madman.”

Malum hesitated, then followed.

Together, mother and son descended into the shadows—toward the stables, toward Contra, and toward a reckoning none of them were ready for.

Ganymede is the largest and most powerful kingdom on the continent—both in terms of territory and military strength. Nestled between great mountain ranges and vast plains, it boasts fertile lands, advanced infrastructure, and ancient fortresses that predate even the current dynasty. Ganymede has been involved in more wars than any other kingdom. Its history is one of constant conflict—expansion, retaliation, and dominance. While it claims to fight in defence of “Imperial Order,” many see its wars as thinly veiled conquest. The current Emperor is known for his volatile nature. Wars are often sparked by minor slights or petty disagreements, but once committed, the Imperial war machine moves with brutal efficiency. While some of Ganymede’s citizens feel pride in their dominance, others are weary. Whole generations have known only war. Veterans and orphans flood its cities, and political pressure simmers beneath the surface. The Imperial Court: Ruled by the Emperor, the court is a nest of intrigue and ruthless power games. Nobles jockey for influence, often using military accomplishments or marriages to advance their houses. The Emerald Family is among the few families who share real history with the Emperor himself, having stood with him during the decisive war against the barbarian warlord.

The stable smelled of iron and hay, sweat and sandalwood oil. Contra stood in the dim half-light, a leather bracer wrapped tight around his forearm as he adjusted the reins of a silver-maned stallion. Malus stood beside him, his shirt discarded, chest glistening with dew from the early morning labour. He held a curved brush in one hand, the other resting gently on the beast’s flank. “Are we going to pretend that letter didn’t come?” Curat’s voice rang like tempered steel, cutting through the calm. Both men turned. Contra’s gaze met hers, his expression unreadable. Malus, for once, looked small. “It came,” Contra said evenly. “And it will leave with me.”, “Don’t you dare,” Curat hissed, stepping forward. “I’ve given you everything—this family, our legacy, years of silence. But not our sons. Not to Dessel.” Malus cleared his throat, uncertain. “What letter?” Neither parent answered. Malum arrived just behind his mother, chest heaving slightly from his haste. He tossed the sealed scroll to the ground. “The Emperor has requested our service,” he said, mocking the word as though it tasted foul. “Apparently our contributions to medicine, commerce, and national prestige aren’t enough. They want us to bleed now too.” Malus said nothing. He turned back to the horse and resumed brushing. “I’ll go,” Malus said after a long moment, without looking back. “No,” Contra replied instantly, stern. “Neither of you will. I will send an emissary with gold and reason. It can still be undone.”, “No father,” Malum interjected, stepping forward. “We can’t buy our way out of this forever. If we run now, what legacy will we leave behind? That the Emerald family turned pale at the sight of war?”, Curat was livid. “And who taught you that language? That pride is worth more than peace?” “You did,” Malum replied quietly, not with defiance, but with sadness. “Every day we walked those fields, prayed at the Peak, dressed for dinners with governors and kings. You raised us to rule, not to run.” Malus finally turned, eyes sharp—one green, one pale blue. “You’re not a soldier, Malum.” “And you are?” Malum snapped back. “Just because you’ve got the eyes of a prophet?”, “I’m not,” Malus admitted, with a hint of vulnerability. “But I’d rather die a coward’s death in the name of peace than live a hero's life that turns to dust.” Contra stepped between them, his voice low and heavy with the weight of the years: “Enough. Neither of you will die. Not while I still breathe.” Behind them, the stallion whinnied as if sensing the storm to come. Contra's eyes widened and murmured "oh gods, that symbol again".

Far off in the distance, a rider approached. Cloaked in imperial red, the banner of House Ordo trailing like blood behind him

**Backstory: The First Encounter**

It was the end of a war, though no one could remember who had started it.

In the north, the borders of Ganymede had been in constant conflict with the barbaric tribes that resided in the jagged cliffs beyond the Veil Mountains. These northern tribes were relentless—wild men and women of bone and ice who worshipped the ancient gods of the earth, wielding great axes and fury that made even seasoned soldiers tremble. The empire had sent its best commanders and finest armies to hold the line, but progress had been slow. Blood was spilled in thick rivulets on the frosty earth, and the northern sun remained a sickly sliver in the sky. And then, in the midst of this chaos, came the Emperor. Dessel Ordo had not arrived with a full army, as one might expect from an emperor. No, he arrived alone—on horseback, wrapped in a cloak of fur so thick that it seemed to swallow the winter winds themselves. His armour was dark steel, chipped and scarred from years of battle; each scratch a testament to the countless wars he had fought across the realms. His helm, adorned with a simple crown, left only his piercing eyes visible, eyes that burned like twin embers in the night. It was the same eyes that had seen the destruction of entire civilizations, the same eyes that had stared into the abyss of his own soul. And yet, when they fixed upon the battlefield of Ganymede, those eyes only saw one thing: victory. His great sword, **Starbane**, hung at his side, its blade rumoured to be forged from the heart of a fallen star, capable of cutting through the very fabric of fate itself. The soldiers under his command had long spoken of his presence—how his very arrival seemed to make the earth tremble, how his voice could rally the most despondent of warriors with but a single word. But it was not just his power in battle that made him legendary. It was his unyielding resolve to endure, no matter the cost. On the battlefield of Oakvale, where the war had raged for weeks, the Emperor’s appearance marked a turning point. The barbarian warlord had gathered his fiercest warriors and charged toward the Ganymede front lines, confident in their superiority. But when the Emperor arrived—silent and still, like a shadow that had come alive—his army followed. With a single gesture, he gave the order, and the Ganymede soldiers surged forward, the earth itself seeming to shake under their boots.

The battle was fierce and brutal. Yet, the barbarian warlord—when he saw the Emperor riding toward him alone, his fur cloak billowing like a stormcloud behind him—hesitated. For a moment, time seemed to slow, and the sight of the Emperor alone on the battlefield spoke volumes to all who saw it. There was no fear in his eyes, no hesitation in his step. He was not a ruler of courts but a king of warriors, and the weight of his sword was heavier than any crown. The barbarian warlord, a giant of a man, roared in challenge, but his voice was drowned out by the overwhelming presence of the Emperor. Dessel Ordo raised his blade, a gleaming flash of starlight, and the ground seemed to quake with the weight of his wrath. With one strike, the warlord’s army faltered. The Emperor fought like a force of nature, cutting through their lines with a grace and power that was almost unnatural. And then, there was silence. When the dust settled, and the blood-soaked snow lay still, the Emperor rode forward toward the leader of the Ganymede forces—a man named Contra Caedo, a commander with dark hair and a fierce look in his emerald eyes, though still young. He had led his men through countless battles, yet this war had taken its toll. His armour was dented, his face stained with the remnants of the fight, but there was something in the way he held himself—an unbroken pride, even in the aftermath of carnage. The Emperor dismounted with fluid grace, his cloak trailing behind him like a banner. He stood tall, a commanding figure that seemed to fill the space around him. Without a word, he extended his hand toward Contra, who eyed him for a long moment. In that moment, there was a strange understanding between them. Contra had heard of Dessel Ordo—the "Mad Emperor"—the one who had survived assassination attempts, the one who was said to have conquered not only lands but the future itself. But standing before him now, there was only a man, battle-worn and resolute, who had brought an end to a long war. Contra took the Emperor’s hand, his grip firm, and they exchanged no more words. For Contra knew that a bond had been forged between them, one that would transcend mere politics or diplomacy. It was a bond born of bloodshed, of sacrifice, and of a shared understanding that only those who had seen the horrors of war could fully comprehend. It was at that moment that Curat, Contra’s wife, had stepped forward. She had been fighting beside her husband, a woman of quiet strength and fierce loyalty, her own hands stained with the blood of their enemies. She had never thought much of politics or noble bloodlines, but the Emperor’s presence was undeniable, and his piercing gaze swept over her like a storm. She, like her husband, had seen the depths of battle. But there was something in the way the Emperor held himself, in the quiet sorrow behind his eyes, that drew her attention. She approached him slowly, with a respectful bow, and Dessel Ordo—seemingly for the first time—smiled. “You’ve done well,” he said to her, his voice gruff but oddly warm. “The land of Ganymede is fortunate to have you. ”Curat met his gaze and nodded. “As are we, Your Grace. You’ve given us peace.” A single nod from the Emperor was all that was needed.

It was a fleeting moment, one that would later be remembered only in the whispers of those who had survived the war. But it was in that brief exchange that Contra and Curat’s path, intertwined with the Emperor’s, began to shift. The Empire’s influence was growing, and with it, the strings of politics and power that bound families like theirs to the whims of a ruler. They knew—like the Emperor—that survival in this world came at a price.

And as the years passed, they would discover just how high that price truly was.

4) The clearing by the waterfall was quiet, save for the distant hum of cicadas and the endless roar of water crashing into the basin below. Morning light spilled through the trees, painting the mist in hues of gold and ember. The statue stood still as ever, its cracked form cloaked in dew and shadow, bronze glinting softly beneath weather-worn stone. Its rusted weapons sat askew, like tired limbs resting after centuries of vigilance.

Malus stood with his arms crossed, sweat glistening along his brow. His sword was buried upright in the dirt beside him, unused. The rider’s arrival had unmoored something in him—a tension, a worry he couldn’t name. Beside him, Malum sat on a mossy rock, legs pulled up, a book resting half-open on his knees.

"Do you think he’s hiding something?" Malus asked, his voice low.

"Our father always hides something," Malum murmured without looking up. "That doesn’t mean it’s something dangerous."

"Doesn't mean it’s not, either."

A soft rustle in the brush caught their ears before the familiar voice called out, bright and steady. "You two look like you lost a fight to the wind."

Natasha emerged from the trees, her wool beanie tilted back on her curly hair, its rim tight over her ears. The crest on it—a coiled snake biting its own tail—caught a sunbeam and flashed silver. Her thick glasses sat perfectly against her heart-shaped face, slightly fogged from the brisk morning air.

"Didn’t know we were expecting guests," Malum said quickly, straightening up, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.

"I wasn’t expecting to be one," she replied, shouldering her training spear. “But Contra’s rider gave everyone nerves, and nerves are for shaking off.”

She stopped beside Malus, giving him a sidelong look. “You alright?”

He nodded. "I will be."

She thumped his shoulder lightly, enough to shift him. “Good. Because I didn’t hike all the way up here to find a brooding statue.”

Behind them, stone creaked. Crumbling scrapes echoed softly from the overgrown base. The statue remained still, its eyes locked on the three of them. Watching. Waiting. Unseen.

“I brought the practice gear,” Natasha added, tossing Malus a wooden blade. “Let’s see if saving my life made you soft.”

Malus caught it, then gave a rare grin. “shall we find out?”

Malum set his book aside, watching them with a tight smile. Natasha always came when things felt uncertain, as if her arrival could clear the clouds just by cutting through them. And yet, his heart stuttered whenever she looked at Malus—like he wasn’t the one who pulled her from the river. But he said nothing. Just took notes in his mind, storing them away like always.

Creaks and crumbling scrapes crawled faintly beneath the sound of the falls, unnoticed.

Malus stood shirtless, sweat shining on his skin as he adjusted his stance. Across from him, Natasha twirled her spear with a sharp whiff, planting it into the earth with practiced precision. Her curly shoulder-length hair stuck slightly to the edges of her wool beanie, which bore her family's crest stitched neatly into the rim. Her thick glasses glinted in the morning light as she glared at him.

"You’re slipping," she muttered. Her voice was hard, not playful. "If you’re tired, just say so."

Malus smirked, catching his breath. “Not tired. Just thinking.”

Malum, sitting on a sun-warmed rock with a book open across his knees, looked up. “You’re matching each other perfectly. That’s your problem.”

Natasha shot him a glare. “You’re not even watching.”

“I am,” Malum said, marking his page. “You always pull your shoulder in too tight when you parry left. Malus, you’re hesitating right before you counter. Adjust your footwork, bait her into lunging.”

“Wait,” Natasha snapped, planting her spear’s butt into the ground. “That’s not fair. We’ve been going even all morning, and now you give him an edge?”

Malus shrugged. “It’s not cheating if I use my brain.”

“I don’t need your help to beat him,” she muttered, but didn’t walk away.

Malum smiled to himself, eyes drifting toward her with quiet affection. “You’re both strong. I’m just the guy who makes sure you win.”

And he had. It was thanks to Malum’s constant advice and tactical drills that they’d won the duelling contest last week. He hadn’t even picked up a weapon—just whispered the right tips at the right moments. And afterward, while they celebrated, he was already visiting the local lord’s steward, gambling the twins’ victory into new favour and a little coin.

Natasha turned back to Malus, spear ready again. “Fine. Use the trick. Let’s see if it works.”

The statue watched them silently. Its cracked lips unmoving. But deep in the joints of its stony limbs, creaks and crumbling scrapes crawled.

The wind shifted as Contra stood at the edge of the vineyard path, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyes narrowed. He had sent the twins away minutes earlier, dismissing them with a firm tone that brooked no argument. Now, only Curat stood beside him, a silent sentinel at his right. Her presence alone was a warning.

The rider emerged from the trees, clad in dark leathers and bearing the red crest of the Emperor—his chest plate emblazoned with the sigil of a bloomed flower on crimson tapestry. He dismounted with the arrogance of a man who thought the world owed him its ears.

“Contra of the Black Wall,” the rider said, voice rich with self-importance. “I come bearing the Emperor’s will.”

Contra did not move. “Strange,” he said evenly, “I don’t recall the Emperor delegating his will to anyone who greets with titles instead of names.”

The rider’s smile thinned. “I speak on his behalf. These are times that require swift action.”

Curat took one step forward. Her armour clinked softly beneath her cloak, a sound with weight. “We stood beside the Emperor when the barbarian warlord’s axe fell. We know his will—and we know his face.”

A silence followed. The rider faltered but recovered quickly, holding out a scroll sealed with the Emperor’s sigil.

Contra didn’t take it. “Speak, then. But tread carefully. This vineyard may be quiet, but it has deep roots.”

The rider’s jaw clenched, but he began. “Then let me tell you what the Emperor demands…”

The rider unfurled a scroll with deliberate ceremony, the crimson seal of the Emperor stark against the parchment. “By His Majesty’s decree,” he declared, “all youths of suitable age and promise are to present themselves for Imperial assessment. Service is expected. Names have been chosen.”

He looked up with thinly veiled arrogance. “Malus and Malum. Sons of Contra and Curat. The Empire has taken interest in their recent… accomplishments.”

Contra didn’t flinch. He stood like a statue cut from war itself, arms folded behind his back. Curat, at his side, said nothing, but her stare was sharpened steel.

“They are to report within the week,” the rider continued. “The Emperor requires strength, and their skills—”

“You speak of the Emperor’s will,” Curat interrupted, voice low but firm. “Do you know it? Or do you serve second-hand whispers?”

The rider's smirk faltered. “I serve what I am told. As should you.”

“You serve a seal and a crest,” Contra said coldly. “We served beside the man.”

The rider drew himself up straighter in his saddle. “Then you should understand the weight of loyalty.”

“We do,” Contra replied. “Which is why we won’t hand our sons over lightly.”

There was a beat of silence—no posturing, no bravado. Just the wind moving through the vineyard, rustling leaves like old ghosts.

“I’ll return in three days,” the rider said, clearly unsettled but unwilling to show it. “Tell them. Prepare them.”

He turned his mount and rode off, the sigil of the bloomed flower on the red tapestry fluttering behind him like a threat dressed in silk.

The moment he disappeared behind the rise, Contra let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Curat stepped forward, watching the dust settle.

“We’ve delayed him,” she said.

“For now,” Contra answered.

A silence settled between them, heavier than before.

“They’re not ready,” Curat finally admitted, voice quiet. “And neither are we.”

Contra’s shoulders lowered, the edge in his eyes dimming. “We made them strong. Smart. But we didn’t prepare them for this kind of war.”

He turned to her, his mask of calculation slipping just enough for her to see the man beneath. “If we lose them…”

Curat nodded, placing a hand over his. “We won’t. Not without a fight.”

For a moment, they stood there—not commanders, not war heroes, but parents facing the one battle they never wanted to fight.

Chapter Text

The summons came swiftly after the Emperor’s seal had been broken, the letter's cruel contents etched into every anxious heartbeat in the vineyard estate. Despite their parents’ efforts to appeal, bribe, and barter, the word from Ganymede’s capital remained unyielding: both sons of Contra and Curat would be conscripted into military service.

Contra stood silent as a statue while Malum and Malus packed. Curat barely spoke, her once commanding presence dulled by fear for her sons. The rider who had delivered the decree—now revealed as Captain Darsen, their soon-to-be commanding officer—watched the family’s strained goodbyes with a smirk hidden beneath his dark moustache.

The family’s final hope had been a bribe to secure both sons a place in the prestigious officer’s corps. But the official, bound by stricter eyes and greed that only stretched so far, could only place one. Without hesitation, Malus stepped aside.

"You’d get eaten alive among the grunts," Malus had said, shoving the officer’s badge into Malum’s hands. "You’re better suited to playing chess with generals."

"And you’d get bored in a gilded cage," Malum replied, clutching his brother in a rare, long hug. “Don’t die, alright?”

The morning they left was grey and windless, the sky heavy with unshed rain. Two carriages waited at the edge of the vineyard estate—one lacquered black with silver trim and velvet curtains, the other unadorned oak, its wheels still caked in dried mud from the lowlands. Their separation was both symbolic and literal.

Malus stood beside the rougher carriage, a simple satchel over one shoulder. He had chosen to wear a sleeveless tunic and boots, his sword strapped to his back. Curat clutched his face with both hands, eyes glistening. “You’re the soul of this family,” she whispered. “You’re like me. You endure.”

Malus hugged her tightly, burying his face in her shoulder. “I’ll bring him back in one piece. That’s my promise.” She nodded, her composure cracking only after he turned away.

Contra placed a firm hand on Malus’s shoulder. He didn’t speak, but his grip said more than words could. Respect. Faith. A father’s wordless pride.

Across the courtyard, Malum emerged in full white robes, hair freshly oiled and bound in a golden ribbon. His emerald sash shimmered. He stepped into the luxurious carriage like royalty, but before the driver closed the door, he hesitated.

Natasha had just arrived, her shoulder-length curls wild with frustration, dragging her belongings in a satchel she clearly packed in haste. Her parents trailed behind her, shouting.

“You will not run off to die like some mercenary’s daughter!” her father barked. Her mother tried to snatch the beanie from her head. “Think of your reputation!”

“I don’t care about reputation,” Natasha spat. “I care about Malus!” She yanked the satchel free and stormed forward.

Malum approached her slowly. “Natasha…”

“What?” she snapped, eyes red from tears and fury.

He hesitated, glancing at Malus as he climbed into the muddy carriage. “I just… if things were different…” His voice cracked. He took a step closer but stopped himself. His hand hovered, then fell limp at his side. “Be safe.”

She stared at him, caught off guard by his vulnerability, but said nothing. Then she turned and climbed in after Malus.

The two carriages rolled in separate directions—one to the green-plated walls of the Officer Corps Academy in Silverrun, the other to the spartan, windswept plains of Camp Caldrick, where the Empire’s foot soldiers were forged.

Part Malum.

The Officer Corps Academy loomed like a cathedral of ambition. Twin towers rose above the treeline, their banners billowing with the Emperor’s bloomed flower on red. Manicured hedges bordered white marble paths, each segment immaculately symmetrical. Even the birdsong seemed rehearsed.

Malum’s carriage arrived late in the afternoon, cutting through a courtyard of stone where other young nobles disembarked beneath the watchful eyes of decorated officers. As he stepped down, his polished boots kissed the gravel softly. Two attendants greeted him, one offering a velvet-lined tray of sweetened wine, the other handing him an orientation scroll bound in crimson ribbon.

“Cadet Malum of House Emerald,” the steward said with a practiced bow. “Your quarters overlook the duelling fields. The dormitory staff have been informed of your dietary preferences.”

Malum barely hid his surprise. He hadn’t submitted any such preferences—but of course, someone had. His mother, perhaps. Or maybe Contra had pulled a string after all.

He was led through wide marble halls etched with the names of historic generals. Massive stained-glass windows depicted famous imperial victories, casting colourful lights across polished floors. Other cadets turned to watch him as he passed, some with recognition, others with envy. A few smiled too quickly, too eagerly.

Malum's room was twice the size of the common barracks he had glimpsed in passing. A writing desk of dark pine, silk bedding, and a window view of the duelling grounds gave the space a dignified calm. A basket of fresh fruit sat on the table, and a brass bell was provided for summoning staff.

It didn’t take long for Malum to understand the rules of the Academy had little to do with military discipline and everything to do with power. His classmates, dressed in pressed uniforms bearing crests of ancient houses, rarely spoke plainly. Every word was measured, every compliment double-edged. Instruction focused less on battlefield manoeuvres and more on political theory, strategic subterfuge, and how to use a sword not just to kill—but to make a point.

Malum adapted quickly.

He learned how to flatter the right instructors, how to speak with just enough humility to earn favour without grovelling. He became a magnet for hangers-on—sons of minor nobles, schemers with oily smiles, and the kind of men who would switch allegiances if it meant a closer seat to power. He tolerated them, played them against one another when it suited him. But he trusted none of them.

There were only two exceptions.

Daniel was a man of the people, one of the few lowborn cadets to earn his place through sheer merit. His father had been a blacksmith, his mother a laundress. Daniel was strong, stubborn, and plain-spoken. At first, Malum dismissed him. But when a group of entitled cadets mocked Daniel during a sparring demonstration, Malum saw the man dismantle three of them with the ease of a seasoned fighter. That night, he invited Daniel for a drink. They became friends over shared ambition—Daniel for honour, Malum for survival.

Liara, on the other hand, remained an enigma. She was the daughter of a rival noble house, yet rarely engaged in the vicious social games around her. She observed. Listened. When she spoke, it was sharp, deliberate, and often unsettlingly insightful. Malum tried to charm her more than once, but she only laughed, never cruelly, but never sincerely either. He couldn’t decide whether she was testing him, helping him, or simply bored. And that intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

Their first conversation had come after a lecture on historical betrayals in the Imperial Court. Malum had made a sly joke about loyalty being a myth. Liara had looked him over and said, “The difference between a snake and a lion is that only one gets hunted for sport. Pick carefully.”

Malum smiled then. He didn’t know if she was warning him or describing herself.

As weeks passed, Malum’s reputation grew. Some saw him as a rising star, others as a threat. He learned how to spin both. The Academy was no longer just a place of training—it was a stage. And Malum, with each passing day, felt more certain that he wouldn’t just survive here. He would thrive. He would rule.

Malum had grown used to the sting of wooden sabres slapping against his ribs.

Daniel beat him more often than not in the ring. His style was unflashy but brutal—rooted in balance, discipline, and a chip on his shoulder large enough to shatter stone. Every bout was a lesson in humility for Malum, whose graceful footwork and creative strikes couldn't always outmatch Daniel's grounded tenacity.

But when it came to academics—tactics, history, political theory—Malum thrived. He could recall century-old formations with ease, quote obscure treaties, and predict a commander's choices three moves ahead. While Daniel’s hand was steadier with a blade, Malum’s mind was sharper across the map.

It became an unspoken pact between them: Daniel ruled the duelling yard; Malum ruled the lecture halls.

They earned the respect of a few, the hatred of many. Resentment simmered among some of the older cadets, particularly those whose family names held sway—names that now meant less with Daniel outperforming them and Malum outthinking them. The worst of them was Vennor, a broad-shouldered brute with a sneer like rotting leather. He and his little cadre —Gorst and Pell—called themselves the "Ivory Line," a nod to their old-money bloodlines and supposed purity.

It came to a head one foggy evening after drills. Malum and Daniel were ambushed near the armoury, cornered by the trio. Malum barely had time to speak before a fist caught him in the gut. Daniel fought back—hard—but the numbers overwhelmed them. Kicks. Blows. A cracked lip. Blood on stone.

“You think you're our equals?” Vennor growled, pressing his boot into Malum’s chest. “You're not even pawns. You're smears on our path.”

That’s when the crack rang out.

A sharp whistle split the air, followed by a sudden gust of movement.

Gorst yelped as a blade pricked his neck—Liara’s slim rapier glinting under torchlight. She stood tall in her duelling coat, eyes cold as winter glass.

“You’re embarrassing the Academy,” she said flatly. “Drop him. Now.”

Vennor hesitated—until a second figure appeared behind her: one of the Academy adjudicators, silent and stone-faced. Wordlessly, the bullies backed off and vanished into the mist like ghosts denied their haunt.

Liara didn’t ask if they were okay. She simply offered Malum her hand.

“You’re clever,” she said to him as he rose, wincing. “But not clever enough to avoid a beating. That’s why you need allies.”

To Daniel, she gave only a nod. “You’re strong. But alone, strength is a liability.”

Later, in the quiet of the infirmary, Malum looked over at Daniel’s bruised knuckles.

“You know,” he said, wryly, “I’d return the favour if I could win a fight.”

Daniel snorted. “Just stick to winning arguments.”

From that night on, something changed. They weren’t just rivals anymore. They were brothers in bruises, bonded by blood and humiliation and the quiet certainty that neither truly fit in.

And Liara? She didn’t join them for meals. She didn’t share in their banter. But she watched out for them. Quietly. Efficiently. And when Malum asked her why—why she intervened—she merely replied:

“Because I don’t invest in pieces that get swept off the board too early.”

A week went by, the orders came without ceremony. Three officer cadets were to escort a supply convoy from the Academy to an outpost camp on the eastern edge of the foothills. Just enough risk to test their judgment, but not enough to concern the brass.

Malum, Daniel, and Liara were assigned command.

They prepared for the worst.

Daniel personally oversaw the loading of provisions—rations, medical kits, spare weapons. He double-checked harnesses, spoke with the drivers, and inspected every cart axle for sabotage.

Liara gathered intelligence. She sketched out route variations in case of ambush, bribed a scout for local rumours, and even had a coded note delivered to one of her contacts in the area. When Malum asked what it said, she only smiled: “Just letting someone know I’m coming.”

Malum, ever the schemer, stocked the officers' carriage with backup maps, rationed liquor, and a satchel of tinctures—some for healing, some... less ethical.

They left at dawn under a low sky, their column a ragtag mix of soldiers and cadets. For three days they moved carefully, braced for ambushes that never came. Bandits and rebels gave them a wide berth, perhaps tipped off or uninterested in crates of salted pork and foot powder.

They arrived at the outpost bored and unscathed.

The camp was rough—a stone-walled perimeter, scattered tents, and a single flagpole that leaned like a drunkard. The commanding officer barely acknowledged their arrival. Supplies were offloaded, forms signed, and the trio were told they had two nights' rest before returning.

That's when Daniel found the pit.

It was half-dug into the ground near the edge of camp, fenced by rope and packed every evening with soldiers, merchants, and low-ranked officers. Fights were brutal, unregulated. Bets were loud, fast, and mostly rigged.

“This place reeks of coin,” Liara said, slipping between bettors like smoke. She returned after an hour with a folded list of names. “There are three main organizers: a quartermaster, a cook, and a deserter posing as a stable hand.”

Daniel leaned against a post, arms crossed as he watched the current match—two brawlers trading wild, ugly swings. “They're not trained. No footwork. All muscle. The one on the left pulls his punches before he commits—weak ribs, probably cracked.”

Malum’s eyes flicked to a brawler getting patched up nearby. He struck up conversation, offered a salve for bruises, then quietly added something to the man's water skin. Nothing lethal. Just enough to fog the mind.

By nightfall, they were working like a well-oiled racket.

Daniel identified strengths and weaknesses in fighters. Malum played coach—fixing stances, offering strategic tips to chosen brawlers while undermining others with subtle jabs of "performance medicine." Liara placed bets with surgical precision, playing favourites only when she knew the scales had tipped.

Their winnings stacked quickly.

On the second night, Malum noticed a pair of unfamiliar eyes watching them—narrowed, calculating. Liara confirmed it: one of the arena organizers had taken interest.

“Careful,” she murmured, “we’re eating into their profits. Someone's going to test us.”

“Let them,” Daniel said, cracking his knuckles. “I haven’t had a real fight all week.”

But Malum just smiled, already thinking three moves ahead.

The summons came as a whisper passed through clenched teeth—a wiry boy missing two fingers who murmured into Daniel’s ear during the midday sparring ring. “The bosses want to meet the pups from Silverrun. Tonight. No blades.” They were led through narrow alleys between tents lit by guttering oil lamps, the night cloaked in the smoke of cooking fires and distant shouts from the betting ring. A man missing half his nose guided them with a lantern and a limp, speaking only once: “The bosses want to meet the pups from Silverrun.”

The trio arrived at a squat tent surrounded by silent brutes. Inside, smoke coiled in the lanternlight. Three figures sat at a low table made from old supply crates. At its centre was a worn chessboard, its pieces carved from bone and iron, some replaced with mismatched coins and bottle corks.

The centre figure, Varn, rose first—his face marked with a jagged burn, eyes sharp with amusement. “Well, look at this. The famous troublemakers from Silverrun.”

“To be famous in a hole like this,” Liara muttered, “isn’t much of an accomplishment.”

Flanking Varn were two others: Captain Sira, a squat woman with coiled muscle and cruel eyes, still wearing a half-torn Ganymedean insignia on her sleeve; and Old Moln, bald and stone-faced, a titan of scarred knuckles and missing teeth.

“Which one of you talks the most?” Sira asked, her gaze settling on Malum.

Malum stepped forward with his usual grace, but his eyes swept the tent’s exits instinctively. “Depends on who’s listening.”

Sira sneered. “You talk like you think the world’s already yours. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Moln pointed to Daniel. “The quiet one. Saw you fight. Strong arm, weak guard.”

Daniel didn’t speak. He simply clenched his fist, hard. The skin split again from an old wound. Blood beaded down his wrist.

“Don’t take the bait,” Liara whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. Her hand brushed his, not gently—anchoring him.

Varn gestured to the board. “Come. Let’s play.”

Malum sat across from him. Liara stood behind his left shoulder, Daniel to his right. The game began smoothly. Varn was aggressive, reckless—but clever. Malum played carefully, using time, position, and misdirection to outmanoeuvre him.

But midway through the game, Varn knocked his elbow against the board. Pieces toppled, some rolling into the dirt.

“Oops,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Guess my hands aren’t what they used to be.”

Malum glared, but said nothing. They reset the board—or tried to. Sira leaned in, placing pieces with deliberate slowness.

“That bishop was over there,” Malum said.

“No,” she replied flatly. “It wasn’t.”

Daniel stiffened. “You're cheating.”

Moln laughed. “We’re winning.”

Varn leaned back, now smug. “Welcome to the real game, pups. There’s no fair in war.”

Liara stepped forward, slipping something onto the crate table with a soft tap—a rolled scroll sealed in wax.

“What’s this?” Sira asked.

“A manifest,” Liara said sweetly. “Shows the movement of every barrel of liquor and coin marked for the quartermaster that never arrived. Curious, isn’t it? This paper says you’ve been misreporting for months.”

Moln’s smile faltered. Varn’s eyes narrowed.

“Threatening us?” he asked.

“No,” Malum said, calm now. “Bartering. Call it a draw. You don’t try to cut us out again, and this little paper doesn’t travel back to the academy.”

For a long moment, no one moved. The smoke shifted. Firelight danced across the mismatched chessboard.

Then Varn shoved the table aside and stood. “You pups think you’re clever. Just know this—you’re in our pit now. Step wrong, and no paper will save you.”

“Then we’ll step carefully,” Malum replied.

Sira spat into the dirt. “Try not to bleed too loudly on your way out.”

They left in silence.

Outside, Daniel flexed his fist, blood running freely down his palm.

“I hate people like them,” he muttered.

“They hate you back,” Liara replied. “That’s power.”

Malum didn’t speak. He looked to the horizon, where the moon barely lit the path back. “It’s not over. But we’ve survived the first game.” And for now, that was enough.

The final day passed in quiet strain. The trio kept to their tent, licking wounds both physical and political. Daniel sat on a crate, wrapping his knuckles in stained bandages while Liara sorted through her collection of letters, contacts, and coded notes. Malum paced, his eyes constantly flicking to the flaps of the tent.

“They’ll come for us,” he muttered. “If not now, then on the road.”

“No,” Liara said without looking up. “They’ve already measured us. We surprised them. That means they’ll wait.”

Daniel snorted. “Well That’s comforting.”

They packed as dawn broke—no fanfare, no ceremony. Their assigned carriage sat at the camp’s edge, a tired-looking driver half asleep on the box. As they loaded their gear, Malum scanned the treeline, every shadow a threat. His fingers rested near the knife tucked into his belt, the one he’d stolen back from a gambling cheat two nights ago.

Just as Malum hoisted the last crate onto the back of the cart, a voice cut through the morning mist.

“Leaving already?”

They turned.

Varn stood just beyond the carriage, flanked by Sira and Moln. None of them wore their coats; they looked less like officers now and more like war-weathered bandits. Varn’s burn caught the rising sun like a brand.

Malum stepped forward slowly. “Unless you want to stop us.”

Sira grinned. “If we wanted you dead, you’d already be dust.”

Daniel stood tense, blood still dried on his bandages. Liara remained by the carriage, expression unreadable.

Varn looked Malum in the eye and gave a small nod—not submissive, not threatening. Just... measured.

“You lot did more than stir up some bets and egos. You reminded us what we used to be like.”

Moln crossed his arms. “Still don’t like you. Too clever by half.”

“Ditto,” Daniel muttered.

Sira spat to the side. “Come back again,” she said, and there was something like respect in her gravelled voice. “When you’re ready to settle that draw.”

Malum didn’t smile, but his head tilted with the slightest bow. “Next time,” he said, “we’ll bring our own board.”

Varn chuckled and turned away.

As the carriage wheels began to roll, the trio sat in silence, each watching the shadowed figures fade behind them. The camp, for all its grime and corruption, had tested them—and they had walked away alive, if not entirely whole.

Liara leaned back against the carriage wall. “We made an impression.”

Daniel flexed his wrapped fist again. “Let’s just not make a habit of it.”

Malum said nothing, but he stared down the road, eyes already calculating the next game.

Chapter Text

The road wound like a scar through the barren fields, the cart creaking beneath the weight of its passengers and the unspoken things between them. Malus sat with his arms braced on his knees, watching the horizon drift past. His tunic clung to his back with sweat, despite the chill in the air. Beside him, Natasha shifted uncomfortably, trying to settle herself without speaking.

Neither had spoken much since they’d boarded.

Malus hadn’t wanted to come. Not truly. Not like this. Drafted into a war he didn’t believe in, torn from the vineyard rows of his youth, while Malum—brilliant, gilded, beloved Malum—was already halfway to Silverrun in a velvet-draped carriage, bound for an officer’s education and the safety that came with it.

He should’ve hated his brother for it. But he didn’t.

Malum hadn’t asked for any of it. Malus had chosen to step aside. That didn’t make the ride to Camp Caldrick any easier.

“I still can’t believe you actually followed through,” Malus said, breaking the silence.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You mean leaving my entire life behind to go die in a muddy trench with you? Yeah. Neither can my parents.”

Malus gave a weak snort, looking out the side of the cart. “They seemed ready to drag you back by the hair.”

“They would’ve, if I hadn’t bolted.” She adjusted her beanie, still frayed where her mother had tried to rip it off her head. “Palavens don’t take rebellion lightly. Especially not when you’re supposed to inherit the business and make babies with some sniveling textile heir.”

“You could’ve had a comfortable life.”

“I could’ve had a dead one,” she shot back. Then her voice softened. “This? This is terrifying. But it’s mine. And I didn’t come just for adventure.”

He looked at her then, eyes shadowed. “You came for me.”

She shrugged. “You’re not the only one allowed to throw away their future for someone else.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t throw anything away. Malum—he—he deserved that place more than I did.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t mean to. Just that you did.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, just honest. “That was a stupid kind of love, Malus.”

He leaned back against the cart wall, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. Seems like we’re full of it.”

For a while, the only sound was the crunch of wheels on gravel and the occasional caw of a distant bird. Camp Caldrick loomed somewhere ahead, past the broken hills and frost-bitten brush. Neither of them had seen it yet, but they could feel its weight—like marching toward a thunderstorm.

“Do you think he’ll write?” Natasha asked suddenly.

“Malum?” Malus thought for a moment. “He’ll send poems. Bad ones. Probably scented.”

She laughed—really laughed—and it broke the heaviness around them like glass. “Gods, I hope so. I need something to burn in the stove.”

A pause.

Malus turned his head toward her. “Thank you for coming.”

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “You better make it worth it.”

He nodded. “I’ll try.”

As the cart crested a ridge, the first sight of Camp Caldrick came into view—Gray barracks, marching drills, and smoke curling from chimney stacks like a signal to abandon hope.

They didn’t flinch. They sat forward. Together.

The carriage jolted to a halt, its wooden frame groaning in protest. Dust billowed as the doors were flung open, revealing the desolate expanse of Camp Caldrick. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and something more primal—fear.

"OUT! STRIP TO YOUR UNDERCLOTHES AND LINE UP!" bellowed a voice that could shatter stone.

Malus was the first to descend, his boots crunching on the gravel. He glanced back at Natasha, who hesitated, clutching her beanie—a relic of her lineage.

"Now, girl," the voice snapped again. "No exceptions. Uniform standards start now."

"I'm not giving up my hat," she said, stepping down from the carriage. Her voice was low but unwavering. "It's my family crest."

"That's not uniform."

"You want it, come take it," she said, shoulders square, eyes sharp.

The sergeant’s jaw tensed. The yard fell into that eerie kind of silence when everyone holds their breath, waiting for someone to bleed.

Another voice broke it.

"Hold," came a calmer but colder tone.

A tall man stepped forward from the officer’s platform—a dark-haired figure in pressed black fatigues, silver bars gleaming at his collar. His boots didn’t crunch dust so much as command it. His nameplate read: Captain Darsen.

His eyes locked on Malus first. “Emerald.”

Malus straightened. “Sir.”

“I hear your twin went to the Academy,” Darsen said, voice smooth as snake oil. “You must be the lesser one.”

A few chuckles scattered among the recruits. Natasha bristled. Malus kept his face still.

“You’ll earn no special treatment here, boy,” Darsen went on, circling them like a vulture. “In fact, you’ll earn less. Anyone who thinks they come from gold will be buried in mud until they forget how to shine.”

He stopped before Natasha, studied the beanie, then her scowl.

“I like spirit,” he said finally. “We’ll burn that out soon enough.”

He paced before the assembled recruits, hands behind his back.

“You are now CROWs— Caldrick Reclamation and Operations Wing. Get used to the sound. You’re not soldiers. You’re not citizens. You’re not sons, daughters, nobles, or names.”

He turned on his heel.

“You are disposable. You are what the Empire sends into forests no map will claim, into tunnels no light returns from. You clear mines with your boots. You test poisons with your breath. You are sent where glory cannot survive and only ghosts write reports.”

He stopped in front of a boy with crooked teeth and a terrified expression.

“You think this is a punishment? You’re right. But if you survive, if you endure, you will be sharper than steel and twice as unkillable. Because we burn weakness here. We break it. We strip it.”

His voice rose, thunder now.

“By the end of this month, you will either be dead, discharged, or forged. And if you fail—” He let the silence drag, eyes raking the line. “—you will beg for a death the Empire won’t grant you. We are CROWs. We scavenge the rot so the rest of the Empire stays clean. We suffer so it thrives.”

A long silence followed. Then a snap of his fingers.

“Process them.”

The next hour was a gauntlet of humiliation. They were weighed, measured, and prodded. Each item they owned was seized and tossed into crates with zero ceremony. A ring—probably an heirloom—was thrown into the same bin as a sock. Someone's carved pendant was stomped underfoot for "hesitation."

"You are not people," another sergeant barked. "You are not names. You are weapons. And weapons don't wear necklaces."

When Natasha refused to remove her beanie again during the full strip-down, the sergeant reached for it. She slapped his hand away before Malus could intervene. There was a scuffle, a growled warning, and finally, the order to “let the damn girl keep her stupid hat.”

They were herded into ranks. Bare feet on hot dirt. Malus's skin was prickling. A lanky boy next to him was quietly crying. Another, shaking, had a long scar over his ribs.

Darsen made one last circle before barking to a wiry man in chain-wrapped boots. “Senn. Sort the Crows.”

Corporal Senn, eyes tired and sunken but voice clipped and clean, stepped up with a slate board. “Hut Three. Step forward when called.”

He began reading names. “Barnabus, Henry, Clement, Meg, Natasha, Malus.”

As they gathered, a stocky woman with greying hair and a voice like gravel joined them, chewing a twig and smirking.

Sergeant Vega.

“Look at this batch,” Vega said with theatrical disdain. “A librarian, a street rat, a mute ghost, two lovebirds, and—” she pointed her twig at Malus—“whatever the hell that is.”

Malus raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong, Sergeant?”

“Just wondering if those pretty green eyes come with a perfume bottle, or if we have to suffer through that stink raw.”

More laughter. Vega sauntered forward.

“Let me guess—‘noble blood,’ right? Vineyard family? Silk sheets and flute lessons?”

He said nothing.

“Don’t worry. We’ll see what spills out when the silk gets torn.”

Senn cleared his throat. “Enough, Vega. They’re not broken yet. Let’s give ‘em a day.”

She grinned. “Fair.”

The bunkhouse was already sweltering by the time they arrived—more oven than shelter. The air hung thick with heat and the scent of mildew and old regret. The windows were slits barely wider than a handspan. Mosquitoes buzzed in lazy, vengeful clouds. Dust clung to every surface.

A massive figure looked up from a cot in the corner, sharpening a jagged dagger with a river stone. His arms were thick as oaken beams, beard a tangle of red chaos. He squinted at Malus like he was sizing up meat.

“Name’s Barnabus. Most call me Barney,” he grunted, not stopping the rhythmic scrape of metal. “You snore?”

“Doubt it,” Malus replied.

“Good. I do. Fair trade.”

He grinned with teeth like chipped stone and went back to sharpening.

The door creaked again, and in bounded a boy with wild curls and a satchel so swollen it looked like it might explode.

“Hi! I’m Henry. Did you hear the sergeant call us ‘cattle’? That’s actually accurate. Caldrick was built on the ruins of a slaughterhouse. There's even a drainage tunnel system under the—”

“Stop.” Barney held up a hand. “Breathe, lad.”

Henry paused, looked around. “Right. Sorry. I talk when I’m nervous. Which is always. Fun fact: I also talk in my sleep.”

Barney groaned and resumed sharpening.

Next came a sliver of shadow—Clement. She moved like smoke, silent and exact. Her face was sharp, unreadable, with dark eyes that assessed the room in one slow sweep.

“Put me by the window,” she said in a thick accent, setting a small bag by the narrow opening.

“You mean the hole?” Malus gestured.

“Oui.”

She didn’t unpack—just sat with her knees drawn up, arms folded. Later, Malus noticed her eyes weren’t closed. She was watching, always watching.

A soft thud interrupted the quiet as a girl tripped over the doorframe and landed on her knees.

“Ugh—damn it.”

Malus stepped forward, offered a hand. She looked at him, hesitated, then took it.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

“No worries. I trip on flat ground all the time. Part of my charm.”

Her lips twitched. “Meg.”

“Malus.”

Her hands were small but calloused. She had braids woven close to her scalp and eyes that darted constantly—like a rabbit halfway between flight and fight.

She picked the bunk nearest the door, dropped her bag, and immediately began fussing over her boots, unlacing and relacing them three times.

Finally, Natasha appeared. She walked in like she owned the floorboards, already unrolling her blanket. She didn’t even ask—just dropped her things beside Malus’s bunk, sat cross-legged, and began cleaning her boots like it was holy work.

“Cozy,” she said without looking up.

“We’ll be fine,” he replied, voice low.

Barney gave a short laugh. “Hope y’all aren’t picky sleepers. This place hums like a haunted forge after midnight.”

Henry raised a hand. “Do haunted forges hum, or—?”

“No one cares,” Clement murmured from her shadowed perch.

Introductions settled into silence. Outside, the wind rattled through the tin roof like a warning. Inside, bodies shifted and cots groaned.

But the night wasn’t done revealing its secrets.

As the others slipped into restless sleep, Malus found himself still staring at the beams above. His muscles ached. His ears rang from Darsen’s voice. Every breath felt like it cost something.

He turned on his side—and saw Clement still awake.

She was crouched near her cot, barely lit by the slice of moonlight through the window. Something small glinted in her hands—metal parts. Springs. Cogs. Bits of copper wire and broken hinge. Her fingers moved with eerie precision, fitting pieces together, testing tension, disassembling again.

Where had she gotten those?

She moved like she’d done this a thousand times. Her focus was absolute. She paused only once—to slide something metal from the bottom of her boot and pocket it silently.

Not stolen from them. Stolen from somewhere.

Malus closed his eyes, but the quiet clicking of gears kept time in his ears like a strange lullaby.

By dawn, Barney was snoring like a dying bear. Henry’s papers had somehow migrated into Meg’s bunk. Natasha was still polishing her boots. And Clement, eyes dark with lack of sleep, was gently cradling a tiny, spring-loaded mechanism in her palm.

The first morning at Camp Caldrick began with the sound of violence.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The bunkhouse door slammed open so hard it bounced on its hinges.

“RISE AND BLEED, MAGGOTS!” came the hoarse bark of Sergeant Vega, a woman carved from corded muscle and bad decisions. Her voice rattled the rafters. “Assembly ground in five minutes! If I come back and find you still breathing under blankets, I’ll staple you to the flagpole myself!”

Just behind her stood Corporal Senn—younger, quieter, with ice-water stillness. He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. His eyes looked like they’d already buried cadets.

Malus sat up fast, slapping off his blanket. “Up! Let’s move!”

Barney groaned, dragging himself upright like a bear from hibernation. “Already?”

Natasha was already half-kitted. “Get moving, Barney, you old ass.”

Henry blinked blearily, holding a sock like it had betrayed him. “I was dreaming about edible books…”

Meg was tangled in her blanket, rolling off the cot with a muffled, “Ow.”

Clement sat up slowly, her hair a bird’s nest, muttering something in a foreign tongue that didn’t sound kind.

Malus was a blur—pulling straps, tossing boots, barking directions like he’d done this before. His eyes, one emerald green, one light blue, shimmered in the light leaking through the slats. He barely noticed it. He never got blinded by glare—not since he was a boy. The mismatched eyes handled light like a trick of nature. No flash ever caught him off guard.

“You’re putting that shirt on backward, Henry.”

“I’m under pressure!”

“Barney, both boots—now. Clement—is that a door hinge in your hair?”

“I like to stay prepared,” she replied, yawning.

Natasha slapped the side of Meg’s boot. “Laces. Fast.”

By the time Team Three stumbled into the morning glare, most of the field was already in order. Teams had formed up in ragged lines across the assembly yard—sweaty, half-awake, but standing.

Team One, however, looked like they’d been born standing. Every shirt tucked. Every boot shined. Their formation was so straight it looked unnatural.

Captain Darsen approached in his sleek black uniform, the silver bars gleaming in the sunrise.

“Team One,” he announced, his voice smooth as ever, “first to arrive. Fully kitted. Fully assembled. Fully trained. Every one of them honouring their military lineage. The Empire notices you.”

The praise was dagger-sharp, and his pause afterward was the slice.

Across the field, the rest of the teams stood in shameful contrast.

Malus squared his shoulders. Natasha shook her head softly, brushing a piece of lint from her beanie.

“It’s only day one and we’re already behind someone,” she muttered.

Barney cracked his neck and mumbled, “Exactly. It’s only the first day. Plenty of time to outshine those pricks.”

Darsen’s gaze drifted, slow and measuring, like a predator surveying meat.

“Today,” he began, “you are to undertake your first official test as cadets of Caldrick: the obstacle course. You will complete it as a unit. Each team will have a time limit. You will carry the weak. You will lift the slow. You will succeed together—or fail as one. And if you fail…”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“…you get to do it again. And again. Until your bones forget the taste of comfort.”

He walked the line, pausing as he passed Team Three. His gaze lingered—first on Malus’s mismatched eyes, then on Natasha’s beanie, then to Barney’s unbuttoned sleeve.

“Team Three,” he said coolly, “try not to embarrass yourselves.”

Then he moved on.

Corporal Senn stepped forward with a clipboard. “Team One. To the start line.”

Team One marched like they were already halfway to a medal ceremony.

Meg groaned. “I already hate them.”

“Je suis entièrement d'accord,” Clement said, folding her arms. “Sorry—I agree with you,” she corrected.

Malus looked over his team. Henry was studying the map, muttering to himself about coordinates and strategies. Barney was already sweating. Meg bounced on her toes, radiating nervous energy. Natasha was doing something between a shrug and a war prayer. Clement was crouched down, already pocketing a loose mechanical piece from the gravel.

“We’re not polished,” Malus muttered, “but we’re here.”

“Team Three,” Senn called. “Step forward.”

Malus tightened his straps and exhaled. “Let’s go prove we’re soldiers.”

The obstacle course loomed like a battlefield: a sprawling, sun-scorched expanse of trenches, rope climbs, mud pits, balance beams, and swinging logs. Flags marked each checkpoint. A line of instructors waited along the perimeter—clipboards in hand, eyes hungry for failure.

Team One moved like clockwork through the first stretch—clean vaults, silent signals, no wasted movement.

Team Two followed. Slower. Sloppier. Still together.

“Team Three!” barked Sergeant Vega. “You’re on deck!”

Malus rolled his shoulders and checked the straps on Meg’s vest. “Breathe. And don’t overthink it.”

“Too late!” Meg squeaked, bouncing slightly.

“Henry, map away. Just move forward.”

“I can calculate the—”

“No.”

Clement twisted her hair into a bun,"que les dieux veillent sur nous" she muttered to herself, crouching low ready to begin.

Barney was already jogging in place, shaking out his arms. “Let’s go”

Natasha cracked her knuckles. “Try to keep up Malus"

The whistle blew.

They ran.

First: the wall. Ten feet, straight up, no handholds.

Natasha didn’t slow. She hit the wood, kicked off the brace, and vaulted. Malus followed, launching from the same foothold. Barney reached up, grabbed, and hauled himself over like climbing a tree.

Clement didn’t jump—she calculated. Found a crack, jammed in a gear from her pocket, stepped on it, and scrambled over.

Henry froze. “This is—this is higher than regulation!”

“Henry!” Natasha shouted from the top. “Climb or I will use your books for tinder.”

Meg shoved him from behind, and with a yelp, he grabbed the edge. Malus leaned down, caught Henry’s wrist, and pulled him up with a grunt. Meg followed like a spider.

Checkpoint one.

Next came the crawl tunnel mud, barbed wire, and too many shouting instructors.

“Low crawl!” Vega screamed. “Lower, Henry! Are you trying to kiss the gods with your arse?!”

They slid into the muck. Natasha’s movements were surgical. Malus cursed as thorns snagged his tunic. Meg giggled, crawling beside Clement, who muttered curses in her native dialect and spat out dirt.

A wire tore Henry’s sleeve.

Barney just grunted. “Fucking mud”

Checkpoint two.

Then: rope swing over water.

Malus was first. He grabbed the rope, ran, swung—landed clean. Turned. Held it steady.

Natasha came next. No fear. Malus guided her as she landed. “Next!”

Meg squealed as she flew. “Wheee—oof!” She hit the edge, but Malus caught her.

Barney swung like a wrecking ball. Clement used momentum like math.

Henry hesitated.

“You can do this!” Malus called.

“I’ve done the calculations and—”

“Henry, jump or I throw you.”

He jumped. Landed. Screamed. Then grinned.

Checkpoint three.

Final stretch: the beam gauntlet. Narrow planks. Tilting logs. A timed flamethrower at the end, because Caldrick didn’t believe in subtlety.

They moved in a line, arms wide. Natasha in front. She set the pace—slow, steady.

Meg wobbled. Malus caught her waist.

Barney slipped once. Cursed. Recovered.

Henry lost a shoe.

Clement paused on one beam to tighten a screw in her boot, then kept walking.

The flamethrowers hissed.

“NOW!” Malus shouted.

They ran.

Flames burst behind them.

They hit the dirt, rolled through the last gate, and landed in a pile of limbs, sweat, and laughter.

A whistle blew.

Darsen looked down from his perch. “Team Three—acceptable.”

Vega grunted. “Didn’t expect that.”

Barney grinned through the mud. “is that praise?”

Henry laughed breathlessly. “That was... statistically improbable!”

Clement blinked. “I didn’t hate it.”

Meg threw up a double thumbs-up. “We didn’t die!”

Natasha wiped a streak of soot from her beanie and looked at Malus. “Are you okay?”

Malus, panting, let out a crooked smile. “yeah.” he looked at the rest of Hutt three and smiled, "were going to be great"

And maybe, just maybe, they would.

Drills began after lunch, under a sky that couldn’t decide between sun and storm.

The cadets had barely caught their breath before Vega’s whistle brought them to heel again. “Weapons up! Sparring rounds. Pairs. No crying.”

Team Three stood in a loose circle near the training pits, dust rising around their boots. Most of them were still finding their feet—bruised, muddy, and riding the edge of exhaustion. But spirits were high. They’d survived.

“Right,” Malus said, rolling his shoulders and pulling the longsword from his back sheath. “We made it through the course. That counts for something.”

“Yeah,” Barney rumbled, testing the weight of his axe. “We’re not the worst. Team Five’s still crawling.”

“They looked like corpses,” Meg added, stringing her bow. “Sad, sweaty corpses.”

“Charming,” Clement muttered, flipping her twin short swords in a tight, practiced arc.

Henry wiped sweat from his brow and adjusted his shield. “Alright. Who wants to hit me first?”

“Me,” Natasha said flatly, stepping forward with her spear already levelled.

Henry blanched. “I didn’t mean immediately—!”

She lunged. Henry barely got his shield up in time.

“Faster,” Natasha barked.

“I’m trying not to die!”

“Then try harder.”

Nearby, Meg loosed arrows into a straw dummy, each one hitting closer to the centre than the last. Her short sword rested in the dirt by her foot like a pet. “Hey Barney,” she called. “You think if I shoot an apple off your head, they’ll count it as extra credit?”

Barney raised his tower shield slowly. “Try it and see what happens.”

Clement was working with Malus—her movements fast and aggressive, like water around stone. Her twin blades flicked and jabbed in relentless flurries, forcing him to stay reactive.

“You’re quick,” he grunted, parrying another swipe.

“You’re strong,” she replied. “Together, we might be competent.”

“High praise,” he said with a grin.

Natasha was still chasing Henry around the sand pit. “Keep your shield up. You’ve got the reach. Use it.”

Henry blocked another thrust and huffed. “You’re terrifying!”

“That’s why I win.”

As the drills dragged on, Vega paced between the pits, correcting stances with the grace of a hammer. Senn said little, but his sharp eyes missed nothing.

By the time the sun dipped behind the hills, Team Three was bruised, blistered, and closer than they’d been that morning. They sat in the dirt, weapons beside them, passing around a cracked canteen and sore laughter.

“Clement,” Malus said between sips, “how’d you get so fast?”

“I had older brothers,” she replied with a shrug. “If I didn’t run or stab, I got sat on.”

“Effective training,” Barney said.

“And you, Meg?” Malus asked. “That bow work is no joke.”

She smiled. “My grandma taught me. Said if I couldn’t hit a rabbit from a hundred paces, I’d never get a husband.”

Malus blinked. “Did it work?”

“I got good at shooting,” she said. “Didn’t say anything about the husband.”

Henry was massaging his forearm, looking at the sky. “Do you think they’ll let us rest tomorrow?”

“Do you believe in miracles?” Natasha said.

They laughed. Not because it was funny—but because somehow, in the span of a day, they’d become something more than strangers.

Team Three wasn’t polished. Wasn’t perfect. But they were fighting. And for now, that was enough.

The sparring field was dust-choked and silent save for the sound of leather boots scraping sand.

Corporal Senn stood at the edge of the ring, arms folded, clipboard forgotten for once. His voice, quiet but absolute, cut through the air.

“Team Two. Team Three. One-on-one sparring. Show us what you’ve learned.”

Team Two stepped forward, all confidence and smirks. Their uniforms were pressed. Their boots barely scuffed. Each of them had the kind of sharp discipline that came from private tutors and cold fathers.

Malus glanced at his team. Tired. Sore. Still standing. and stepped forward.

The sparring matches were held in a broad circle of packed dirt, outlined with worn flags and overseen by Corporal Senn. The cadets of Team Two stood with smug confidence, rolling their shoulders and spinning their weapons in practiced hands.

Team Three stood opposite, weapons drawn, faces tight with effort and anticipation.

First Match: Malus vs. Jeral (Team Two, saber user)

Malus stepped into the ring with slow, measured strides. His longsword gleamed dully in the sun. Across from him, Jeral flashed a grin and gave a lazy salute with his saber.

“You sure that thing isn’t too heavy for a fancy boy with mismatched eyes?”

Malus didn’t answer. He dropped into stance—left foot forward, blade angled low.

Jeral moved first—quick, slicing arcs designed to dazzle. The sabre flicked in and out, tapping at Malus’s guard like a drummer testing a snare.

Malus didn’t chase. He absorbed, pivoted, redirected. His parries were clean, economical. The longsword came alive in his hands—each movement fluid, one step feeding the next.

A flash of steel. Jeral overcommitted.

Malus stepped in—pivoted—and slammed his pommel into the other boy’s chest, sending him stumbling. Before Jeral could recover, Malus disarmed him with a high arc and pointed his blade at the boy’s throat.

“Yield.”

Senn’s voice: “Point to Team Three.”

Jeral scowled and retrieved his sabre, muttering under his breath as he stalked away.

Second Match: Meg vs. Laria (Team Two, Warhammer)

Meg bounced into the ring, gripping her short sword with both hands. Her bow stayed behind this time—this was close quarters.

Laria, a towering girl built like a fortress, spun her Warhammer with one hand.

“Don’t blink,” she said with a grin. “You’ll miss it.”

The match started, and Meg darted left—fast, unpredictable. She danced, looking for an opening. Her sword struck out—once, twice—but Laria’s reach was massive. The hammer came down in a blur of iron and wind.

Meg ducked—too late.

The haft caught her in the ribs and sent her skidding backward in the dirt.

She scrambled to her feet, breath ragged. Charged again.

But Laria stepped through her guard, batted the sword aside, and lightly tapped Meg’s helmet with the head of the warhammer.

Thunk.

“Cute,” Laria said. “Try again in a few years.”

Meg backed out of the ring, teeth clenched.

Third Match: Henry vs. Cael (Team Two, spear)

Henry entered with a grunt, mace in one hand, shield in the other. He squared up against a tall boy with a long spear and a smirk like a knife.

Cael advanced first—prodding with quick jabs, staying just out of range. Henry raised his shield, absorbed the strikes, then tried to close the distance.

But Cael spun his spear with infuriating precision, forcing Henry to keep his guard high. He lunged—Henry swung—but missed. The spear cracked into his shoulder, staggered him.

Henry charged again. Got inside.

But before he could bring his mace down, Cael kicked his knee out and tripped him.

Henry fell hard, dust blooming around him.

“Good shield,” Cael said, walking away. “Try using it next time.”

Fourth Match: Clement vs. Vel (Team Two, short axe and buckler)

Clement twirled her twin short swords and stepped lightly into the ring, eyes narrowed. Vel, stockier and built for punishment, tapped his axe on his shield.

They circled. Clement struck first—a flurry of cuts aimed low and fast. Vel blocked with his buckler and countered, the axe whooshing by her ear.

Clement ducked, rolled, came up swinging—but Vel caught her wrist, twisted, and forced one sword from her hand. She tried to stab with the other, but he stepped in and drove his shoulder into her chest, knocking her down.

She hit the dirt, spitting sand, and glared up at him.

“You’d be dead,” Vel said. “But I’ll give you points for speed.”

Fifth Match: Barney vs. Korvan (Team Two, great sword)

Barney lumbered forward, tower shield raised, axe resting on his shoulder. Korvan’s great sword gleamed in both hands, longer than a man’s leg.

The clash was thunder.

Korvan struck like a storm—heavy, overhead slams meant to break defence. But Barney planted himself, shield locked, absorbing blow after blow.

Then he moved. Quick for his size. Axe sweeping low. Korvan parried, grunting.

Back and forth. Neither man giving ground.

The match dragged on. Sweat poured. Dust flew. Barney landed a brutal strike to Korvan’s ribs—but the other boy retaliated, slamming his sword flat against Barney’s thigh.

Senn stepped in. “Draw.”

They both stepped back, breathing hard.

Korvan spat blood and nodded. “Not bad, wall boy.”

Barney grinned. “Not bad yourself, twig.”

Final Match: Natasha vs. Myla (Team Two, curved blade)

Natasha walked into the ring like she owned it. Her spear spun once in her hand, then dropped into stance—low, balanced, deadly.

Myla twirled her curved blade, cocky.

They met at the centre.

Myla lunged—Natasha sidestepped. Spear cracked across the girl’s ribs. Myla spun—Natasha weaved low and jabbed her in the leg. Then, with a blur of motion, Natasha hooked the shaft behind Myla’s knee and swept her off her feet.

She landed with a grunt, and Natasha pressed the blunt tip of her spear to Myla’s chest.

Senn: “Point. Team Three.”

The matches ended.Team Three regrouped after the matches—bruised, scraped, breathing heavy.

Malus had won. Natasha too. Barney had held his own. But the sting of defeat clung to the others like sweat in their clothes.

Meg sat cross-legged in the dirt, twiddling her sword’s hilt. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You were,” Natasha said, crouching beside her. “You were just outmatched. It happens.”

Henry leaned on his mace, still catching his breath. “I lost track of his steps. Shield up, but no pushback. I froze.”

“You got back up,” Barney grunted. “That matters.”

Clement muttered curses in three languages under her breath, rewrapping the leather grips on one of her short swords. “He baited me into a high feint. Sloppy.”

Natasha stood tall and addressed them all. “You fought. You learned. That’s the point. Next time, we do better.”

Malus nodded. “We’ll drill later. Work the weak points. One match isn’t the story—it’s just the prologue.”

Laughter from across the field interrupted the moment. Team Two, smug and sprawled under the shade, was watching them like wolves who’d already eaten.

Jeral stood and called out, voice loud enough for the instructors to hear.

“Aww, don’t be sad, Team Three. You gave us a great warm-up. But Malus—gotta say—those mismatched eyes? Kinda hard to tell which one’s supposed to be brave and which one's always about to cry.”

Malus stiffened. The grip on his longsword tightened.

He stepped forward, jaw set—but Natasha moved faster.

She reached out and quietly took his hand.

Her touch was steady. Warm. Unflinching.

Malus stopped. Looked at her.

Then Natasha turned to Team Two, voice calm, clear, and cutting.

“Thank you for the fights,” she said. “We’ll remember them.”

The tone left no room for mockery.

Even the instructors glanced up.

Team Two hesitated. Laria gave a little scoff. Vel rolled his eyes. But none of them answered.

They turned away.

Malus exhaled slowly and let his sword rest against his shoulder.

Natasha’s hand didn’t leave his.

The statue stood still as ever, its cracked form cloaked in dew and shadow, bronze glinting softly beneath weather-worn stone. Rusted weapons sat askew across its form, like tired limbs resting after centuries of vigilance. Vines had begun to claim its legs, curling like fingers around a forgotten relic—but nothing about the statue felt forgotten.

Its head tilted imperceptibly, as if the ancient thing could still see.

As Team Three dispersed and the dust of the sparring faded, it remained rooted—watching.

Its gaze, if it had one, lingered on Malus. Every movement of the boy seemed to spark something deeper beneath the bronze shell, something old and burning. A silent presence in a field of shouting voices.

And as Team Two walked away laughing, heads held high with careless cruelty, something in the statue coiled tight.

It did not move. Not yet.

But if hatred could hum through metal, the statue sang with it.

Because it had seen enough to know this: anyone who would hurt Malus did not deserve peace.

Not here.

Not anywhere. And yet, for those few quiet minutes before night fell completely, something ancient bore witness.

Not to the wins.

Not to the losses.

But to something far more important: potential.

Chapter Text

Two years had passed since Malum first stepped through the stone archway of Silverrun Academy, heart pounding and eyes bright with ambition. Now, he moved through the halls like a man carved from its very walls—respected, watched, and never underestimated.

Silverrun trained the future commanders of the Empire: tacticians, quartermasters, strategists, and warlords in waiting. And among the hundreds of cadets, one trio stood apart.

Malum led.

Liara supplied.

Daniel enforced.

They’d earned their reputation the hard way—through endless drills, tactical victories, and a string of bruised egos left in their wake. Cadets whispered about them like a storm: unavoidable, disciplined, and strangely balanced.

Malum—average height, slightly chubby but quick-witted, with long, tousled black hair and a beard that never quite grew in clean—commanded attention not by volume, but precision. His emerald eyes scanned rooms like they held secrets, and they often did. Malum always knew when to press, when to retreat, and when to make someone feel like it was their idea all along.

Liara kept her dark brown hair knotted in a bun so tight it looked painful. She had a way of organizing everything—from logistics to blackmail material. If you needed extra rations, she could find them. If you needed information on another squad, she already had a list. Her eyes were sharp, and her lips had not smiled since orientation.

Daniel was the hammer. Muscular, clean-shaven, and quick to carry out orders. He didn’t speak unless he needed to, but when he did, people listened. He was taller than Malum, stronger than anyone in their year, and had once broken a sparring dummy clean in half. But he followed Malum without question—and Liara without complaint.

Their days blurred together in rhythm. Mornings were for sword drills—Malum wielding a custom sabre, more duellist than brute. Daniel trained with a broadsword, slow but crushing. Liara never fought in the pit but watched every match like she was calculating odds.

After lunch came lectures. Military history, siege theory, diplomacy, map-reading. Malum took furious notes, sometimes adding flair to otherwise dry military quotes. Daniel napped with one eye open. Liara memorized everything without ever writing it down.

Sometimes, they'd be summoned to upper floors—meeting rooms where instructors handed out special missions: mock negotiations, simulated town planning, even theoretical mutinies. Malum often led their presentations. His charisma filled the room.

Today, after a long day of weapons drills and a heated discussion on supply line attrition in coastal warfare, the trio walked together through the academy courtyard, passing younger cadets who straightened at their approach.

“We have a meeting with Commander Ardyn tomorrow morning,” Liara said, eyes flicking over a schedule etched on her notepad.

Daniel cracked his neck. “Is it about the third-year trials?”

“Could be,” Malum replied, eyes on the academy tower. “Or something worse.”

Liara adjusted her bun. “Either way, we’ll be ready.”

Malum smiled faintly. “We always are.”

And as the bell in the courtyard tolled, its echo rolling over the stone like a drumbeat of destiny, the trio kept walking—toward whatever came next.

Commander Ardyn was a man carved from command itself—square-shouldered, grey at the temples, and always too aware of the room. He stood by the window when the trio arrived, hands clasped behind his back, overlooking the parade square below.

The heavy door creaked open.

Daniel entered first, his boots silent on the marble, posture straight. Without a word, he stepped aside and took position next to the door—ever the enforcer, ever the shield.

Liara followed. She moved like a whisper with a blade hidden inside. Her bow was sharp, crisp, but more courtesy than deference. Without waiting, she strode to Ardyn’s desk and picked up a document resting on its surface. Her eyes flicked across the page, reading faster than most officers ever could. She didn’t ask permission. She never did.

Last came Malum. He entered with his hands behind his back and an elegant nod that passed for a bow—smooth, graceful, and perfectly measured. As he straightened, his left hand slipped lazily to the hilt of his sabre, the picture of ease draped over calculation.

“Cadets,” Ardyn said without turning. “You’re being summoned.”

Malum arched a brow slightly. “To where, sir?”

Ardyn finally turned, his face unreadable. “A ball. Hosted by Lord-General Cassavir in the high courts of Ganymede. Nobles. Merchants. Strategists. And snakes in silk. Your job is to navigate them. Earn favour. Build connections. And find the one who doesn’t belong.”

Liara narrowed her eyes, still holding the paper. “There’s a mole.”

“There’s a traitor,” Ardyn said. “One with influence. We need someone clever enough to sniff them out, charming enough to get invited to the next party—and capable of surviving what follows.”

Daniel gave a single nod. “Then we’ll get it done.”

Malum let a small, wry smile curve his lips. “Then I suppose we’ll need to dress the part.”

Malum sifted through the last of the prepared items laid out in their shared quarters when something unusual caught his eye—a small wooden box, no larger than his palm, tucked beneath the fold of Liara’s cloak. He popped the latch open with a curious thumb.

Inside lay a ring. Bronze, burnished with age, etched with the symbol of a stag mid-leap. Its antlers arched like a crown, delicate and regal.

He slid it onto his finger.

It tightened perfectly to fit him, the metal growing warm. A strange pulse passed through his hand, quiet and invigorating. The exhaustion of the week—sleepless nights, drills, lectures—faded like mist under the sun.

Malum blinked once, flexing his hand. The ring sat among the others on his fingers like it had always belonged there.

“Where’d you get that?” Liara asked from across the room, barely glancing up as she adjusted Daniel’s cuffs.

“Gift from fate,” Malum said with a smile.

“You stole it.”

“Found it.”

Liara narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

The ballroom was a golden beast—every flicker of candlelight a gleam of ambition, every note of music a whisper of old money. Cloaks trailed like banners behind noblemen. Jewelry clinked like distant chimes. Every smile was a knife polished clean.

Malum entered first, posture elegant, the stag-ring glinting faintly on his finger. The chainmail beneath his formal coat was invisible to the eye but heavy enough to remind him he wasn’t here just to dance.

Liara glided in next, composed and unhurried, cloak sharp with geometric folds and embroidered trim that mirrored the Academy's crest. Daniel followed, stiff-backed and wary, his eyes already scanning the crowd.

The trio made their rounds—slowly, deliberately.

Malum floated through the crowd with ease, deflecting praise, questions, and veiled insults with equal charm. But Daniel? Daniel was a fortress misplaced on a ballroom floor.

A merchant’s wife approached him. “You’re... very tall. Is that sword real?”

Daniel looked like she’d asked him to recite a poem. “Yes,” he said.

There was an awkward silence.

Liara swept in. “Forgive him. He’s shy around women whose perfume could be used to poison wells.”

Later, a trade lord cornered Daniel near the refreshment table. “What do you think about the recent uprisings in the southern provinces?”

Daniel’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Malum arrived just in time. “Ah, yes, the uprisings. Terrible things. Especially when a man just wants to enjoy a spiced pear and gets handed a lecture instead.”

Daniel nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

Liara, meanwhile, was a magnet for nobles eager to flirt—none of them prepared for the steel beneath her silence.

One leaned in with a smile. “Lady Liara, I must say, your bearing reminds me of my late aunt. She was... formidable.”

“Baroness Ilseth of House Trevors,” Liara said, already dissecting him. “Your aunt. She died in 732 in a boating accident, though rumour claimed it wasn’t an accident at all. Something about debts to House Drelkin, wasn’t it?”

The noble blinked, stepped back, then turned and walked away without another word.

Another tried. “You favour the colours of northern nobility. Is there family there?”

“House Bern,” she replied smoothly. “Three daughters. You’re the second son. They cut your inheritance two years ago and moved you to a lesser seat by the coast.”

He paled. “How do you—?”

“I read.”

By the time Malum re-joined her, three nobles had retreated and one had spilled wine on himself out of sheer nervousness.

“I see you’re making friends,” Malum quipped.

“They started it.”

He raised a brow. “And I’m the one accused of being antagonistic.”

“You’re actually antagonistic. I just... encourage evolution through shame.”

Malum smiled.

The string quartet struck a triumphant chord as a new figure swept into the ballroom—a man draped in emerald silk, his boots polished to a mirror shine, and his hair tousled as if it had been styled by the wind itself. He moved like someone who knew everyone was watching and loved them for it.

Jona Altman had arrived.

Nobles parted for him like waves before a ship. He offered extravagant bows, air kisses, and flourishes of his gloved hand to every passing lady and lord. But it was Malum who drew his full attention the moment he saw it.

Jona gasped.

“My stars—what a find! That ring! On your hand—where did you get it?” he asked, practically gliding across the floor until he stood toe-to-toe with Malum, eyes fixed on the stag engraved in bronze.

Malum looked at the ring, then back at the noble. “Found it, as one does.”

Jona leaned in, his voice lowering. “Do you even realize what you’re wearing? That crest belongs to House Altman—or it did, two generations ago. A noble family brought low by scandal and stubbornness.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “Though... not my branch. That would explain the difference in your posture—far too elegant for my cousins.”

He took a half-step back, examining Malum more closely. “And those eyes... Emerald, aren’t they? You don’t have Altman blood. No, no. You’re something else entirely.”

Malum offered a smooth smile. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Clearly a rogue element,” Jona mused. “Possibly dangerous. Definitely interesting.”

Liara returned just in time to hear the tail end of that comment, arms crossed. “We’re here on business, not for amusement.”

“Oh, darling, everything is business. You just haven’t learned how to monetize your charm yet.”

Malum cleared his throat. “Jona Altman, I presume?”

“The one and only. Or at least the best-dressed.” He held out his hand. “And you are?”

“Malum Caedo,” he said simply, shaking it. “Silverrun cadet.”

Behind him, Daniel leaned in toward Liara. “The stag kind of suits him, doesn’t it?”

Liara raised a brow. “It’s certainly ominous.”

“I was thinking... if we ever open a private company, like... I don’t know, mercenary work or logistics,” Daniel said, scratching the back of his neck, “the stag wouldn’t be a bad crest.”

Malum overheard and smirked. “Let’s survive this dance first before we design logos.”

Jona clapped. “Oh, yes! That’s the spirit. Survive the dance, then sell your legend.” He twirled once, theatrically. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to insult someone’s choice of drapery and find the nearest scandal. Ta-ta!”

He vanished into the crowd like a gust of perfume and wine.

Daniel blinked. “That... was a man.”

Liara shook her head. “A disaster. But an informative one.”

Malum turned the ring once on his finger and felt the faint hum again—energy, potential, and something older beneath it.

“Well,” he said, “at least we know we’ve made an impression.”

The trio didn’t have long to enjoy the lull.

Moments after Jona disappeared into the crowd, the string quartet shifted to a slower, more deliberate tempo. The rhythm gave the impression of conversation cloaked in velvet—perfect for eavesdropping or quiet manoeuvring. Malum leaned subtly against a pillar, one eye on the dancefloor and the other on the ring.

Its presence was curious. Each time he twisted it on his finger, his body felt lighter, thoughts clearer. His fatigue, which had nagged him for weeks during training, had vanished like smoke in wind. And now it bore a history—possibly noble, definitely powerful. That made it dangerous.

Daniel fidgeted next to him, stiff as a statue in the growing sea of nobles.

“I hate this,” he muttered. “I’d rather be in a sparring pit with two broken ribs than talk to these people.”

“Let’s not give them ideas,” Malum said under his breath.

As if summoned by misfortune, a portly merchant in gold trim approached Daniel, drink in hand, and began talking about the price of cotton exports and how it related to cavalry saddle production. Daniel’s face froze. Panic was subtle but real. His eyes screamed for rescue.

Liara appeared behind the man like a stormcloud. “If your house imports from the Traston coast, you’re in for disappointment,” she said flatly. “The blockade’s been in place for three weeks. You’d know that if you read past the first page of the war bulletins.”

The merchant’s smile faltered. “Well, I—”

“Additionally, your house was publicly fined last season for tax irregularities in port tariffs,” she added.

The merchant blinked and backed away, muttering about checking on his wife.

Daniel exhaled, looking at her like she’d saved him from a burning building. “That was... effective.”

“It was fun,” Liara replied, already scanning for the next potential threat.

But she was hardly safe herself.

Over the next hour, no fewer than five noble sons tried their luck with Liara. One asked her to dance. She declined with a lecture on the military expenditure of his father’s estate and how it indicated a lack of discipline in house finances. Another commented on her eyes—she responded by listing his great-uncle’s failure during the Siege of Belmar with an eerie level of detail.

By the fourth noble, even Malum felt a little sorry for them.

“Do you ever let anyone off easy?” he asked, swirling his drink.

“Only the competent,” she said, brushing past him.

Daniel leaned in again. “If she flirts with someone, I’m leaving.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Malum replied.

And just like that, the crowd shifted again—Jona Altman, in his flowing emerald silks, reappeared with a grin like sunlight off glass.

“Darling!” he called to Malum, waving a feathered fan. “I’ve decided. If you die in battle, I get the ring. Agreed?”

“Let’s table that conversation,” Malum replied dryly, hiding a smile.

“Fine. But don’t let it go to waste.”

Jona had hardly finished spinning away from Malum before he collided—deliberately—with Liara, who had just dismissed another noble with a historical insult sharp enough to draw blood.

“Oh, my stars, it’s you,” Jona said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “The she-wolf of Silverrun! Quick—snap at me, I need to feel alive.”

Liara’s brow twitched. “You’re in my way.”

“That’s where all the interesting people are,” he said, tilting his head. “What’s your name, darling? So I know what to embroider when I’m crying into my pillow later.”

“Liara.”

“Mmm. Strong. Commanding. Vaguely threatening. You’ll be popular, if you survive.”

Liara’s arms folded. “Is this how you network? You float around insulting people and hoping someone rich finds you charming?”

“It’s worked surprisingly well,” Jona said. “Not that you’d understand. You weaponize facts the way others use poison. Tell me—what’s your opinion on House Vellencourt’s grain tariffs?”

“They’re unsustainable. Like your presence.”

Jona’s laugh was theatrical and genuine. “Oh, I do love a good frontal assault. But do you really think you can just walk into the ballroom, dripping disdain, and not get pushed back?”

“I don’t recall asking for your approval,” she replied coldly. “Or your opinion.”

Just then, Malum arrived, catching the rising tension in the air.

“Oh by the Gods, can’t you just—” he began, exasperated.

Jona turned to him, eyes gleaming. “Ah! My saviour. Come to put your wolf on a leash?”

Liara stepped in, voice sharp as ever. “Am I yours to command? Does the collar 'round my neck have your name on it? I kneel to no one but the Emperor, and you most certainly don’t speak for him.”

Jona blinked, amused and visibly impressed.

“You literally wear a collar,” Liara added with a tilt of her head, smirking.

“I may choose to kneel recreationally,” Jona quipped, with a flourish of his fan. “Consent is key, darling.”

Daniel, watching from the side lines, covered his mouth to hide a laugh.

Malum stepped between them and addressed Jona directly, tone cool but clear. “We’re here to build alliances, not trade insults.”

“Oh, I was building,” Jona said. “It’s not my fault your friend uses bricks made of contempt and razor wire.”

Malum ignored the jab. “Ten spears go into battle and nine shatter,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “Did the war forge the one that remained? No. All the war did was identify the spear that would not break.”

A hush fell briefly in the nearby circle. Jona looked at him, expression unreadable, then gave a slow, dramatic clap.

“Well said,” he replied. “You’ll do well here. Or die spectacularly. Either way, memorable.”

With that, the trio turned and began to move through the ballroom, leaving Jona behind amid a throng of whispers.

But the noble wasn’t done yet.

Later, during a toast led by Lord-General Cassavir, Jona stepped forward unexpectedly, raising his voice.

“Ever since I lost my wife,” he said, standing tall with a rare earnestness, “I swore I would push myself to become the greatest member of His Majesty’s court this empire has ever seen. Let the past burn if it must—but I will not fade with it.”

A voice from the crowd called out mockingly, “Still not taking you back, Jona!”

Jona didn’t miss a beat. “WELL FUCK YOU TOO, STACY!”

Glasses clinked awkwardly. Someone stifled a laugh. But Jona stood proud, smiling like a man who had already turned his scars into stories.

The moon hung high above Silverrun as the carriage rattled back toward the academy, its wheels cutting through the silence of the evening. The city lights dimmed behind them, replaced by the quiet rustle of wind over stone.

Inside, Daniel sat with his arms crossed, eyes closed as though trying to erase the memory of a hundred failed small-talk attempts. Malum lounged across from him, fingers idly toying with the stag ring, still faintly humming with unseen magic. Liara sat beside him, her gaze distant, brows furrowed in thought.

“Well,” Malum said, breaking the silence. “That went better than expected. No poison, no duels, and only one public shouting match.”

Liara finally spoke. “I’ve never heard of him before.”

Daniel cracked open one eye. “Jona?”

She nodded. “I’ve read dossiers on all the major noble houses. Altman shows up in history, sure. Two branches—one ruined by scandal, the other faded after the South Reforms. But Jona Altman? Nothing. No records, no political mentions, not even gossip. It’s like he doesn’t officially exist.”

Malum raised a brow. “Then how does a man like that get into the same room as Cassavir and the high court?”

Daniel sat up straighter, thoughtful now. “Maybe he’s a ghost from the archives. Someone erased... or someone who made himself invisible.”

“Or,” Liara added, “he’s exactly what he appears to be: an attention-seeking socialite playing five games at once and laughing when people assume it’s just fashion.”

Malum leaned his head back against the wall of the carriage. “He recognized this ring,” he said, tapping the stag with a knuckle. “Said it belonged to a lost branch of his house. He even called me elegant for not being one of them.”

“You are elegant,” Daniel offered.

“Not the point.”

Liara’s brow pinched tighter. “If he’s telling the truth, and that ring was once an Altman heirloom, then why do I know nothing about it? A sigil like that should have left a trail—marriages, treaties, scandals. But there’s nothing.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Malum said, voice low. “Maybe someone wanted the trail buried.”

Daniel looked between them. “So... we’re thinking possible ex-noble turned spy?”

Liara shook her head. “I don’t think he’s a spy.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

“I think,” she continued, “he’s something worse. I think he’s a variable—unaccounted for, unpredictable, and completely outside the models we’ve built. He’s not working for someone. He’s working for himself.”

Malum gave a soft hum. “Those are the most dangerous kind.”

The carriage rolled on, quiet again for a stretch. Then Daniel said, “Still. That stag would look good on a banner.”

Malum chuckled. “Let’s survive the next meeting with Commander Ardyn before we start ordering embroidery.”

Liara smiled faintly, despite herself. “And next time, let me handle the nobles.”

“You mean scare them off?” Daniel said, grinning.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Malum looked down at the ring again, feeling the quiet thrum in his bones—strength, clarity, something ancient and watchful.

They were getting closer to something. And for the first time in weeks, Malum wasn’t sure if they were ready for it

Chapter Text

Two years had passed since Malus first stepped through the gates of Camp Caldrick — a boy then, colder than most, yet still learning how to wield his hunger for greatness. Now, after raids, skirmishes, and sleepless marches under blood-red skies, he no longer needed to pretend. He had become exactly what the Empire asked of him: ruthless, refined, and terrifyingly capable.

Team Three had grown into more than a squad. They were a weapon.

They stood on a jagged ridge overlooking the Monocian borderlands. Winds howled through the crags like wolves, but none of them flinched. Malus stood at the edge, his long coat snapping around his legs, one hand resting loosely on the hilt of his longsword. His left eye — sharp emerald — searched for movement among the distant trees. His right — baby blue, calm and cold — barely blinked.

He saw everything. And nothing worth fearing.

“Monocians are moving again,” Natasha said, stepping up beside him. Her spear was slung over one shoulder, but her muscles were already coiled, ready. “Scouts say they’re testing the valley paths.”

“They can test,” Malus replied, voice low and measured. “We’ll break the results.”

Natasha smirked. “Still dramatic.”

“No. Just accurate.”

Behind them, the rest of the team approached. Clement, silent and sharp-eyed, turned one of her curved daggers in her hand — the new one, a karambit-style blade with a hooked handle. It shimmered like a claw. Her stance was looser now, more relaxed, but there was a brutal economy to her movements that hadn’t been there before.

Henry shifted the weight of his shield, mace slung against his back. His face was set, less wide-eyed than the boy from camp, though still quiet. Barney nodded once, carrying his tower shield like it was part of his body, axe resting against his hip. Meg lingered at the edge of the group, bow in hand, arrow half-drawn — always watching, always calculating the wind.

There were no orders. No rallying cry. They had done this too many times to need one.

Their mission was simple: intercept a Monocian supply convoy, burn the wagons, and disappear before the enemy could send reinforcements.

As they moved down the ridge in practiced silence, Malus paused. His breath caught for a moment — not from fear, but from instinct. He didn’t look back, didn’t speak.

But he felt it.

They moved like ghosts.

Malus led them through the underbrush, each footfall placed with deliberate quiet. The descent from the ridge into the valley was steep and narrow, ideal for funneling prey. The Monocians had chosen a predictable route — flanked by cliffs on one side and a shallow river on the other. No room to maneuver. No room to flee.

The perfect place to die.

From their elevated position behind a line of jagged boulders, Team Three watched the convoy approach. Two wagons, six guards in the lead, four following behind, and a pair of horsemen scanning the flanks — standard escort formation. Efficient but unimaginative.

Malus crouched behind a thorn bush, his fingers tapping silently on the hilt of his sword. Natasha knelt beside him, her eyes locked on the center cart. “Looks like food and arms. Could be headed to a forward camp.”

Clement crouched lower, her karambit already drawn, blade glinting like the crescent moon. “I can take the riders. They’re too far apart to support each other.”

Malus gave a short nod. “Do it quietly. Henry, Barney—create a wall once the lead wagon passes that rock. Meg, stay in the tree line. Wait for my signal.”

“What’s the signal again?” Meg whispered.

Malus smirked. “Me jumping on someone’s head.”

“Oh. Classic.”

The convoy rolled closer. Dust plumed behind the wheels, the creak of wagons barely audible under the rush of wind and trickling river. The lead horseman turned his head just as Clement vanished into the shrubs.

Ten seconds later, he slumped from his saddle without a sound, throat slit, eyes wide in confusion. The second never saw her coming either.

The front wagon passed the rock.

Malus burst from cover.

He landed atop the lead guard, knees driving the man to the dirt. His sword was out before the Monocian could scream, sliding between collar and chest plate. The next fell with a spear through the gut—Natasha, fluid and fast, spinning to block another with the haft.

Barney roared from the side path, shield first. It slammed into a startled guard, sending him sprawling, axe descending a heartbeat later with a sickening crunch.

Henry followed close behind, mace swinging in an overhead arc that shattered the helmet of another soldier like it was tin.

The convoy erupted into chaos.

“INCOMING!” one Monocian shouted—too late.

Meg’s arrow sang through the air and pinned him to the side of the wagon.

The rear guards tried to form a line, but Malus was already there. His longsword flicked outward like a whip, slicing through exposed joints. He pivoted, dodged a strike, parried with precision, and kicked a man’s knee sideways until it gave way with a sickening snap.

One Monocian tried to flee toward the riverbank.

Clement was on him before he took three steps. Her curved blade hooked through the back of his neck, dragging him down like a beast pulling prey into the brush.

And then it was quiet again.

Just the wind, the river, and the low moan of dying men.

Natasha leaned on her spear, panting slightly. “Six minutes. We’re getting faster.”

Henry wiped his mace on a fallen cloak. “No injuries?”

“Just bruises,” Barney grunted.

Malus stood at the centre, sword still dripping. He glanced at the burning carts—Meg had already set them aflame, moving rapidly eagerly setting anything she could aflame.

“Load what we can carry,” he said. “Weapons, food, anything sealed. We move in ten.”

As the team began their work, none of them noticed the bronze shimmer deep in the trees above the ridge. The statue had followed. Silent. Still.

It gazed down upon the carnage—not in horror, not in judgment, but in devotion.

Malus had drawn blood again.

And the statue approved, her Malus is becoming exactly what she envisions.

Malus was the last to sheath his blade, standing amid the wreckage of the supply convoy. The air hung heavy with dust and the faint scent of burnt wood. He watched Meg wrestle sealed ration crates from the second cart, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Then—*a sudden, sharp crack* shattered the fragile silence.

It wasn’t loud enough to be a shout or the clash of steel—just a thin, piercing sound that cut through the stillness like a shard of glass.

Malus didn’t know what struck him at first. A searing heat bloomed across his left shoulder. It was hot, sharp, and unforgiving, as if a bolt of lightning had been thrust into his flesh.

His knees buckled, the world tilting dangerously. He staggered back, fingers trembling as they clawed at the wound. Warm blood welled beneath his palm, slick and sticky.

Pain exploded—not the sharp sting, but a deep, gnawing ache that spread out like wildfire. His breath hitched. The sky seemed to spin, his vision blurring at the edges.

For a moment, time fractured.

There was the faint, desperate sound of Natasha’s voice cutting through the chaos: *“Malus!”* It was raw with panic, a sound he had never heard from her before.

But no one moved.

Then chaos roared to life all around him.

The scent of wet earth and smoke filled his nostrils.

Meg’s small frame dropped beside him, shaking. Her hands were cold despite the heat of his blood.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. “Don’t move... just don’t move.”

His mind screamed to fight back, to stand, to lash out—but his body betrayed him, heavy and sluggish as if bound in chains.

He could hear Henry’s shield scraping against stone as he stepped protectively in front of him. Barney’s voice, low and fierce, cursed the attacker. Natasha’s breath came fast, angry and shallow.

Across the river, the lone Monocian soldier sat astride a black warhorse, silent as a shadow. The strange weapon in his hands gleamed faintly, smoke curling from its tip like a sinister serpent.

Malus blinked against the pain, eyes flicking to the rider’s emblem—the snarling wolf’s jawbone crowned in thorns—a mark that sent a chill deeper than any wound.

Clement stood nearby, still and unreadable. Her fists clenched, but she said nothing. Whatever she knew, she kept locked inside.

Malus swallowed hard, the taste of copper thick on his tongue.

He wanted to curse, to cry out, to rage—but only a faint, ragged breath escaped.

Meg’s hands moved again, tearing a strip from her sleeve, pressing it desperately against the wound.

Blood soaked the cloth almost immediately, hot and unstoppable.

“Water,” she said, voice breaking. “Clean cloth. Barney—now.”

He could hear the urgency in her voice, the fear barely masked by her determination.

And above it all—silent, watchful, ancient—the statue loomed on the slope, cloaked in shadow and moss. Dew dripped from its brow like cold tears.

Its eyes, carved stone long worn smooth, seemed to burn with a fury that no time could dim.

It had seen Malus fall.

It had seen blood spill.

It had felt the stirrings of rage deep in its bones—a rage older than war, older than kingdoms.

The rider vanished down the trail, the echo of hooves fading into the distance.

But the statue remained.

It did not forget.

The trek back to Camp Caldrick was grim.

Malus, half-conscious from blood loss, was carted in on a makeshift stretcher, the strange wound in his shoulder still weeping despite Meg’s desperate efforts. Clement walked in silence, eyes always scanning the treeline behind them. Henry hovered near the stretcher like a restless dog, and Natasha’s knuckles were still white from gripping her spear too hard.

The wooden palisade of Camp Caldrick rose before them like a welcome wall of thorns. As the gates creaked open, a pair of medics rushed forward.

“We’ve got him—bring him here!”

They swept Malus away in a flurry of gauze and commanding voices, leaving Team Three panting, bloodied, and bone-weary in the dirt of the parade ground.

And then came the laughter.

From the shade of the mess tent, Team Two lounged with smug grins and polished armour. Their leader Jeral, , leaned forward and clapped slowly.

“Bravo, Team Three,” he drawled. “Injured on a milk run. Tell us—was it a splinter, or did one of you trip over your own egos?”

More laughter followed.

Clement didn’t flinch. Meg looked like she was ready to cry from exhaustion. Natasha stepped forward, but Henry put a hand on her arm.

“Oh come on,” another Team Two member sneered. “You lot barely handled one patrol. We just repelled a full Monocian charge at Raven’s Gap. Clean. Precise. No casualties.”

“Because we actually train,” Jeral added. “You might try it sometime—between naps.”

But then silence fell.

Not because of a retort—because of them.

Boots moved like whispers across stone.

Team One had returned.

They came in from the eastern path, dark and lean, moving with a synchronicity that made even the most arrogant cadets pause mid-sentence. Their leader, tall and hooded, spoke to no one. The rest were ghosts with weapons—eyes alert, clothes dusty, blades freshly cleaned.

But they were not alone.

The figure walking behind them carried no visible rank but commanded more presence than a general. A man draped in a weathered fur cloak, the centre of which bore a single red stripe running from shoulder to hem. His right cheek was marred by an old burn scar, the skin puckered and angry beneath his stubble. His expression was like carved stone—tired, angry stone.

Someone whispered his name. “That’s a Spectre…”

“S-Spectre Mordin Vakarian…”

One stripe. Only one.

The few veterans in the camp stepped back without a word.

The Spectres were the Emperor’s shadows—his secret hand in every corner of the war. Most cadets had only heard rumours: that they hunted spies, executed traitors, destroyed whole camps alone. Their cloaks marked their power—not more stripes, but fewer. The fewer stripes, the higher the rank. The more dangerous the shadow.

Vakarian scanned the parade ground with cold indifference.

His eyes passed over Team Two like they weren’t even worth dismissing.

Then he looked to the trail of blood the medics had left. He said nothing, but the corners of his mouth tightened—just a fraction.

Then he walked on.

Team One followed in silence, no cheers, no gloating. Just whispers behind them.

“They burned a Monocian outpost to the ground.”

“With a Spectre?”

“They say he broke the commander’s back with one hand.”

Henry exhaled slowly as the group passed. “He didn’t even blink…”

Clement muttered, “He didn’t need to.”

Meg glanced toward the medical tents, her worry for Malus returning like a wave.

But Natasha’s eyes didn’t follow Vakarian or the others.

They stayed fixed on the trail of blood in the dirt, her hands balling into fists.

“I don’t care what that thing was,” she said quietly. “If he shows his face again, I’ll drive my spear through it.”

None of them said it aloud.

But they all knew. Something was changing in this war

Spectre Mordin Vakarian lingered just beyond the shadows of the medical tents, watching as Natasha, Clement, Henry, Barney, and Meg gathered around the small makeshift bed where Malus lay pale and still beneath stained bandages. His emerald eye, now dimmed by injury and exhaustion, flickered beneath closed lids.

The tension around the group was a living thing — Natasha’s fists clenched and unclenched, Clement’s jaw tight, Henry’s stance protective and restless, Meg’s quiet sobs muffled behind trembling hands. Vakarian said nothing, but inside, the gears of his mind turned, measuring strength and weakness, calculating risks in silence.

From the distance, the grating voice of Captain Darsen sliced through the uneasy quiet.

“Alright, everyone! Line up! Form ranks!” he barked, striding into the parade ground with that familiar swagger. His eyes scanned the gathering recruits, landing finally on the half-empty spot where Malus should have stood. “Looks like Malus can’t join us today—poor boy’s too broken to even show his face.”

The camp echoed with smirks and quiet chuckles. The laughter bit sharp against the rawness of the moment.

Vakarian’s gaze snapped toward the captain. The faintest crease of disdain appeared on his face.

Darsen’s grin widened, sensing the challenge.

“You got something to say, Spectre?” he sneered.

Vakarian stepped forward, his voice low and cutting through the noise like a blade.

“I find ‘they’ll never find the body’ a weak threat,” he said evenly, voice like steel sliding over ice. “I prefer ‘they’ll never stop finding pieces of you.’ People will be recovering pieces of you for at least three months. You’ll be alive for at least two of them.”

Darsen faltered, eyes narrowing but unblinking, refusing to back down.

“Better a slow death than a quick one. Means you get to suffer,” he spat, voice dripping venom.

Vakarian’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile, cold and humourless.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But suffering is best left to those who matter.”

The camp fell silent, the tension taut enough to cut.

Darsen looked away, jaw clenched, the colour drained from his face despite his bravado.

Vakarian turned and strode off without another word, the dark cloak swirling around him like smoke.

Behind him, the teams settled into grim formation, the shadows of war lengthening over Camp Caldrick.

Camp Caldrick – Strategy Hall, Three Nights After the Ambush

The officers circled the table like buzzards. Maps, reports, and sealed dispatches littered the surface, but one scroll lay unopened—its seal unmistakable: the Emperor’s flower, red on white.

Vakarian stood alone at the far end, arms clasped behind his back, his posture speaking more than any rank insignia could. The flickering torchlight caught the edge of his plated armor, casting long shadows on the floor.

“You’re not taking Team Three,” growled Captain Darsen, voice strained. “They’re unstable. The boy’s barely alive, the girl’s twitchier than a cat in a thunderstorm, and Clement—gods know what she’s hiding.”

“They’re the only ones who’ve seen the new weapon,” Vakarian said coldly. “They walked through the fire and came out the other side. That’s more than can be said for your handpicked golden boys.”

“They’re broken.”

“They’re awake,” Vakarian countered. “And I don’t need perfection. I need people who’ve already bled for the truth.”

Commander Brynn looked weary. “Vakarian… even if I agreed with you, there are rules.”

Vakarian stepped forward. “Then let’s talk about exceptions.”

He unrolled the scroll, placed it carefully on the table.

Silence fell.

The red flower of the Emperor bled across the parchment like a wound.

A writ of total authority. Unquestioned. Unstoppable.

“You’ve been holding that,” Brynn muttered.

“Waiting for the right moment,” Vakarian replied. “This is it.”

No one spoke again.

Infirmary – Midnight

The oil lamps hissed softly, casting a dull golden light across the rows of beds. Malus lay still, bandaged from shoulder to stomach, sweat glistening on his brow. Clement sat by the door, carving tinkering with her stolen fragments. Henry dozed, snoring gently with a book half-open on his chest. Barney sat next to Malus dabbing cool water onto his brow.

Vakarian entered without a word, cloak dripping with rain. Meg stiffened. Natasha stood.

“I’m not here to argue,” he said, pulling a small glass vial from his belt. The liquid inside shimmered with silver and faint red.

“What is that?” Natasha asked.

“Something from the Emperor’s vaults,” Vakarian replied, kneeling beside Malus. “It won’t heal him. But it’ll stop him from dying.”

He poured the liquid between Malus’s lips.

For a moment, nothing.

Then Malus gasped—eyes wide, pupils dilated. He grunted, hand twitching toward a blade that wasn’t there.

“Easy, soldier,” Vakarian said, hand gently pressing him down. “You’re alive. Try to stay that way.”

Malus coughed, pain flashing across his face. “W-what happened?”

“Later,” Vakarian said. “Rest. You’re still wounded.”

Natasha moved toward the bed, but Vakarian caught her arm.

“A word.”

She followed him to the hall after a slight hesitation, brow furrowed, fists clenched.

“I need your help,” Vakarian said. “I’ve captured a Monocian officer. Low-ranking, but he was near the ambush. Could have answers.”

“And you want me?” Natasha asked.

“You’re angry. Good. Use it.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“He’s in the basement of the old barracks. You’ll assist in the interrogation. I’ll ask the questions—just watch and learn.”

They moved in silence through the rain-slicked paths to the barracks, where the shadows grew heavier and the cold bit deeper.

Inside the holding cell, the Monocian sat chained, bruised, blood crusted under his nose.

Vakarian stepped into the room, Natasha at his side.

The officer smirked. “You think this bitch scares me?”

Vakarian knelt before him, gaze unblinking.

“I’ve heard it said,” he whispered, voice like a blade unsheathing, “we only gain wisdom through suffering. And tonight…”

He leaned in close, the light catching the old scars on his face.

“…I intend to make you very wise.”

The Monocian officer’s smirk faltered as Vakarian reached into his coat and withdrew a small, curved blade—not military issue, not ceremonial—personal. Intimate. Its edge gleamed even in the dim light, and its purpose needed no explanation.

Vakarian placed the blade on the table between them.

“Names,” he said quietly.

The officer spat blood to the side. “Do your worst, fugly.”

Vakarian didn’t blink. He opened a leather pouch and pulled out a fine wire—a garrote. Natasha’s breath caught.

He didn’t use it.

He just laid it beside the blade.

Then he unrolled a cloth containing small glass vials, each with different-coloured powders.

“I said I’d ask,” he murmured, “not that you’d like the questions.”

The Monocian laughed—nervously this time. “You think you can scare me with parlour tricks?”

Vakarian didn’t respond. He selected a red vial, opened it, and poured a fine line of powder across the table’s surface.

The powder hissed and sizzled on contact with the damp air. It smelled like burning citrus and rot.

“You’ve seen what this does,” Vakarian said, finally glancing at Natasha. “They used it on our scouts recently. Their deaths apparently took hours.”

The officer's laughter died.

“You have a choice,” Vakarian said. “Answers—or silence.”

The Monocian’s defiance cracked. It wasn’t a scream or a confession. It came in the form of a tremor in his lip, a tightening of his bound hands.

“I’m just a courier,” he muttered. “I don’t—”

Vakarian moved—swift as a coiled snake. He pressed the edge of the curved blade against the man’s little finger, not cutting—yet.

“Who gave the order?”

The officer swallowed hard. “We didn’t. It came through a proxy. A local nobleman… House Derrow.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a Ganymedean house.”

“Yeah,” the Monocian rasped. “He made a deal. Tried to keep his lands safe… They took his wife. Said if he didn’t help them—feed them supply routes, schedule rotations, hide weapons—she’d die.”

Vakarian’s voice dropped. “What else?”

“There’s a map,” the officer croaked. “Inside his manor. Hidden in the study wall. Shows everything. Camp positions. Movement trails. The Wild Dogs have been using it for months.”

Vakarian stood.

The Monocian slumped in his chains, sweat pouring down his face.

Natasha stared daggers into him. “To go so low…”

Vakarian didn’t argue.

“We move now,” he said. “We save the woman, burn the map, and remind these bastards who the strongest in the Empire are.”

Back at the infirmary, Meg sat beside Malus, who drifted in and out of fevered sleep. Clement had stopped working on her fragments, watching the rain tap against the canvas windows with a look that said she already knew something was about to happen.

Henry stirred as Vakarian stepped inside.

“We ride at first light,” he said. “Pack only what you need.”

Barney raised an eyebrow. “Another mission?”

“A rescue,” Vakarian replied. “You’re not soldiers yet, but I need people I trust. You’ve fought the Wild Dogs. You’ve seen what they’re capable of.”

He looked at each of them in turn. “You’ll get her back—or you won’t come back at all. Understand?”

Barney cracked his knuckles. “Good. I was starting to get bored.”

Henry stood up, eyes serious. “Where is she?”

“In a manor house near the border. Guarded, but not a fortress. They don’t expect us.”

Clement finally spoke. “Ils le feront maintenant.”

Vakarian smiled grimly. “Let them.”

Clement’s look of surprise caught everyone’s attention. She hadn’t known anyone could understand her.

Natasha touched Malus’s arm gently before turning to follow the others. “We’ll bring her back,” she whispered. “And then we’ll settle the score.”

As she took a step away, Malus groaned, grabbing her hand. “Can I come too?” he said with a slight smile.

The rain fell harder as Team Three began to gear up—quiet, focused, the room humming with the calm before the storm.

The road to the border was soaked and rutted, the rain refusing to let up. A black, covered carriage creaked along the path, pulled by two thick-coated horses. Inside, Malus sat propped up on cushions, pale but alert, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of smoke and pine resin. Across from him, Natasha kept glancing out the window, spear resting at her side. The rest of Team Three rode alongside on horseback, cloaks pulled tight, weapons strapped and rain-dappled.

Vakarian rode ahead, but Henry kept his horse close beside the carriage window, talking animatedly through the curtain slit.

“You know this land used to belong to House Lorien before the Unification Wars?” Henry said, soaked curls plastered to his forehead. “The Darrows only got it after the Treaty of Crows, and even then—only because they married into it. The border’s full of old ruins. Statues. Monasteries. Gravesites from every age.”

Vakarian, riding just ahead, chimed in without turning. “There’s even a pre-Empire watchtower near the river fork. Still has some of the old runic carvings. Deteriorated, but legible.”

“Vakarian *reads runes*,” Henry added with admiration. “He taught me some of the basics.”

Inside the carriage, Malus raised an eyebrow at Natasha. “I always forget he’s more scholar than soldier.”

“He’s both,” she said quietly. “Which is why this mission has a chance.”

The rain began to let up as the horses crested a ridge. In the clearing ahead stood a derelict stone farmhouse, half-swallowed by ivy. The roof was sloped, patched in places with tar and scavenged timber. A small barn sagged nearby, its doors hanging crooked.

Vakarian halted his mount and dismounted. “This is it.”

Henry slid from his saddle with a grunt. “It’s perfect. Off the main road, no nearby villages, and it’s not on any current maps.”

As the others approached, Vakarian knocked on the side of the carriage.

“Malus. Natasha. Out here.”

They stepped into the drizzle. Malus leaned on Natasha as he climbed down.

Vakarian gestured to the farmhouse. “We can’t risk setting camp too close to Derrow lands. This will be our base. It’s defendable. One entrance. Vantage on the road.”

Henry added, “Plus, it’s got history. This was part of an old merchant route—there’s likely an underground cistern for water. Maybe even a root cellar.”

Vakarian turned to Malus and Natasha. “Your call. If you don’t like it, we move.”

Malus looked to the house, then to Natasha. She gave a nod.

“It’ll do,” Malus said. “Ill prove myself to the Spectre”, he said while squeezing Natasha tightly.

Later That Night

Inside the farmhouse, Barney and Henry worked to board up windows while Clement inspected for hidden doors or traps. Meg rolled out maps beside Malus, who marked potential escape routes with shaking hands.

Vakarian stood in the doorway, cloak hanging like a shadow.

“Three days,” he said. “We scout tonight. Hit the manor in three.”

Natasha leaned her spear against the wall. “We’ll be ready.”

Vakarian nodded, then stepped into the rain, vanishing into the trees.

Malus lay back, staring at the rafters. “Three days…”

Beside him, Meg smiled faintly. “Plenty of time for you to get better Leader.”

The rain was mist now, a thin veil clinging to every branch. Vakarian moved like a shadow through the treeline, his cloak blending into the dark earth, his breath controlled, silent. The farmhouse was supposed to be at least half a day’s ride from the Derrow estate—but as he crested a wooded hill, the outline of the manor loomed barely a stone’s throw ahead.

He crouched beneath the black limbs of a yew tree.

**Closer than I thought,** he mused. **But it doesn’t change the plan.**

The manor rose out of the fog like a memory of better times. Its spires and arched windows still bore the elegance of Ganymedean nobility, but parts had fallen to disrepair—cracked masonry, a crumbling wing, an unlit guard tower.

Vakarian counted three posted sentries, all Wild Dogs by their gear—patched Armor, sleeveless tunics, rust-stained weapons. None stood like trained soldiers. These were thugs wearing uniforms like skin they hadn’t earned.

With practiced patience, Vakarian slipped between hedgerows and into the estate gardens, moving with the rain. He scaled the outer wall and entered through an unlatched servant window, landing silently in a pantry that smelled of old grain and damp wood.

He didn’t unsheathe his blade.

He didn’t need to.

Lord Derrow’s study was on the second floor. Vakarian found it lit, dimly, the door cracked open just enough to catch the flicker of firelight and the low drone of pacing footsteps.

He entered without a sound.

The fire hissed. Lord Derrow turned and froze—his goblet dropped from his hand, wine spilling across the rug like blood.

Vakarian stood in the threshold, Armor dripping with rain, helmet on. The single red stripe down its centre marked him as one of the Emperor’s elite—**a Spectre**. His cloak, soaked and heavy, hung like judgment itself.

“G-Gods,” Derrow stammered. “You—you’re not supposed to be here!”

Vakarian took a slow step forward, his voice echoing through the helm, metallic and cold.

“You made a deal with the Monocians. You put soldiers at risk. And now you will talk.”

“I—listen, you don’t understand, they have my wife!” Derrow’s voice cracked. “They sent me pieces of her hair, a ring—I had no choice!”

Vakarian tilted his head, like a hawk watching a rabbit tremble.

“There is always a choice.”

“I didn’t know they’d target your scouts!” Derrow cried. “They told me it would be—*disruptive*, not lethal! I only gave them schedules, roads! I didn’t know—”

Vakarian stepped closer. The firelight caught the etched metal of his chest plate, old campaign scars layered beneath the fresh shine of imperial steel. Derrow backed against the bookcase, eyes wide.

“I’ll help you!” he blurted. “I’ll give you the map, the route, the guards—anything! Just don’t tell the Emperor. Don’t tell my father-in-law.”

Vakarian paused, silent.

Then: “Where is she?”

“They keep her in the east wing. Hidden. No staff is allowed there. There’s a trapdoor behind the old tapestry in the solar.”

Vakarian nodded once.

“You’ll stay quiet,” he said.

Derrow nodded desperately.

“If you warn them, if I see one extra guard—”

“I won’t! I swear!”

Vakarian stepped back into the shadows, voice low.

“Good. Because I’m not the only one coming.”

And then he was gone, the door left open to the flickering fire and the stench of wine-soaked fear.

The old farmhouse creaked under the weight of gathering clouds. Rain tapped lightly against the windows, and the smell of damp earth drifted through the cracked shutters. Inside, the main room was dimly lit by a sputtering lantern, its glow casting long shadows across the wooden floor and the gathered members of Team Three.

They were quiet.

Focused.

Waiting.

Natasha knelt beside Malus, carefully unwinding the old dressing from his side. Her hands were strong, but gentle—the kind you could trust to steady a spear or bandage a wound. Malus winced slightly as the cool air hit the healing scar.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“I’ve had worse,” Malus replied, forcing a crooked smile.

Natasha didn’t believe it, but said nothing. She helped him sit up and reached for his cuirass, helping him into it with practiced ease.

As she tightened the straps, Malus stared down at his hands—calloused, trembling.

“…Nat,” he said quietly.

She paused, looking up at him. His mismatched eyes—emerald and baby blue—shimmered with something more than pain.

“I don’t think I can lead us.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not like Malum,” he said, voice cracking. “He’s always known what to say. What to do. He’s *clever*. People follow him because he makes them feel like they’ll win. I train. I fight. But I…” He broke off.

She waited.

“I got Hurt. I hesitated. I didn’t see it coming. And now you’re all here, risking your lives, and I can barely stand.”

His fists curled against his knees. “What kind of leader is that?”

Natasha set the last strap and knelt in front of him, hands still on his Armor. Her voice was firm, but quiet.

“You’re the one we *chose*. Not because you're perfect. Because you're one of us, an Equal we all trust with our lives.”

He tried to look away, but she pulled him in. And then the words were too heavy to hold.

Malus wept—silent at first, then shuddering, his forehead pressed into her shoulder, tears hot against the curve of her neck. She didn’t move. Just held him there.

Barney, standing near the hearth, had turned slightly when he heard the shift in breath. He didn’t say anything. Just watched for a moment, something settling behind his eyes.

And then he spoke—softly, as if to himself.

> “The man encased in iron…
> He was a strong man.
> His wife, she was the only one worthy enough
> to see how tired he was.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just turned and grabbed the whetstone for his axe.

Henry sat cross-legged by the window, writing quickly but with purpose. His brow furrowed as he finished a line, then he nodded to himself, snapped the book closed, and slid it behind the plate of his chest Armor. He stood and fastened his helmet with a *click*—more knight than boy, now.

Across the room, Meg was fidgeting with her quiver, fingers shaking as she tried to count her arrows.

“Thirteen... fourth—oh gods, I dropped—” *Clatter.*

Barney knelt down without a word and helped gather the scattered arrows, checking each tip with surprising delicacy for someone with arms like tree trunks.

“You’re not alone, short stack,” he said, handing them back.

She gave him a grateful smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Clement stood near the door, sharpening the curved edge of her curved blade with measured, rhythmic pulls. The glint of steel caught the lantern light as she slid it into the sheath at her hip. Then she checked the strange tube strapped to her belt—small, compact, loaded.

She was ready.

They all were.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was a shared understanding—words unspoken, oaths remembered.

And then the door creaked.

Vakarian stepped in, rain clinging to the edges of his cloak, helmet still on, red stripe gleaming like fresh blood in the low light.

He didn’t need to say a word.

Team Three rose—quiet, calm, and ready for war.

The mist clung to the hills like a shroud, turning the moonlight silver and strange. Not even the horses snorted. The world held its breath.

The team moved like ghosts.

The mist clung to the hills like a shroud, turning the moonlight silver and strange. Not even the horses snorted. The world held its breath.

The team moved like ghosts.

Just inside the tree line, where branches curled like fingers over their heads, Malus and Meg remained behind. The horses shifted quietly around them, their reins looped loosely over low branches.

Malus sat against an old fence post, adjusting the straps of his Armor with one hand. His other rested over the bandaged wound on his shoulder—slowly healing, still aching. Each breath reminded him he was alive. Barely.

Meg stood nearby. Arms crossed. Head down. Still.

No fidgeting. No bouncing. No humming some half-forgotten tavern tune like she usually did.

Just silence.

“I should’ve seen it,” she said at last, voice low, brittle as frost.

Malus looked over, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t face him. Just stared at the ground. “I’m the eyes,” she whispered. “That’s my job. And I missed the trap. You nearly died.”

The words hung heavy in the damp air.

She turned away, her shoulders stiff. “If I hadn’t been distracted—if I’d just been better…”

Malus winced as he stood. The movement pulled at the wound, but he ignored it and crossed the distance between them. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Meg,” he said, quiet but firm, “you’re the reason I’m standing right now. You screamed. You dragged me out. You tied the wound. You saved me.”

She shook her head, blinking fast.

“But I didn’t stop it from happening,” she said again. Softer this time. Like she didn’t believe herself anymore.

“You’re not perfect,” he said. “None of us are. But you're still the best scout we have. I trust you with my life. I already have.”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

“Are you… mad at me?”

He gave her a faint smile.

“Only if you keep doubting yourself.”

Her lip trembled. Then she gave a watery laugh and snapped a shaky salute. “Yes, sir.”

The manor loomed in the fog, its edges softened by time and weather. Ivy coiled like veins across its stone walls. Its halls echoed with old wealth and quiet fear.

Inside, the infiltration was smooth—*too* smooth. The kind of quiet that made seasoned killers nervous.

Clement led, her blades flickering in and out of sight like silver ghosts. Locks surrendered without protest. Throats followed.

Henry and Barney covered the rear, shadows against shadows. Natasha crept at Vakarian’s side, her spear angled low, steps practiced and deliberate.

They moved like predators who had been hunted before.

In the drawing room, Lord Darrow waited, his fingers tugging at his cuffs over and over. The fire had long since died in the hearth. When Vakarian emerged from the dark, the noble nearly stumbled back.

The red stripe on that black helm caught the low light like blood.

“Spirits…” Darrow whispered. “You could’ve warned me.”

“Too late for courtesies,” Vakarian said. His voice didn’t echo—it *cut*.

“She’s below. Two guards,” Darrow said, voice shaking. “I’ll speak to them.”

Vakarian nodded once.

The descent into the cells was cold. Stone walls wept. Water dripped slowly—endlessly.

Two guards looked up as Darrow approached, cloaked in shaky authority.

“Master Zaeed has given me permission to visit my wife,” he said. He tried to sound confident. Almost pulled it off.

One guard smirked. “Didn’t know broken men still called ‘em wives.”

The other snorted. “Careful she doesn’t bite—”

Clement struck like lightning. Steel flashed, wet and red.

Before the second guard could cry out, Vakarian moved behind him. The body collapsed in silence.

Darrow fumbled with the key. The cell door creaked open.

Mirra sat in the straw, thin and bruised—but not broken. Her eyes burned.

She saw him.

He fell to his knees.

“Mirra…”

She didn’t move at first. Then the realization struck. Her breath hitched. She ran to him, stumbling into his arms.

In a side chamber, where old Armor gathered dust on cracked walls, they lingered.

She touched his face, brushed the stubble along his jaw.

“You’ve aged.”

“You’re perfect,” he murmured.

She laughed, and he caught her hand, held it like something sacred.

> “If I had three lives…
> I’d marry you in two.
> And in that third life—that slightly slower, dimmer one—
> I probably would’ve been a writer.
> Sat up in a corner, trying to pen you into existence.
> Not knowing you… but still knowing I was missing something.”

She pulled him close. And for a moment, the world forgot to be cruel.

On the ridge above the manor the Rain whispered against plate and leather. The world had grown quiet again—too quiet.

Commander Zaeed sat atop a grey stallion, high above the manor. His blackened Armor bore no heraldry. The only mark was the jagged tooth painted on his shoulder guard—a sigil for those who didn’t need banners to be feared.

Around him, the Wild Dog Knights waited. Twenty riders. Seasoned. Silent.

Below, through spyglasses and slitted visors, they watched the escape unfold.

Zaeed chewed the end of a twig. His eyes didn’t blink.

“Is that *him*?” he asked, voice low.

One of his men nodded. “Red stripe on the helm. Vakarian.”

Zaeed grinned, lips parting around the twig. “A Spectre. Alive and breathing.”

He leaned forward slightly in his saddle.

“Do you know how many bards I could pay with his name alone?”

No one answered.

“I’ve gutted knights. Skinned war priests. Burned duellists in their own sanctuaries. But *that one*…”

He narrowed his eyes.

“They say he trained in fire. Slept in ice. Watched his whole team die, and didn’t flinch.”

Zaeed cracked his neck slowly, rolled his shoulders.

“Let the noble rats scurry. We’re not here for them.”

He pointed to the silhouette walking beside the horses—taller, heavier Armor. The shadow that moved like it carried ghosts.

“We wait,” Zaeed said. “The next time they stop… we strike.”

He smiled, slow and cruel.

“And I take that iron bastard’s head.”

The team regrouped at the treeline, breath steaming in the cold night air. Mirra clung to Darrow’s side, her eyes never still, darting from shadow to shadow. Clement and Natasha held the flanks, their blades slick with rain. Henry kept watch behind, mace in hand, while Barney walked his axe in both hands, his tower shield slung across his back.

Malus leaned on Meg for support. His face was pale but focused, lips pressed tight. Every few steps, he winced.

They didn’t speak.

Then—one torch flared in the distance. Then another. And another.

Dozens.

All around them, in a wide arc. Red-orange halos of flame illuminating shapes in the mist.

They stopped walking.

The team turned slowly, weapons half-raised, uncertain.

“Back to the farmhouse,” Vakarian ordered.

They didn’t question him. They ran.

The rain picked up, falling in thick sheets. The farmhouse loomed ahead—abandoned, rotted, with broken shutters and a sagging porch. They spilled inside, breath ragged, hearts thudding. Meg barred the door. Barney slammed his shield into place to reinforce it.

Outside, the torches closed in, hemming them in a ring of firelight.

Inside, the nobles panicked. Darrow and Mirra immediately slid down the corner wall. “We’re trapped!” Darrow cried. “They’ve come for us! The Wild Dogs—”

“Silence,” Vakarian barked.

Outside, the first torches flared.

Then another.

Then dozens.

A wide ring of flickering fire surrounded the farmhouse, licking through the mist. Figures moved just beyond the torchlight—shadows hunched and twitching, like beasts waiting for the signal.

The air thickened. The nobles grew louder.

“Oh God,” Mirra whispered.

“The Wild Dogs…”

Vakarian said nothing. He stood by the shattered doorway, broadsword drawn, both hands on the hilt. The rain dripped off his Armor, his helm reflecting firelight. Silent. Unmovable.

Then came the laughter.

Cackling, wheezing, unpredictable.

From the mist, the Wild Dogs emerged in jagged lines—barefoot in the mud, their bodies marked with tattoos and red paint. They moved erratically, some dancing in circles, others grinding their teeth or howling to the sky. Several chewed bitterroot or the thin white mushrooms known for inducing battle frenzy.

But despite the madness, they were disciplined.

They did not charge.

They waited.

And then, 'he' arrived.

Commander Zaeed rode in on a grey stallion, rain beading on the black metal of his Armor. A faded wolf pelt hung across his shoulders, the fur soaked and dripping. His long beard was tied with metal rings that clinked softly as he turned to survey the farmhouse.

He took his time.

His gaze slid across the faces inside—lingered on the nobles, passed over Malus, then narrowed on one figure at the window.

Barney.

Zaeed’s eyes locked onto the axe slung across the boy’s back. A thick, brutal thing, etched with old family runes. The iron was dark and uneven, the edge weathered but wicked.

Zaeed’s voice was a low growl:
“That axe. That’s the one.”

Barney furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“I smelled rust and stone in the tent,” Zaeed continued. “A cleaved skull. No clean cut. Just brute force. One of my scouts managed to crawl back with half a face. Said he found your camp. Said he paid for it.”

He pointed again.
“It was you. That axe killed him.”

Barney scowled. “This axe has been in my family since before I was born. I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy,” Zaeed sneered. “That kind of steel remembers blood.”

Inside, the team stiffened. Tension crackled in the air.

Malus and Natasha shifted closer to each other, weapons ready.
Back to back.
Unspoken trust.

Clement stood to the side, dagger in one hand, her strange tube-like device in the other. Her expression was unreadable, but the line of her jaw was tight. Ready.

Vakarian stepped forward.

Wordless.

His broadsword gleamed with reflected firelight, both hands wrapped around the grip. A statue carved from war.

Zaeed turned in his saddle.

And then—
**“WHAT ARE YOU?!”**

The Wild Dogs roared:

**“WARRIORS!”**

He shouted again, louder:

**“WHAT ARE YOU?!”**

**“WARRIORS!”**

They cackled and twitched, mushrooms fueling their bloodlust. Rain poured. Torches flared brighter.

**“WHAT ARE YOU?!”**

**“WARRIORS!”**

Thunder cracked, revealing just how many of them there were.

Rows. Dozens. Hundreds. A full encirclement. Wild Dog knights, berserkers, stalkers. Soldiers who fought like animals but thought like tacticians. The farmhouse was a trap now. A last stand.

Inside, silence reigned.

Malus gripped his sword. Natasha spun her spear in her hand. Barney raised his axe slowly, jaw clenched. Henry stepped forward beside them, shield raised.

Clement clicked her device. It hissed faintly.

Meg notched an arrow.

Vakarian took one slow breath.

Outside—

**“WARRIORS!”**

They advanced a step.

And the farmhouse held its breath.

Chapter Text

Malum slumped onto the rough wooden bench, muscles aching, sweat still drying on his skin. The roar of the crowd had faded, replaced by the low hum of conversation and the distant clatter of training blades. Dust hung in the air like smoke, mingling with the iron tang of blood and the sour stench of failure.

A year. A whole year at the academy. Twelve long months of drills, lectures, operations, and combat trials. The Stag Trio had arrived as prodigies—sharp, confident, untouchable. They had won fights others feared to enter, shattered expectations, bent rules. Their name had carried weight. But now…

Two defeats. Back-to-back. Humiliating. Public.

Malum could still feel the bruises forming under his ribs where the hammer had struck. He couldn’t decide what ached more: his body or his pride. Across the sparring pit, junior officers were already whispering. The Stags were falling.

Beside him, Daniel sat rigid, his broad shoulders tense as a drawn bow. His breathing was calm, but Malum could see the twitch in his jaw—barely restrained rage and self-recrimination. Blood still dripped down Daniel’s knuckles, not from the fight, but from punching a wall afterward.

“We’re better than this,” Daniel muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “We’ve trained harder than anyone. We bled for this.”

Malum didn’t answer. He kept his gaze on the ground, watching a drop of his own sweat fall and disappear into the dry dirt.

Across the training yard, Liara stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her posture was immaculate, her face an unreadable mask. But even at a distance, Malum could sense it—the coldness in her stance. A kind of detachment, clinical and deliberate, like she was already halfway gone.

When his eyes finally met hers, she broke the gaze almost instantly, turning to leave. That quick flicker of retreat cut deeper than any blade. It was subtle but final—like the snapping of a bowstring under too much strain.

He looked away, jaw clenched. For the first time in months, he didn’t feel like the clever, confident tactician. He just felt… lost.

Later that evening, the tavern was dimly lit and near-empty, the kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone kept to their own misery. Daniel found Liara sitting alone in a corner booth, her untouched drink resting in front of her. The candle between them flickered, casting wavering shadows across her face.

He slid into the seat opposite her, silent for a moment.

“You’re pulling away,” he said quietly, keeping his voice level. “What’s going on, Liara?”

She didn’t look at him. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup, slow and deliberate, as if stalling for time. Finally, she spoke—soft, measured, but distant. “Father says I need to move on. That I’ve learned all I can from this team. He believes... you’ve peaked.”

Daniel blinked, the words landing like a slap. “He’s wrong.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

The silence stretched between them.

“You don’t believe that,” Daniel pressed, voice barely above a whisper.

Liara’s eyes flicked up to his, sharp for a moment, then softened. “Of course I don’t. But it’s not about what I believe. He gave me an ultimatum.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly—barely enough to register. But to Daniel, it was everything. The brittle edge beneath her coldness. The pain behind the mask.

He leaned in, resting his arms on the table. “Does it hurt?” he asked, not accusing, not demanding—just asking, as a friend would.

She inhaled shakily, the candlelight catching the shimmer in her eyes. “More than you can imagine.”

And there it was—the truth laid bare in seven simple words. The strategist, the unfeeling officer, the cold mind of the Stag Trio… was breaking.

Neither spoke for a long time after that. They just sat in the flickering light, the silence saying everything that words couldn’t.

Their year at the academy had made them legends in the eyes of their peers. But legend was a fragile thing. And tonight, the cracks were showing.

The next morning, the academy air was stiff with judgment.

Malum sat stiffly in the upper ranks of the lecture hall, the glass windows behind him spilling thin morning light across the polished wooden tiers. A subtle cough from behind him was followed by the low rustle of parchment, then the unmistakable hiss of voices behind cupped hands.

“Fell in two minutes yesterday. Thought the Stags were clever.”

“Maybe the clever one's just fat and lucky.”

“Can’t even keep his girl. You see her walking with Commander Yorrin yesterday?”

Malum didn’t turn. His face remained smooth, his posture impeccable. But the words pressed down, piling like weights on his back. Not loud enough to provoke—just loud enough to poison.

They knew what they were doing. They were always watching. Waiting for the fall.

And Malum could feel it now—an edge of humiliation where once there was pride.

The old instructor droned at the front of the class, his beard wagging as he gestured toward a miniature battlefield suspended in an iron-framed sand table.

“Strategy is vision paired with temperament,” he said. “A commander must think before his men can bleed.”

Vision and temperament. Two things Malum once wore like a second skin. Now, his confidence felt like a mask that wouldn’t quite stay on.

But this was his realm. Strategy.

He stood when his name was called, walking up the stairs of the wooden dais that overlooked the training field. Across from him, already waiting, was Cadet Alden Varik—noble-born, broad-shouldered, with a smirk that had never left his face since they’d arrived at the academy.

“Didn’t think I’d be matched with a relic,” Alden sneered as Malum stepped into position on the opposing platform.

The mock battlefield below was already bustling with academy-trained soldiers, their dulled weapons glinting under the sun. Each squad waited for orders—Malum’s and Alden’s lined up on either side of a dry riverbed littered with mock terrain: wooden barricades, cloth tents, crumbling stone walls.

A servant stood between them, ready to run down each command shouted by the cadet-officers.

“Try not to fall asleep mid-match, Stag,” Alden continued, arms folded. “Though I hear that’s your best tactic these days. Lie down and hope your enemies trip.”

Malum didn’t answer. He sat on a low stool and opened a thin-bound notebook from under his arm. With slow, methodical strokes, he began to draw the field—marking soldiers, terrain edges, weaknesses in Alden’s starting line.

Alden blinked. “Are you sketching right now?”

Malum nodded absently. “If you’re planning to rush me, tell your runner now. I’d like to finish this sketch before you realize you’ve lost.”

There was scattered laughter from students watching. Alden flushed red but waved his servant forward and began barking orders.

The battle began with predictable manoeuvres Alden sent his cavalry around the eastern ridge, hoping for a flanking move, while Malum quietly repositioned his infantry to intercept with a hidden pincer.

Servants sprinted back and forth, relaying increasingly frantic orders.

Malum stayed seated, legs crossed, chin resting in one hand. He barely moved except to whisper a command, or flip a page.

Momentum shifted.

Alden’s cavalry was surrounded in the ridge and forced to retreat—then picked off by hidden archers Malum had embedded in a forested trench. The spectators murmured, some clapping. Malum was pulling ahead.

Alden scowled. “All tactics. No fight in you. Just like your brother, I guess.”

The words were quiet—but they landed like a slap.

Malum froze.

He hadn’t told anyone. Not openly. That Malus might be dead. That the Wild Dogs had him. It was a whisper, a wound still too raw to name.

And yet Alden stood across from him, grinning like he’d just slit a throat.

Something cracked.

Malum closed the book.

Then he stood.

The crowd noticed the shift before Alden did. Malum’s steps were slow, deliberate. He crossed the platform with the heavy silence of a gathering storm.

“Say it again,” Malum said, voice calm, almost curious.

Alden sneered. “I said—”

Malum grabbed his arm.

The crack of bone echoed as Malum’s fist struck Alden’s nose. Blood spurted instantly, red and wet across his collar. Alden staggered, eyes wide.

But Malum didn’t stop.

Still holding the arm, he twisted his hips, driving his shoulder into Alden’s chest with brutal precision. Alden gasped, staggered backward—

—and then Malum flipped him.

Over the railing.

Over the edge.

Gasps and shouts erupted as Alden tumbled down with a sickening thud, crashing into the soft dirt of the mock battlefield. One of the wooden barricades cracked beneath him.

A few students stood in stunned silence.

Malum stood above the railing, chest rising and falling with shallow, trembling breaths. Blood from Alden’s nose stained his knuckles.

The instructor stared at him, wide-eyed. The servants had frozen.

Malum’s lips curled in something between fury and regret.

“Next time,” he said coldly, “insult me. Not my family.”

Then he turned and walked out, his boots heavy on the wooden stairs.

The cheers returned only after he was gone—but quieter now. Not admiration. Not laughter.

Fear.

The Stag still stood. But the antlers were bloodstained.

The quiet hum of the infirmary was a stark contrast to the chaos of the mock battle.

Malum sat on the edge of a cot, his right hand stretched out on a tray while a grim-faced medic wrapped stained gauze around his bleeding knuckles. A faint streak of blood had dried along his jaw. He didn’t flinch—his eyes were fixed on the wall ahead, unblinking, almost vacant. The faint ticking of a clock, the sharp scent of antiseptic, and the quiet murmur of medical staff couldn’t touch the cold storm building in his chest.

Behind him stood a disciplinary officer in regulation grey—arms behind his back, eyes locked on Malum like a hawk waiting to strike.

The door opened.

Daniel stepped in first, his towering form tensing as soon as he saw the officer. Then Liara followed, her boots sharp against the stone floor.

She stopped cold.

Her eyes swept over the scene: the bloodied bandages, the crimson spatters on Malum’s uniform sleeves, the silence in his face.

Something in her hardened.

There was no surprise on her face. Just confirmation. The Malum she had once admired—the clever schemer, the master of charm and tactics—was gone.

This was a bruised, bitter fighter. No longer a leader. No longer worthy.

Ardyn entered next, trailed by a second officer bearing a folded report. He looked older today—his silver hair not tied back, his cloak damp from the morning drizzle.

He didn’t sit.

“Do you want to explain to me,” Ardyn said, voice low and dangerously calm, “why one of our most valuable cadets is currently concussed in a medical tent with a dislocated shoulder and three cracked ribs?”

Malum didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the far wall.

“I chose you three,” Ardyn continued, his voice rising like a rolling tide, “because I saw potential. Excellence. Vision. You were the best the academy had to offer—intelligence, strength, precision. But I see now that potential was built on pride, not discipline.”

He turned toward Daniel. “You’ve lost two out of your last five matches. That shouldn’t happen. Not with your strength.”

Then to Liara. “You’re absent from sessions. Cold in briefings. You operate like a lone agent, not part of a team.”

And finally back to Malum. “And you... you were supposed to be the mind of this operation. What I saw today wasn’t leadership. It was vengeance. Personal and reckless.”

Malum lifted his eyes slightly, but said nothing.

“This is your final warning,” Ardyn said, pointing a finger at them like a blade. “I’m assigning you to guard a minor noble—no questions, no complaints. You’re no longer trusted with high-level assignments.”

He looked to Liara.

“Are we understood?”

But Liara didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she stepped forward, her voice sharp and measured. “Commander... with respect, I would like to formally request reassignment. A new team leader. Father demands it.”

The words struck the room like a blade against glass.

Daniel inhaled sharply. Malum, still facing forward, blinked once.

Ardyn narrowed his eyes. “Now’s not the time for internal drama, Lieutenant.”

“It’s not drama,” Liara replied, her tone not rising, not breaking. “It’s clarity. This team has lost its purpose. Our leader has become emotionally compromised, and the damage is spreading.”

Malum’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t speak. Not yet.

“I care about them,” she added quietly, nodding toward Daniel, not Malum. “But caring doesn’t excuse incompetence. Father sent me here to rise, not to fall with a sinking ship.”

Daniel stepped forward, his voice rough. “Liara, come on—he lost control, yeah, but—”

“No,” she snapped, turning toward him. “He’s not who he was, Daniel. Neither are you. And I’m done pretending.”

For the first time, Malum spoke.

“Fine,” he said simply.

The room fell still.

Malum stood, the medic still halfway through the wrapping. His eyes met Liara’s—not angry, not cold, but strangely... calm.

“If that’s what you want,” he said, voice soft, “I won’t stop you.”

That shook her.

For a moment, Liara hesitated, something flickering behind her eyes. But she turned away before it could settle.

Ardyn nodded once, jaw tight. “Dismissed. The noble’s estate awaits. You’ll leave at dawn.”

The room began to empty.

Liara didn’t look back.

As she walked away, Daniel lingered—watching Malum’s bandaged hands, his rigid spine, his clenched jaw. He knew Malum wasn’t okay. Not by a long shot. But he also knew better than to press him now.

Instead, Daniel followed Liara out with heavy footsteps, leaving Malum alone.

The disciplinary officer gave one final nod and exited as well.

Only the medic remained.

“You need the rest of the wrapping,” he muttered.

Malum just nodded. But his mind was elsewhere—trapped in echoes of pride, of loss, of falling pieces. The trio had shattered.

And for the first time since Silverrun, Malum didn’t know how to fix it.

The tavern they chose was tucked into one of the older corners of Silverrun—a smoky, low-ceilinged relic of stone and oak that smelled of wet boots and roasted boar. It was where the veterans went to disappear, not to reminisce.

Malum stepped through the door in silence, hood raised, fatigue clawing at his spine. The day had left him hollow. Bandages peeked beneath his sleeves, and the sting of Ardyn’s words still echoed in his skull.

But they were here.

Varn sat at the far table, boots on the bench, chewing the stem of a pipe he hadn’t lit. The years had not changed him—his jaw still sharp, his eyes still alert, still laughing at danger like it was an old drinking buddy.

To his left was Captain Sira, her thick arms crossed over a faded Ganymedean uniform sleeve, insignia torn but still present like a grudge she refused to let go. Her eyes flicked toward Malum with the casual cruelty of someone who’d buried too many friends to be impressed.

Opposite her sat Old Moln, motionless, carved out of years and granite. His knuckles were as massive as Malum remembered, the teeth he hadn’t lost gritted around a wooden toothpick that hadn’t moved since Malum entered.

“You look like someone set fire to a noble’s birthday cake,” Varn said, voice dry. “Didn’t expect you to show.”

Malum tugged off his hood and sat, the shadows under his eyes more vivid under the oil-lamp glow. “I nearly didn’t.”

Sira raised a brow. “Still learning how to throw a punch properly, or just doing it more often now?”

“Didn’t come here for jabs.”

Moln grunted. “Then why come at all?”

Malum hesitated. “To remember what it felt like to win.”

That caught Varn’s attention. He sat forward, pipe forgotten. “Ah,” he said. “So the boy general bleeds after all.”

Sira gave a short bark of a laugh.

“Lost the edge?” she said. “Or lost the leash on that temper?”

Malum didn’t answer immediately. He let the fire in the hearth crackle between them. These three had seen him during his first deployment. Back when he thought success was only one sharp idea away. They knew the real weight of the work.

“I got sloppy,” he admitted. “Tried to do too much. Let pride talk instead of instinct.”

Moln shrugged. “Happens. Pride’s heavy. Especially on kids who think they’re clever.”

Varn refilled his cup and pushed another toward Malum. “That why you’re really here, though? To talk feelings? Come now. The last time we drank, you’d just tricked a raider company into marching off a cliff.”

“I heard,” Sira said, leaning forward, “that Ardyn’s kicked your trio down a few ranks. That true?”

Malum sipped the drink. Didn’t deny it.

Moln eyed him. “So what’s next?”

That was when Varn chuckled.

“Oh,” he said, “we almost forgot. Might cheer you up.”

He whistled, and from the side room, seven soldiers filed into view—young, worn, familiar in a way that struck Malum deep in his gut.

Barney was at the front, axe slung across his back. Henry followed, nervous but proud, his ginger curls bouncing. Clement lingered at the edge, expression unreadable. And bounding ahead of them—

“Malus!” Meg cried, launching forward.

Malum was caught in a tight hug before he could speak. Meg’s arms flung around him like a child clinging to a long-lost sibling. She smelled like lavender oil and burnt wood.

“I thought you were gone! They told us you—” She blinked, pulled back, squinted. “Wait. You’re not Malus.”

Varn laughed so hard he spilled his drink.

Daniel appeared behind them then, pausing just inside the room.

“She’s not the first to mistake him for his prettier twin,” Daniel quipped. “Though she might be the most aggressive.”

Malum gently placed his hands on Meg’s shoulders, his voice soft. “I’m his brother. Malum.”

Meg blinked. “Oh. Oh stars. You’re—” She looked down, embarrassed. “Sorry. You look like him. Just a little softer.”

Malum smiled thinly. “I’ve heard worse.”

Barney stepped forward, shaking Malum’s hand firmly. “We didn’t know. Not until today.”

“And now we serve under them,” Clement said, looking to Varn.

Varn leaned back, folding his arms smugly. “That’s right. Gave ‘em to us this week. Said they needed ‘real’ officers. But I figure... maybe someone else has a better claim.”

Malum’s brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Varn said, “I’d part with ‘em. For a price.”

Malum hesitated.

“They were with your brother,” Sira said bluntly. “They know him better than any of us ever could. Think they’d follow you, if you asked.”

Barney turned to the others, then nodded. “We would.”

Something inside Malum caught—quiet, raw.

“Name your price.”

Varn grinned. “Commander’s favour. Transfer papers will cost, but we’ll make it work.”

Malum nodded, reaching into his coat to sign the papers Sira slid across the table. As he passed the sealed form back to her, his hand trembled just slightly. He excused himself quietly, stepping out into the alley beyond the tavern door.

The night was cold.

He leaned against the wall, breathing shallow. The truth had crept in without asking: his brother’s legacy, now standing beside him—not as myth, but as weight.

Daniel found him a few minutes later.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s up with you?”

Malum turned, and his trademark smirk flashed.

“Nothing,” he said, voice light. “Just enjoying the night air.”

Daniel didn’t laugh.

His eyes dropped to Malum’s hand—his fist clenched so tightly, the fresh bandages had darkened with blood where his nails had pierced skin again.

Daniel didn’t call him out.

He just nodded slowly and said, “Let’s get back in there.”

And together, they returned to their new team.

The Verdant Stag had been reborn.

The carriage creaked through the twisting streets, shadows flickering over the worn wooden frame as the horses plodded toward Silverrun. Inside, the air was thick — heavy with things left unsaid, fears no one dared voice aloud.

Malum sat stiff-backed, his eyes distant but sharp. The weight of his brother’s legacy rested on his shoulders now, and with it came a clarity that hadn’t been there before. The faintest spark of purpose stirred beneath the fatigue — a quiet but steady flame.

The others were tense, every muscle taut in anticipation.

Then Clement’s voice cut the silence. Low, sharp as a blade. “We’re being followed.”

No one moved at first. The words hung in the air like a warning bell. Before anyone could react, Clement slipped from the carriage, melting into the dark with a predator’s grace.

No one saw her go, but Malum caught a fleeting glimpse of movement — a shadow darting between the trees.

Daniel rose without a sound and vanished after her.

The remaining members glanced at each other, unease knotting their stomachs.

Moments later, muffled sounds reached their ears: a scuffle, grunts, the sharp clack of boots on stone. Suddenly, Daniel reappeared, tackling a man who had slipped toward Clement unnoticed. The fight was brief but brutal — Daniel’s strength and precision ending the threat before it could escalate.

Back in the carriage, Clement returned, dragging a captured woman behind her. The prisoner’s eyes were wide but defiant, flickering between the faces that now surrounded her.

Malum leaned forward, voice low and steady. “Who sent you?”

The woman hesitated—an almost imperceptible pause—then, as if resigning herself, she spoke. “Liara’s network. She… she wanted to keep tabs on you and Daniel.”

Shock rippled through the group. Liara. Watching them. After everything.

The captive’s confession lingered in the stale carriage air — too quick, too willing. Unease rippled through the group.

Clement’s eyes narrowed. “She gave up too easily. Feels like a set-up.”

Barney’s grip tightened on his axe handle. “Who trusts a spy who spills everything right away? Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Malum’s gaze flicked to Daniel. A slight, controlled nod passed between them — silent and decisive.

Without hesitation, Daniel moved forward. In one swift, practiced motion, he ended the captive’s life before suspicions could deepen or second thoughts could arise.

The body dropped, and a heavy silence filled the carriage. No words were spoken. No questions asked.

Malum’s jaw clenched, the weight of the act settling hard.

Clement glanced between Malum and Daniel, a flicker of caution in her eyes. “You move fast, Malum. We just met. What kind of leader are you really?”

Malum’s eyes darkened, voice low and steady. “One who won’t hesitate.”

Outside, the horses clattered on, carrying them back to Silverrun — and into the unknown.

The first light of dawn spilled weakly over Silverrun’s stone walls as the Verdant Stag group approached the gates. The air was crisp, carrying a quiet tension that seemed to settle heavily on everyone’s shoulders.

A contingent of guards flanked the gatehouse, their armour gleaming under the early sun. At their forefront stood Liara—her posture rigid, cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. Her sharp eyes scanned the approaching group, settling immediately on Malum.

He returned her gaze coolly, stepping from the carriage with the measured ease of a man who had long since learned to treat nobles like any other chess piece on the board.

“Liara,” Daniel greeted her quietly but warmly, the faint tension in his voice betraying the brief but sharp sting of separation. “Only two days, but it already feels longer.”

She offered no warmth in return. Her voice was clipped. “Two days are enough to make things clear.”

Malum’s tone was flat, business like as he nodded. “I trust your new position suits you.”

Liara’s lips twitched but she said nothing more, her icy demeanour slicing through the morning air.

Behind Malum and Daniel, the rest of the Verdant Stag team gathered. Henry, ever the proud history buff, produced a small metal emblem—the Stag Sigel, gleaming faintly even in the dawn light. He held it high.

The guards exchanged glances, then, with a quick word, the heavy gates groaned open. The standoff dissipated instantly as the Verdant Stag crossed the threshold, their presence now official.

As Malum passed Liara, his voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and sharp. “Your spies are watching more closely than you think. And it’s not just Ardyn they answer to.”

Liara’s eyes flickered, registering the warning. She made no reply, only a slight tightening of her jaw.

The trio—Malum, Daniel, and Liara—had only been parted for days, but the fractures were already stark. The fragile balance of trust now tipped precariously on whispered secrets and unspoken betrayals.

The iron doors to Commander Ardyn’s office closed with a hiss of oiled hinges. Inside, the air was taut with silence and tension. Liara stood at attention, her crisp uniform immaculate, clipboard in hand, the quill dangling from its clasp like a blade waiting to drop. Daniel and Malum flanked her, though the familiar rhythm between the trio had been replaced with something colder—measured steps, calculated glances, and a palpable distance between breaths.

Liara began without waiting for Ardyn’s prompt. “Updates as requested, Commander. Team Five has completed their escort of Ambassador Trulane. Team Nine is returning from border patrol along the Paleven frontier. Team Eleven remains embedded in Monocian territory under cloak.”

She flipped to the next page, her voice steady.

“Assignments for reintegration and redistribution: The Stormrunners are taking up western tower duty. The Ash Circle has been assigned to internal patrol rotations through the merchant district. The Verdant St—”

She stopped.

The pause was only a beat, but in the quiet of the office, it rang louder than any shout.

She cleared her throat. “Verdant Stag group… has returned from field duty. Currently in transition.”

Commander Ardyn eyed her from beneath his heavy brow but said nothing.

Malum’s mouth curled into something that resembled a smirk. “That’s us,” he said, voice cool. “Newly antlered.”

Daniel gave no sign of reaction. He stood with his hands behind his back, muscles locked like he was carved from old stone.

Commander Ardyn pushed himself up from his chair. “Good,” he said gruffly. “I have a post for you. It’s beneath your rank, but considering your recent… behavior, you’ll take it. You’ll serve as temporary additions to the personal guard of House Garrington.”

Daniel tensed. “A noble house?”

Ardyn nodded. “Their estate’s been under threat—raids, internal unrest, a murder last month swept under the rug. Their regular guard rotation is compromised. Lord Garrington requested soldiers with experience in both field command and independent judgment.”

He locked eyes with Malum.

“You’ll be watched. You’ll be tested. Step out of line, and you’re out. Understood?”

Malum gave a short nod. “Understood, sir.”

Liara’s mouth was tight, but she offered no objections. Her eyes, however, flicked toward Daniel. He didn’t meet them.

They were dismissed shortly after, and as they left the stone hallway and crossed into the open yard, Malum leaned closer to Liara. His whisper cut clean through the cold morning air.

“Next time you send someone to tail us, at least pick a spy who doesn’t panic at shadows.”

Liara froze, but didn’t turn to look at him. Her grip on the clipboard tightened. Malum didn’t wait for a reply—he stepped ahead and didn’t look back.

The sun had barely crested the hills when the carriage wheels crunched over gravel and frost-hardened earth. House Garrington loomed before them—a great monolith of grey stone and stained glass, perched on the spine of a windswept cliff. It had the look of a place that had once been proud and now endured pride like a wound. Ivy clung to the outer walls like veins, twisting through the cracks of time-worn masonry, and gargoyles sat watch on every corner, their eyes chipped, but their sneers intact.

Malum stepped down from the carriage first, eyes scanning every battlement, every shadow behind the curtain-drawn windows. Behind him, Daniel followed, resting one hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Meg hopped out with a practiced bounce, only to freeze mid-step as she took in the estate’s cold, lifeless grandeur.

“Cheerful,” Barney muttered, adjusting the axe across his back.

Clement said nothing, but her gaze lingered on the tower above the eastern gate. Watchers, maybe. Or just tradition.

Two rows of young guards stood flanking the courtyard. Uniforms freshly pressed, buttons polished, but the faces beneath the plumed helmets were too smooth. Too clean. They looked like children playing at war—noble sons and daughters thrown into duty as a form of etiquette. Some met the newcomers with mild curiosity. Others with the restrained disdain only old blood could conjure.

The carriage groaned again as Henry climbed down, clutching a folded Stag-emblazoned standard under one arm. As they approached the gates, one of the young guards stepped forward to block them, hand resting awkwardly on the pommel of a decorative sword he clearly didn’t know how to draw properly.

“State your business,” the boy said, voice wavering.

Before Malum could respond, Henry stepped up beside him, unfurling the Verdant Stag sigil and holding it high in the morning wind. The green standard flared, displaying the proud bronze stag rearing on a black field.

“We serve Silverrun,” Henry declared, surprising even his own teammates with the sudden weight in his voice. “We answer to Commander Ardyn and carry authority sanctioned by the Crown.”

There was a beat of silence. The boy hesitated. Then a voice called from the parapet above.

“Let them in.”

The gates groaned as they opened inward. The guards parted just enough for the Verdant Stags to pass.

Malum gave a small nod toward Henry. “Nicely done.”

Henry looked startled by the praise. “I read it in a campaign journal. Thought it might work.”

Meg nudged his arm. “Sounded real knightly.”

The inner courtyard was no warmer than the outside. Stone statues lined the path toward the main hall—ancestors of House Garrington, judging by their solemn eyes and heavy cloaks. Every one of them looked disappointed.

A tall woman in boiled leather and steel stood waiting by the central staircase. She wore a commander’s mantle, short-cropped silver hair, and a permanent sneer etched into her face. Her arms were folded across her chest as if every second spent watching the Verdant Stag group approach was a second stolen from something more important.

“Miranda,” she said, not offering a title. “Commander of the estate guard.”

Malum stopped a pace before her and bowed his head respectfully. “Malum. These are the Verdant Stags. We were told to report directly.”

Miranda’s eyes flicked over the group like she was appraising livestock. “A fat merchant’s son, a stray dog pack, and a few bruised heroes. Lovely. Follow me.”

She turned without waiting for a reply, her boots striking hard against the cobblestones.

They followed her past dour halls and empty courtyards. Everywhere they looked, opulence had been dulled by cold. Silver chandeliers hung unlit. Marble busts bore cracks. Tapestries were heavy with dust. Servants moved in silence, eyes down, as though the walls themselves listened.

“Lord Garrington is indisposed,” Miranda said without turning. “You’ll be assigned quarters in the west barracks. Separate from my people. That was his condition.”

“What kind of threat are we dealing with?” Daniel asked, voice low.

“None of your concern until it is,” Miranda snapped. “You weren’t sent to ask questions. You were sent to keep the estate from bleeding out.”

They reached a side hall flanked by worn double doors. Miranda gestured vaguely.

“Settle in. Meal’s at dusk. Try not to kill anyone before dinner.”

She left them there, the sound of her boots vanishing into the dark corridor.

Barney exhaled. “Warm welcome.”

Meg wrinkled her nose. “She smells like boiled cabbage and bad decisions.”

“She's the type who’d arrest you for smiling,” Clement added quietly.

Malum stood in the doorway, looking back toward the statues that lined the courtyard, their shadows long in the early morning light.

“She's not the worst part of this place,” he murmured. “Not by a long shot.”

He turned to the others, that strange fire in his chest burning steady.

“Let’s see where we'll be staying then shall we?.”

The barracks they were assigned were old and ill-kept—west wing, near the kennels, as if even in their official capacity, they were dogs being quartered where they belonged. The corridors were narrow, the stone walls sweating with damp, the air tinged with mildew and cold iron. Straw-stuffed mattresses lined the room with only half-partitions between them, offering little privacy and less dignity.

“This is where we’re sleeping?” Daniel muttered, inspecting one of the bunks like it might collapse from the weight of his disdain alone.

Meg flopped onto a mattress with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve had worse. Remember Camp Caldrick during flood season?”

“Yeah, but we were seventeen and half-mad,” Barney grunted, hauling his pack beside the door. “It smelled like frogs and Clement nearly stabbed a rat in her sleep.”

“I did stab a rat,” Clement said without looking up. “It screamed.”

Henry tried to brighten the mood, showing Daniel how to tuck a blanket to keep warmth trapped. “Use the straw right,” he said, “and you won’t freeze. Much.”

Daniel gave him a skeptical look, but tried anyway. Malum sat on the edge of a bunk, bandages peeking under his sleeves again, eyes wandering over the space like he couldn’t quite accept how small it all felt.

“You get used to it,” Clement said, catching his stare.

“Have you?” Malum asked quietly.

“No,” she replied.

Before more could be said, heavy boots echoed down the hall. The door slammed open. Miranda strode in without ceremony, flanked by two younger guards. One of them dragged a man in chains—wiry, middle-aged, hair matted with sweat and soot. A thief by the look of him. Or a deserter. Either way, he wasn’t worth much attention until Miranda’s voice cut like ice.

“Wilson. Former stablehand. Caught stealing from the wine cellar. Lord Garrington’s private stock.”

The man trembled, fell to his knees.

“I didn’t know it was his! I swear, I just—just needed something to trade, my brother’s sick—please, Captain—”

Miranda didn’t blink.

She drew her sidearm—a short, punch-dagger forged from blacksteel—and drove it beneath his chin in a clean, upward strike.

He twitched once. Then slumped.

The air in the barracks thickened, no one daring to breathe. Meg stared in shock. Henry turned away.

Malum didn’t flinch. But Daniel looked at him sideways, noting the silence behind his eyes.

“You will obey the estate’s rules,” Miranda said, wiping the blade on a rag one of her guards silently handed over. “And if you cannot manage that, you’ll leave in a box. Or less.”

She turned and left without another word.

“…She’s a lot,” Meg whispered.

Barney just grunted. “Welcome to Garrington.”

The mess hall at House Garrington was no place for camaraderie. Torches smoked in their sconces. The smell of old stone and wet dog clung to everything. Long wooden tables stretched down the hall, separating the noble-blooded misfits from the weathered and bruised Verdant Stag Group, who kept to their end like wolves watching a pack of deer who thought themselves lions.

Food was served with little care—trays of leathery meat, cold root mash, and bread that felt more weapon than sustenance. The noble-born estate guards ate with slow disdain, some using gloves so they didn’t have to touch the spoons. Their silk-lined cloaks fluttered with every exaggerated motion.

Barney speared a half-cooked potato and chewed noisily.

Daniel, beside him, pushed his plate away.

“What is this?” he muttered. “It’s like someone boiled a boot and called it dinner.”

Barney chuckled, mouth full. “What’s wrong, noble? Not used to real food?”

Daniel stiffened. The hall was loud, but those around them leaned in at the word “noble.”

His voice, when he spoke again, was sharp as a blade. “Don’t call me that. I’m nothing like them.” He jabbed a finger across the room toward the lounging guards—powdered faces and perfectly styled hair hiding soft hands and softer spines.

“That so?” one of the noble-born guards sneered, standing. He was lean, young, and overconfident. “You talk like you think you’re better than us. Funny coming from someone still licking dirt off his boots.”

Meg made a high-pitched, warning sound. “Uh oh.”

Daniel rose.

The table scraped back.

“Say that again,” he said.

The noble guard smirked, drawing closer. “What? You don’t like dirt? I thought that’s all you and your farm-hand friends were good for.”

Barney stood beside Daniel, cracking his knuckles. Clement was already on her feet. The tension snapped.

Fists flew.

Trays crashed.

A knife clattered across the floor.

Guards jumped in—some trying to stop the chaos, others diving in like it was a tavern brawl. Chairs broke. Plates shattered. Daniel landed a punishing blow that sent a noble skidding across the floor. Henry shielded Meg, blocking a thrown tankard with his arm.

And through it all, Malum remained seated. Watching.

Analysing.

Until he saw the body.

One of the guards—a blonde boy, barely past adolescence—lay motionless by the hearth, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes stared upward, unfocused. A snapped chair leg lay near him, the end red and splintered.

“Enough.”

The voice rang out cold and commanding. Miranda strode into the hall like a drawn sword, her glare enough to still fists mid-swing. The room froze.

The brawl ended, but the silence that followed was louder.

The private chambers of Lord Garrington were warmer, but no less cold. Ornate windows showed fog rolling in from the hills beyond the estate. Tapestries of boar hunts and Ganymedean history decorated the walls, though dust collected in the corners, forgotten by servants.

Miranda stood beside Malum and Daniel, her posture rigid, though her eyes flickered often to Lord Garrington’s expression. The noble himself—tall, lean, pale as snow—sat with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He did not look angry, only bored.

“So One dead,” he said mildly. “I suppose that was bound to happen eventually.”

Malum didn’t blink. “My men acted in self-defence. From what I saw, the deceased was caught in the chaos—likely struck by one of your own.”

Garrington nodded. “Of course. Of course. Most of my guards are useless. Rich-blooded sons thrown into armour like it makes them brave. Except her.” He gestured toward Miranda without even glancing. “She’s the only one here with discipline.”

Malum tilted his head slightly toward Miranda. “I can see that. It’s rare to see someone maintain such control over a place so... undisciplined.”

A strange thing happened. Miranda looked at him—and for a moment, something shifted in her expression. Her brow eased. Her jaw unclenched. The faintest twitch of her mouth might have been the beginning of a smile, but it vanished quickly.

Garrington continued. “I want your group reassigned. No more sharing meals with the general guard. You’ll serve as my personal shield. Screen every visitor, escort my family, sweep every room. I trust Miranda to lead you in that capacity.”

Daniel tensed beside Malum. “She’s being reassigned to us?”

“I’m not assigning her. I’m allowing her to accompany you,” Garrington corrected. “Try not to lose her in another food fight.”

Miranda bowed stiffly. “As you command.”

As they turned to leave, Malum cast her a sideways glance.

“That compliment,” he said quietly, “wasn't flattery.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “I know. That’s what makes it dangerous.”

Chapter Text

The battlefield had become a graveyard of broken steel and dying breath. Team Three—what remained of them—stood bloodied, bruised, and barely conscious among the corpses. Smoke clung low to the ground, ash settling like snow. Above it all, the banner of the Monocian Wild Dogs fluttered, their elite pressing the last advantage.

Malus tried to rise, Natasha supporting him. They wouldn’t last another minute. The Wild Dogs had them surrounded, weapons raised, jeering.

Then the sky trembled.

A horn sounded in the distance—one no soldier mistook. Deep, ancient, almost mournful. From the east, down the cragged slope like judgment itself, strode a towering figure clad in blackened ceremonial plate. His silhouette devoured the sunlight.

Emperor Dessel Ordo had arrived.

His armour was a relic of wars past—meteorite-forged and inscribed with faded victories. A red fur cloak billowed from his shoulders, and his crown was not a band of gold but a part of his helm, fused like horns grown from the steel of his skull. In one hand, he carried Starbane, the obsidian blade of the old world. In the other, nothing—but that was all he needed.

He came alone.

The Wild Dogs halted, momentarily stunned by the sight of him. Even their captain, Zaeed—a massive man with a jagged axe and a streak of white hair—paused, chewing his lip in dawning fear.

The Emperor stopped ten paces from the front line.

“Lay down your weapons.”

His voice was quiet, yet it carried across the field like thunder. Controlled. Final.

A beat passed. One Wild Dog snorted and raised his spear defiantly.

Zaeed took a single step back.

The Emperor lifted one heavy, armoured foot—its weight groaning against the cracked earth—and slammed it down.

“I COMMAND THEE—KNEEL.”

The earth split with the impact.

A wave of pressure exploded outward, invisible but undeniable. The very air thickened, as if the hand of a god had flattened itself against the field.

Everyone—friend and foe alike—was driven to the ground.

Malus collapsed instantly, Natasha beside him. Even the defiant Wild Dogs cried out in shock and agony as their knees slammed into the dirt. Shields fell, spears dropped. Men clutched their heads, unable to rise. It was as if an elephant sat on their chests, crushing the will from them.

Zaeed's mouth opened. He saw the Emperor—not a man, but a force. The rumours had not lied. He was alive, and worse, still powerful.

With a growl, Zaeed turned and fled into the treeline, tossing his axe aside. “I’m not mad enough to fight a living god,” he muttered as he disappeared.

The Emperor exhaled, the glow of power fading from around him. Starbane hummed in his hand. He surveyed the battlefield, eyes behind his helm unreadable.

The Wild Dogs groaned, trembling.

Dessel walked forward, slow and steady. Where he passed, silence reigned.

He did not kill them.

He simply moved among them—forcing eye contact with every soldier still conscious. That was punishment enough.

When he reached Team Three, he stopped before Malus and Natasha. They looked up at him from the dirt, breathing ragged.

He said nothing.

Then Vakarian arrived—silent as a knife in the dark—stepping beside his Emperor.

“These two,” Vakarian said. “They fought to the last. No retreat.”

The Emperor finally spoke, low and rumbling:
“Then they are mine now.”

And the war, in that field, was over.

A few weeks passed like fractured dreams.

Malus had no memory of the journey—only cold, stone walls and the hush of voices in corridors too wide and too deep to be natural. By the time the blindfold was slipped over his head—thick black cloth with only two small eyeholes—he had already lost track of how many times they had been moved, how many days it had been since the Emperor had saved them.

He and Natasha said nothing as they were separated and led underground.

The air changed the deeper they went. The scent of oil and horses gave way to cold metal and damp stone. Somewhere in the belly of Roanoke, capital of Ganymede, lay the facility the world pretended didn’t exist—the crucible of the Spectres.

When the blindfolds were finally removed, only numbers remained.

Malus and Natasha—now “one” and “two”—were thrown into a relentless cycle of drills and mental torment. Sleep was a rare mercy. Food was doled out as a reward or punishment, never a comfort. Pain was constant, both physical and psychological. The instructors were always cloaked and silent, their faces hidden beneath heavy hoods. They spoke only in commands, stripping away identity and replacing it with numbered anonymity.

Each day introduced new horrors designed to erode their spirits:

Ice-cold water poured over them in suffocating waves.

Mock executions played out as their worst fears.

Hours of sensory deprivation followed by sudden, jarring assaults on their senses.

At night, their isolation deepened. Whispered voices echoed through the stone walls of their cells—sometimes desperate cries of loved ones, other times faint murmurs of Team Three calling their names in warning or plea. Whether those voices were real, magical, or hallucinations born from exhaustion, no one could say. The instructors insisted it didn’t matter anymore; all they needed was obedience.

Malus and Natasha clung to each other in the dark, speaking in hushed tones about the vineyard statue and cold mornings of training. Natasha never spoke much, her silence growing heavier with each passing day, but she never let go of Malus’s hand.

When the lessons in magic finally began, it was like stepping into another world. Only a few of the initiates could produce even the faintest spark. Malus was one of them.

The moment he touched the earth, his baby-blue eye would glow faintly—like a burning sapphire—and the soil beneath his fingers would stir as if alive. The instructors took special note, with one even keeping a ledger on his progress.

Natasha, however, found no magic within herself. Not a flicker, not a whisper of power. Her frustration only deepened the shadow around her, but Malus never let her fade completely. He reminded her of everything they had left behind and everything they were still fighting for.

Together, they endured — two souls bound by hope amid darkness.

The days bled into nights without distinction. In the endless grey of the compound, Malus and Natasha clung to each other like lifebuoys in a storm.

They learned to read the smallest signs — a twitch of a finger, a flicker in the eye, the subtle catch of breath — to know when the other was close to breaking. When Natasha’s jaw clenched too tight or her hands trembled, Malus would slip his fingers between hers, grounding her in the moment.

“You’re still here,” he whispered one night, voice rough but steady. “I’m not letting go.”

She never answered, but she didn’t pull away.

During brief breaks, their conversations were scarce but precious. Malus would tell her about the vineyard, about the way the morning light painted the leaves gold. He spoke of Team Three—Barney’s gruff humour, Clement’s sharp edge, Henry’s endless questions. Each name was a tether to a world that still existed outside these walls.

Natasha’s silence was heavy with regret. She blamed herself for what happened back there—the ambush, their capture, the brutal training that followed. Yet Malus refused to let her drown in that guilt.

One evening, after a brutal day of physical drills and mental trials, Natasha finally let her walls fall. She sank against Malus, her breath hitching as years of fear and pain poured out in quiet sobs.

He held her close, his hand tracing slow circles on her back, grounding her. “You’re not alone,” he promised. “We survive this—together.”

The rare moments when their hooded visages caught, Malus’s glowing blue eye was a beacon of hope, and Natasha’s tight grip on his arm spoke volumes in a silence that no words could breach.

Amidst the cruelty and the cold, their bond became an unspoken vow — a promise that whatever the cost, they would face it side by side.

The call came without warning.

A low chime echoed through the stone corridors. One by one, the trainees were led from their cells — hoods back over their heads, hands bound, senses dulled. They stumbled into a circular chamber lit by a single overhead light. Cold stone underfoot. Breaths ragged around them. Eight souls, eight names forgotten.

No one spoke.

Then, a soft click of heeled boots. A voice — smooth, regal, and laced with menace — cut through the silence.

“You are seeds buried in stone,” the Empress said. “The world above forgets you. The world below watches. You will either bloom… or rot.”

A second voice began reading off their numbers and affiliations.

“One and Two: Chosen by Spectre Vakarian, the 'Archangel'.”

Malus’s spine straightened beneath the hood. He felt Natasha shift slightly beside him.

“Three and Four: Spectre Braylon, The 'Hammer'.”

“Five and Six: Spectre Karith, The 'Light'.”

“Seven and Eight: Spectre Zash, The 'Blaze'.”

They were all marked then — searing, brilliant pain carved into the flesh of their hands. A stripe of light etched across the back of the hand, glowing faintly in the dark, the same colour as the magic that flowed through their veins… if it flowed at all.

Vakarian’s stripes were sharp silver-white. Others glowed faint red, green, or violet.

Then, the Empress stepped forward. Though unseen, her presence was unmistakable—heavy, regal, inescapable.

“I am Noveria Ordo. You do not serve me,” she said, her voice curling like smoke. “You serve what I fear.”

A soft thump echoed behind her. A towering figure stepped forward — cloaked in midnight-black armour, face hidden behind a featureless helmet save for one detail: a red handprint smeared across the front.

The Fifth Stripe.

They didn’t speak.

They only watched.

Malus felt Natasha shudder beside him, and for the first time, he knew: she was afraid.

The hoods were removed. Eyes blinked in the harsh light. Seven strangers stood around them — young, hardened, some clearly broken already. The room swelled with silence.

Then the doors opened, and the instructors herded them out, one by one.

No words. No congratulations. No comfort.

Only pain, and purpose.

And the brand.

By the fourth week, silence had become the only safe language.

The eight initiates walked with shoulders hunched, footsteps quiet, eyes averted behind their identical grey hoods. Numbers were the only identity allowed—Malus was One, Natasha Two. They weren’t supposed to speak, weren’t supposed to linger near one another. But proximity brought comfort, and after the lights dimmed, Natasha would inch her cot a little closer to his cell wall, pressing her knuckles against the stone. Malus always met her touch with his own.

In the training yard beneath the compound—windowless and hot from the spells soaked into its stone—sparring drills turned brutal. Trainees bled. Bones cracked. Magic lashed like wild whips. Instructors never intervened.

That morning, the air had tasted like ash.

“Pairs,” one of the instructors barked, voice muffled by their obsidian mask. “Vakarian’s, step forward.”

Malus and Natasha exchanged a look, then obeyed. Across the arena, Zash’s initiates stepped out—Two of them. Tall, lean, eyes burning even through the slits of their hoods.

“You’ll fight until surrender or incapacitation. Death is… tolerated.”

The fire-users moved first. Flames hissed into their hands without gesture or word, as though breathing came with ignition. The heat was immediate—drying Malus’s mouth, making Natasha cough before the duel had even begun.

“Ready,” the instructor said. “Begin.”

They didn’t charge. They danced.

Fire came fast—an arc of flame aimed at Natasha’s feet. She leapt back, spear twirling into a defensive stance. Another burst came from the second fire-user, cutting sideways toward Malus, but he threw up a wall of earth. It sizzled and cracked, scorched black.

Malus reached deeper. He felt the stone beneath the arena like it was part of him—like it was listening. With a flick of his wrist, he broke a chunk of floor upward into a jagged spike, hurling it toward their enemies. One ducked, the other retaliated with a gout of fire that turned the shard to molten debris.

"Malus!" Natasha shouted—then screamed.

A fireball had curved wide, catching her hood just as she pivoted. The air filled with the sharp stink of burnt cloth, then burning hair. Her beanie ignited, curling into itself as her hair crackled and shrivelled.

She dropped, screaming as the flame clawed across her back. Malus didn’t think—he just moved. Another wall surged between them and their opponents, then crumbled into a sand-like veil to mask their retreat. He was at her side, slapping at the flames, pulling the hood off her head with shaking hands.

Her scalp was blackened in patches, the smell of burned flesh making his eyes sting.

They weren’t supposed to care.

But when she looked up at him—eyes full of fear and betrayal—he felt something ancient and angry rise in him.

Malus stood. His left hand curled. The arena floor moved.

Stone spiralled around his wrist like a gauntlet, extending into a blade of jagged earth. One of the fire-users prepared another attack, but Malus slammed his palm into the ground—and a tower of stone erupted beneath them, sending the enemy flying.

The other raised their hands to strike, but Malus didn’t give them time. He dragged the earth under their feet upward, trapping them like a vice.

It was over. The fire faded. The air crackled with settling heat and dust.

The instructor raised a hand, signalling the match’s end. No praise. No commentary. Only silence.

Aftermath

Natasha sat with her knees pulled to her chest against the wall, breathing in short, broken gasps. Her curly hair tucked beneath her beanie—was now a scorched, uneven halo. Her fingers clutched the singed fabric of what remained of her hood.

“I could feel them watching me burn.”

“I miss them,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I miss the stupid arguments. The sparring. Henry’s stories. Barney’s jokes. even Malum’s smug face… gods”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I miss… being real.”

"Do you remember when Henry tried to make us tea with gunpowder because he thought it was herbs?"
"He said it smelled 'earthy.' You nearly choked."
“And Barney made that awful sketch of you fighting with a spoon?”
“He said it captured my ‘raw combat essence.’ Idiot.”

Malus lowered himself beside her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She didn’t resist. She just cried into his chest, small sobs muffled by the cloth of his tunic.

Behind them, one of the instructors scribbled something on their scroll.

A note. An observation.

Another weakness found.

Late one night, curled beside the cold wall of his cell, Malus sat with his knees drawn to his chest, listening.

It had become a habit—eavesdropping through the crack beneath the door, hoping for something, anything. He hadn’t heard his name in weeks. He was no one here. Just another bruised face in the dim hallway, another number shouted in roll call, another body to break or sharpen.

But tonight, there were voices. Two instructors. Just outside.

“…the Verdant Stag Group… their commanding officer is progressing fast. Malum, was it?”

The name didn’t just land. It detonated inside him.

Malus’s heart stopped.

Then raced.

Malum.

The name crashed through his skull like lightning—raw, bright, impossible.

He surged forward, pressing his ear hard to the door, as if he could chase down the words and drink every syllable. But the voices were already fading, boots echoing down the corridor, gone too fast, leaving silence in their wake.

Malum.

His brother.

Alive.

Alive and thriving—leading something called the “Verdant Stag Group.” Of course that was what Malum would call it. Dramatic. Symbolic. Regal. It made Malus want to laugh.

And cry.

He hadn’t seen his twin since the day they left the vineyard. Since the day they were split, each sent down their own path—Malus to Camp Caldrick, to steel and blood; Malum to the Academy, to books and secrets. There had been no letters. No messages. No glimpses. For all Malus knew, Malum had vanished like smoke.

In the worst moments—in the dirt and fire of Wild Dogs’ Rest, during the long crawl back through mud and silence, when the world narrowed to survival—Malus had thought him dead. Thought everyone might be dead.

Now—this.

He slid down the wall slowly, breath shallow, one hand clamped over his mouth to stifle the ragged sound clawing its way up his throat. Not a sob. Not laughter. Something in between. Something feral.

He tilted his head back, resting it against the stone.

The cold didn’t matter.

None of it mattered—not the beatings, not the isolation, not the nightmare of Wild Dogs’ Rest or the haunted looks in Natasha’s eyes.

Malum was alive.

The thought looped like a chant in his mind. Malum is alive. Malum is alive.

Not only alive—but commanding. Respected. Making something of himself. It was like hearing a piece of himself had been rescued from the wreckage, had climbed out and built something new.

The ache in his chest tightened. Of course Malum had done it. Even as children, his brother had been clever, too clever—always scheming, always dreaming, always two moves ahead. Malus had trusted him without question, even when he didn’t understand.

And now?

He could trust in this, too.

He hadn’t been forgotten.

They still existed—both of them. Somewhere out there, in the churning empire, Malum was walking under a shared sky.

And one day—maybe not soon, but one day—they’d see each other again.

Not as boys from the vineyard.
Not as soldier and student.
But as survivors. As brothers. As something stronger.

Malus smiled.

A real smile.

Small. Sharp.

They would not break him.

He had something now. Not hope—something older. Deeper. Something born in dirt and twinhood and blood.

He had a reason.

On the final night of the month, the arena was swallowed in an oppressive silence. The crowd of initiates watched from the shadows, eyes wide, breaths held tight. No cheers, no fanfare—only the steady, cold pulse of something inevitable.

The Empress was nowhere to be seen. Only the instructors lingered, cloaked in darkness, their faces hidden beneath heavy hoods.

One spoke, voice sharp and cutting through the stillness:
“Tonight, two seeds bloom. One will wither.”

Malus stepped forward. His opponent, shrouded in a dark hood, held a spear—each movement familiar, too familiar.

They circled each other in tense silence.

The spear flicked out, striking Malus’s arm with a savage graze. Blood welled beneath torn skin, sharp and burning. He summoned stone, a shield to guard him, but it shattered beneath a powerful kick, sending him sprawling backward.

His opponent moved with Natasha’s grace—every step, every strike haunted by the memory of her. The same relentless precision, the same fierce determination.

Malus’s hands shook. Fear and disbelief tore through him.

In the moment his instincts ignited, he charged—headbutting fiercely, driving a dagger deep into the figure’s abdomen.

They crumpled to the ground, ragged breath trembling in the cold air.

Slowly, the hood was pulled back.

Natasha’s eyes met his—wide, shining with shock and something more fragile, unbearable.

She reached out a trembling hand, fingers brushing lightly against his cheek.
“Why…?” her voice cracked, barely more than a breath.
“Malus… please…”

Her pain was raw and silent, a fracture through his soul.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. The weight of what he’d done crushed the air from his lungs.

From the shadows, the Spectres emerged, their presence sharp and cold—silent witnesses to the breaking of something sacred.

The fifth stripe stepped forward, gripping Malus’s trembling hand and raising it.

A low chant rose from the initiates—ancient and hollow:
“First stripe… first stripe…”

The sound filled the arena, but it was distant, meaningless against the storm inside him.

Half his mind was lost in the chant.

The other half was shattered, lost with Natasha’s fading breath.

No triumph. No victory.

Only the crushing void of a bond severed, and the cold certainty that something precious had died with her.

Malus’s mouth opened, but no words came. The stone beneath him was cold—unforgiving.

He was alone.

And the darkness waited.

They cheered.

The sound was thunderous, filling the arena and spilling into the halls like wildfire.
“First Stripe! First Stripe!” the initiates chanted, voices rising in a fierce, hollow celebration.
He was crowned the strongest—anointed a rising Spectre.

But none of it reached Malus.

In the cold, cramped cell that night, silence pressed in on him like a vice.

He didn’t sleep.

Instead, he curled into himself on the hard stone floor, trembling with the weight of what he'd done.

The faint stench of blood clung beneath his nails—his own and hers—an unshakable stain.

His lips moved in a broken whisper, the name that haunted him:
“Natasha… Natasha… Natasha…”

A prayer. A plea. A curse.

He repeated it, as if calling her could stitch the pieces of his shattered soul back together.

And then, in the suffocating darkness, something shifted.

A ghost slipped from the shadows—a presence neither fully seen nor wholly imagined.

Long arms, cold yet gentle, wrapped around his broken frame.

A whisper, soft and hollow, brushed against his cheek.

“It’s okay, baby…”

“No one’s like you.”

The words felt like a poison and a balm all at once, seeping into the empty spaces inside him.

Malus closed his eyes, but the weight of the loss pressed on, deeper than the night, colder than stone.

He was marked now—not just by the title of First Stripe, but by a wound that would never heal.

And the shadow that held him was waiting—for something far darker to come.

Chapter Text

By the second night, the air in House Garrington had changed.

It wasn’t just the cold anymore. It was watchful.

Malum felt it the moment they entered the grand gallery. It was built like a cathedral: long glass windows, an arched ceiling, and portraits so large they stared down like judgment itself. Lord Garrington sat beneath one of them—his ancestor, probably, or a version of himself with better posture and no shadows under the eyes. Miranda stood at his side, arms folded, armor gleaming.

The rest of the noble guard lined the edges of the room like decorations. Silent. Dismissive.

“You will shadow my family during tomorrow’s banquet,” Garrington said without preamble. “No uniforms. I want you dressed as nobility. Your presence is to be protective—but invisible.”

Daniel scowled. “Infiltrate the party under false pretences.”

“Observe,” Malum corrected softly.

Miranda’s eyes flicked to him. “And make sure no one dies.”

Barney muttered under his breath. “Again.”

That Night

The Verdant Stags gathered in the barracks’ low common room. Maps, floor plans, and rosters—everything Miranda was willing to give—lay spread across the table. Meg doodled on the edge of the page. Henry hovered near the kettle. Clement sat in the corner, cleaning one of her blades in slow, quiet strokes.

Malum watched them all. Every motion, every word.

Then he looked to Daniel. “We can’t trust anyone outside this room. Which means we have to ask the question no one else wants to.”

Daniel nodded. “Who killed that boy?”

“More than that.” Malum leaned forward. “Who wanted someone dead bad enough to stage a brawl in front of the guests?”

There was a beat of silence.

Barney broke it. “That noble brat who started the fight—what was his name? The one with the lace and the punchable face?”

“Lord Rennick Farrow,” Clement said flatly.

“You remember that fast?” Daniel asked, raising a brow.

“I make it my business to remember names when people die,” she replied.

Malum nodded. “He’s on the list. And so are you.”

Clement didn’t flinch. “Naturally.”

Meg dropped her doodling. “Wait, what? Clement?”

Malum was calm. “You were closest to the guard when he died. You didn’t draw a weapon. You didn’t throw a punch. You just... vanished into the chaos. Why?”

Clement stood. Not aggressive. Not angry. Just ready.

“Because I saw someone reach for something they shouldn’t have had. A dagger. Hidden, narrow blade—not standard issue. And when I tried to follow them, the crowd swallowed them whole.”

“You saw who it was?” Daniel asked.

“No. But the hilt was gold-etched. Noble family, maybe even a cadet branch. Not one of ours.”

Malum’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’ve got two problems: someone smuggled a real weapon into a mock brawl, and you didn’t report it.”

“I report when I’m sure,” Clement said. “I’m not in the habit of guessing when people’s necks are on the line.”

Daniel stepped in, voice lower. “We’ve been burned before, Clement. We need to know if we can count on you.”

She met his gaze without blinking. “You can. But I’m not Malus. I don’t explain myself before I act.”

There was silence.

Then Malum nodded. “Good. I don’t want loyalty. I want clarity. From all of you.”

The fire in Malum’s room was little more than embers, casting a low amber glow across the stone floor. Shadows stretched long along the walls, dancing between tapestries and old iron sconces. A basin of cold water sat untouched on the desk beside an unopened bottle of wine. Malum stood near the window, fingers lightly resting against the frame, watching mist curl along the cliffs below.

The door creaked.

He didn’t turn.

“I said I wanted time alone,” Malum said, voice low.

Miranda’s reply came without apology. “That’s why I came.”

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with the gentle click of finality. Gone was her commander’s mantle—she wore only a plain dark tunic, her black hair tied back loosely. She looked older without the armour. Tired, too. The kind of tired that came not from age, but from keeping too much buried.

Malum still didn’t turn. “Did you need something?”

“I watched your talk with your team.” She leaned against the side table, arms crossed. “You asked for clarity. Not loyalty.”

“Loyalty blinds people. I want them to think. To question. To correct me if I’m wrong.”

“That’s rare,” she said. “Most leaders want obedience. You’re chasing something harder.”

He nodded once. “Something better.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The room seemed to breathe around them—old wood creaking, fire sighing, distant waves crashing far below the cliffs.

Then Miranda’s voice came, quieter than before. “You really think you can do it all alone, don’t you? Guard this house. Unmask the killer. Survive the politics. Rise above it all.”

At last, Malum turned.

His eyes caught the firelight—green and gold, like coins turned edge-on. His face was calm, but his voice was colder than the wind outside.

“Of course I can. Alone is what I’ve always been. I am the son who never vented to his parents. The distant brother. The man who heals himself in silence. I always can. I always could. I always will.”

Miranda’s breath caught—just slightly.

Not pity. Not shock.

Recognition.

She looked at him like one soldier might look at another across a battlefield, both understanding the weight each carried without ever needing to say it aloud.

“Sounds like a lonely kingdom to rule,” she said.

Malum allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “Then maybe it’s the only kingdom I was meant to have.”

Miranda pushed off the table, walking toward him slowly. “I’ve seen men like you before, Malum. Driven. Brilliant. Ruthless with themselves. They either burn out or hollow out. And neither of those make good shields for others.”

“I’m not anyone’s shield,” he said, almost gently. “Not anymore. I’m the knife in the dark. The one who watches the flames so others can sleep.”

She stopped beside him, shoulder to shoulder now, looking out over the moonlit cliffs.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” she said, not facing him. “You just have to stop needing to.”

Malum looked at her.

Really looked.

No sneer. No command in her voice. Just weariness. Understanding. Maybe even a kindred spirit, one soldier-exile to another.

He didn’t answer.

But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t turn away either.

Clement and Henry moved like shadows through the dim corridors of House Garrington, their boots silent against the cold stone floors. The chapel lay just beyond a heavy oak door, its carved surface worn with age. Henry glanced at Clement, who gave a barely perceptible nod.

Inside, the chapel was hushed except for the rhythmic swing of a silver thurible, sending fragrant smoke curling into the air. The priest, dressed in deep crimson robes, moved solemnly around the stone altar where the dead guard lay. His back was exposed beneath a rough linen shroud, revealing a neat, triangular stab wound—too clean to be accidental.

Two attendants assisted the priest, their faces grim as they prepared the body for embalming, dipping cloths in sacred oils, whispering prayers in a low chant. Clement and Henry pressed themselves against the shadows behind a pillar, holding their breath as the ritual unfolded. Not a single sound betrayed their presence.

When the rite concluded, the priest and his attendants left, the chapel doors closing softly behind them.

Breathing out in relief, Clement whispered, “The wound... it wasn’t from the brawl.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Someone meant to kill him.”

They slipped back through the corridors, moving quickly but carefully until they reached Malum’s chamber. Inside, Malum and Miranda stood in quiet conversation, the flickering firelight casting long shadows on their faces.

Malum’s eyes met theirs as they entered. “Speak freely,” he said, gesturing toward Miranda. “I trust her.”

Henry quickly explained the triangular wound, their discovery in the chapel, and the embalming ritual they had witnessed.

As they finished, a servant knocked and entered with urgency. “Lord Garrington requests your presence, sir. He will attend the masquerade ball tomorrow morn, hosted by Mistress Voss Everen.”

Miranda sighed deeply, the sound heavy with exhaustion and distaste. “Balls,” she muttered, pushing herself away from the hearth. “I hate balls.”

Without another word, she turned and left the room, the door closing behind her with a quiet finality.

Malum remained seated, the weight of the evening pressing down upon him, knowing the masquerade would be more than a simple gathering — it would be another battlefield.

The Verdant Stag group arrived at dusk, their silver armour catching the last rays of sunlight as the gates of Voss Manor creaked open. The estate was sprawling—white stone wrapped in vines and lanterns, surrounded by manicured hedges and laughing nobles. Music drifted in from a string quartet inside, each note as sharp and polished as the woman who awaited them.

Mistress Voss Everen stood at the top of the marble steps, draped in deep burgundy silks that gleamed like blood under moonlight. Her eyes, rimmed in gold powder, scanned the group with the cool precision of someone used to control. High-strung and sharp as glass, her influence was palpable.

Miranda’s eyes narrowed as she dismounted. “Mistress Voss, she's had work done.”
“Haha, Lets enjoy the free wine at least eh?” Daniel chuckled. “We’re decoration. Lets indulge”

"Mistress Voss, my good friend thank you for finally inviting your neighbours to your famous ball", Lord Garrinton bowed gayly. lifting his head he is shocked to see that Mistress Voss hadn't even acknowledged him.

As the team disembarked and servants came forward with refreshments and instructions, Voss descended like a queen inspecting her champions. Her gaze lingered on Malum.

“You’ll remain by my side this evening,” she said with a purr, ignoring the raised brow from Miranda. “Your companions will watch the grounds.”

Malum inclined his head with courtly grace. “Of course, my lady.”

The party had already begun inside the manor—wine flowing, laughter lilting off marble columns, and the distinct scent of money. Within the great hall, torchlight danced against stained glass and chandeliers. It wasn’t long before one familiar voice cut through the hum like a knife dipped in honey.

The night deepened, and so did the decadence. Wine flowed like rivers of ruby, and the manor’s grand ballroom pulsed with music, laughter, and the low murmur of gossip.

Lord Garrington and his son were quickly engulfed by the crowd—smiles, hands, velvet—and were never seen again.

The Verdant Stag group—flushed, armoured, and mismatched amidst the silks and perfumes—was scattered across the marble floor like chess pieces on a rigged board.

“You dare to waste your legacy on wine and whimsy?” barked a heavy-set noble, red-faced and drunk.

Jona Altman, in his ever-extravagant attire of embroidered nightshade blue, stood before him with a half-full glass and a smirk that could charm a snake.

The noble continued, “If only you knew that the hands that cradled your face and tilted it upwards to kiss your forehead are soaked in unfathomable quantities of blood.”

Jona’s eyes twinkled. He leaned in. “But they cradled me, yes?”

That shut the man up.

Then, Jona’s head turned, and his eyes landed on Mistress Voss. A theatrical gasp escaped his lips.

“Voss! You absolute vision!” he all but flew across the floor, twirling once before bowing dramatically and kissing her gloved hand. “I was just speaking about blood and affection. As one does.”

Voss gave him a sly smile, clearly amused by his presence. “Still collecting metaphors like gemstones, I see.”

As she turned to Malum, her smile curled like a cat finding prey. “My dear knight—may I introduce you to Lord Jona Altman, of House Altman.”

Jona extended a hand, which Malum took. They shared a brief, tight hug—familiar, practiced. Not a word about their past was spoken aloud.

“Ah, a pleasure,” Malum said.

“Charmed,” Jona replied, tone light. But as they pulled apart, he whispered just above the music, voice unusually serious:

“Be careful with her, Malum. She’s not just silk and perfume.”

Before Malum could ask, Jona was already spinning away toward the wine again, whistling a tune that sounded ancient.

Mistress Voss looped her arm through Malum’s and smiled up at him, flirtation in every movement. “Don’t mind Jona. He says such dramatic things when he’s not getting attention.”

As they moved deeper into the ballroom, the rest of the Verdant Stag took up positions. Miranda stood still as a statue, eyes scanning the crowd. Barney and Henry lingered by the western doors, Daniel walked the outer perimeter with that bodyguard swagger, and Clement—ever the blade in the shadows—watched from behind a column.

Meg leaned close to Henry and whispered, “Wasn't that the guy from the Boss's last Ball?”

Henry nodded.

The night deepened, and so did the decadence. Wine flowed like rivers of ruby, and the manor’s grand ballroom pulsed with music, laughter, and the low murmur of gossip. The Verdant Stag group—flushed, armoured, and mismatched amidst the silks and perfumes—was scattered across the marble floor like chess pieces on a rigged board.

Each of them had attracted attention.

Daniel found himself encircled by a half-dozen young nobles, their gowns like clouds and their words like knives wrapped in lace. One touched his shoulder. Another traced the edge of his collar.

“So you’re that Daniel?”
“He looks like a statue carved from cinnamon…”
“Do you have to take orders from Malum? Or can you take mine?”

He froze, half amused and half panicked—until a slim hand slid into the crook of his arm.

Miranda.

Dressed sharp in an officer's cut of black and green, she wore a smile Daniel had never seen before. Wide. Charming. Almost… predatory.

“Apologies, darlings. He’s taken,” she said sweetly, leading Daniel away. He stumbled along, blinking.

“You’re… smiling,” he muttered.

“I know,” she replied, with a voice just a pitch too high. Her pupils were wide, dilated. “Isn’t it fun?”

Daniel frowned.

Henry and Meg were nearby, deep in their own surreal bubble of praise and admiration. Beautiful nobles circled them like moths around flickering torches.

“You have such strong arms, Sir Henry,” one noble cooed, running a finger down his bracer.

Meg was giggling, a glass in one hand and a fan in the other. “You think my bow work’s poetic? Poetic?!” she repeated, flushed with delight.

Everyone around them laughed like they were in on a private joke.

Their admirers’ eyes? All wide. All glassy.

Henry scratched the back of his head. “This is… weird, right?”

Meg didn’t answer. She was too busy being told she looked like a “muse carved from the dreams of Artemis herself.”

Barney leaned against a support pillar with arms crossed, jaw tight. Every few minutes someone sauntered over, drink in hand.

“You look like someone who could use something stronger…”
“Care to sneak away for a breath of fresh air?”
“You ever had smoked honey wine off the skin?”

Barney cleared his throat. “Appreciate it, but I’m working.”
“Working’s boring,” a noble pouted.

“That’s the point,” he grunted.

He glanced across the room and spotted Miranda—laughing. Actually laughing. His brows furrowed.

At the centre of it all, Malum was still anchored to Mistress Voss, a living ornament on her arm. And the nobles flocked to him like hounds to bleeding meat.

“Such a clever tongue.”
“And your eyes! Emeralds… or poison?”
“Is it true your family fought beside the Emperor himself?”
“Tell us more about the ring—oh, tell us everything.”

He smiled. Masked. Exhausted. As if each word was another coin dropped into an invisible debt.

Voss leaned into him, voice honeyed. “They adore you. I adore you. Don’t you feel the room breathing for you?”

He met her gaze, just briefly. “It’s suffocating.”

Above it all, from the high balcony, Clement stood alone.

She’d slipped the crowd like a shadow shedding its host. She stood in the dark, arms folded, watching the party unfold beneath her.

Too many eyes. Too much smiling. The wrong kind of smiles.

Then she noticed it—certain members of the crowd didn’t quite move like the others. Their laughter was perfectly timed. Their footsteps too silent on marble. Their posture military. Watching, not mingling.

Something was off.

A whisper of breath behind her.

“Well spotted,” said a voice as velvet as a curtain in an old church.

Jona lounged on a carved bench behind her, legs kicked up, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, swirling red wine in a crystal glass.

“They’re not here for the wine,” he murmured, eyes glittering. “Not really.”

Clement didn’t turn. “You know who they are?”

He raised his glass to the air and took a slow sip. “Cultists. Or something older. It’s all cults eventually.”

She frowned.

“Of course, that’s the funny part,” he added, tilting his head to peer at her. “You lot think this is just politics. But sometimes politics is just a mask for worship. And some things—” he tapped his temple, “—shouldn’t be worshipped.”

His smile, soft and far too knowing, sent a chill across her skin.

Below them, the party danced on.

The music swelled.

Not louder—just thicker, deeper. A shift so subtle it could have been imagination. A slightly slower rhythm, a deeper resonance in the strings. Like the instruments were playing not to delight, but to seduce.

Laughter still echoed through the hall, but it had taken on a lingering quality. As if every chuckle stretched a little too long. Every gasp of mirth rang out a pitch too high or too low.

The wine was sweeter. The air warmer. Somewhere near the ballroom’s heart, someone began to hum in harmony with the quartet—and soon, others joined. A shared tune. Wordless. Inescapable.

The Verdant Stag group, scattered as they were, began to drift further apart.

Daniel blinked as a young noble placed a chilled glass against his hand without asking. He didn’t remember taking a sip, but the wine was already on his tongue. His heartbeat slowed. His fingers tingled. The noble whispered something he couldn’t quite hear, and he found himself laughing before even knowing the joke.

Miranda still smiled, still charming, but her movements were off—too fluid, too slow. She pressed closer to Daniel. Her hand brushed his face, and for a moment her nails scraped a little too hard. Then she kissed his cheek and whispered, “Don’t you feel the music inside you?”

He shivered.

Henry leaned into a plush settee, flushed, blinking slowly as several nobles offered him delicate bites of fruit on silver picks. He chewed and nodded as they cooed over his arms, his build, the way he held a mace. He didn’t notice the flickering of their eyes or how their faces began to blur together like a watercolour bleeding in the rain.

Meg was caught in a spinning dance, her braid loose, her eyes glassy. The fan was gone, and her laughter had grown breathy, brittle. A noble whispered a secret in her ear, and she shrieked with delight. “You’re so bad! Say it again!”

Barney stood stiff near the edge of it all, gripping his goblet but barely sipping. He watched with a furrowed brow. Something was wrong, but it was like trying to grip water. Just as he reached to set the cup down—

He inhaled.

The scent: spiced wine, lavender, candle wax, something else.

The next breath came slower.

The one after that, slower still.

He blinked. Tried to speak. “Hey—” but his voice came out too soft.

He stumbled, dropping the goblet. A pair of nobles caught him, giggling, draping his arms over their shoulders. “Shhh,” they whispered. “Just dance with us…”

Barney’s pupils widened. His stance slackened. The noble on his left whispered, “There now. Isn’t that better?”

And he nodded.

Far above, from the high balcony, Clement watched, frozen.

The ballroom had become a breathing creature—its floor pulsing with bodies, its walls flickering in and out of shadow. People weren’t walking anymore. They flowed. Like silk in water. Like blood through a vein.

She’d seen something like this before. Not here. Not like this.

Below her, Malum stood surrounded by eager smiles and open mouths. His voice, smooth and controlled, remained calm—but she could tell it was an effort. She saw the way his hand flexed near his waist. How he avoided drinking. The subtle twitch in his left eye.

He was resisting. But he hadn’t noticed the fog yet.

He hadn’t noticed her.

A sound behind her made her spin, blade halfway drawn.

Jona Altman sat on a bench, half-shadowed in the candlelight.

Not lounging, not drinking—just sitting. Pale. Stiff.

His eyes stared past her into the crowd below, unblinking, like he was trying to read a scripture only he could see.

Clement’s breath caught. “Lord Jona?—”

He didn’t respond. His lips were moving, but the words weren’t for her.

“Not again,” he whispered. “Not again not again not again…”

He flinched as if something invisible passed through him.

“She always ruins the cute ones,” he muttered. “She’s not supposed to pick the cute ones. That’s my job…”

He stood suddenly—jerky, like a puppet yanked from its strings.

“Jona!” Clement barked.

But he didn’t hear.

He turned, walked to the far shadows, and slipped through a door.

No one noticed.

No one but her.

And then the music shifted again—a sudden drop into a single note that vibrated through the floor and into every chest.

Down below, the red-robed figures stepped forward.

One by one, their costumes sloughed away like shed skins, revealing velvet robes beneath deep scarlet, stitched with symbols that seemed to move. Bone crowns, some antlered, others fashioned from jawbones, were lowered onto their heads with silent reverence.

No announcement.

No panic.

They simply appeared—and the crowd accepted them as if they had always been there.

The thuribles swung.

Smoke—thick, pinkish-red, and glittering faintly—began to spill across the floor. It didn’t rise. It sank. It slithered around ankles, curled up legs, reached for throats.

The scent was sweet and wrong. Like rotting fruit on holy ground.

One cultist began to chant—low and rhythmic.

The crowd joined.

Their words were foreign, but their intent was clear: joy.

A man stepped forward. Elegant. Smiling.

He drew a triple sided knife from his robe. Plunged it into his own gut.

Barney twitched. For a moment—just a moment—his mind sparked. He stepped forward. Shield half-raised.

But the laughter. The laughter was so loud.

It rang in his ears like bells struck underwater.

The cultist carved symbols into his own flesh. Eyes. Spirals. Mouths. And with every cut, his smile grew. Not pain. Not ecstasy. Just… devotion.

Then—slowly, wetly—the wound sealed. Flesh returning to flesh. Skin like dough pulled tight.

The laughter never stopped.

Barney’s shield fell. He inhaled again.

And then he smiled.

Malum still stood at the centre, the ring on his finger pulsing like a warning drum. A heartbeat against his skin. The smoke recoiled from him faintly, shimmering at its edges.

He turned. Looking for escape. For clarity.

But he didn’t look up.

Didn’t see Clement.

She stood frozen on the balcony, fingers clenched around the railing, heart hammering in her throat.

The team was slipping. Already half-gone.

And Jona—her strangest ally—had vanished without a trace.

She was alone.

And she had no idea how to save them.

The music throbbed—too slow, too sweet. A violin pulled an aching note that never quite ended. Nobles drifted closer together, bodies brushing, breath mingling. The perfume of wine and silk was now tinged with something else. Something metallic. Something wrong.

But no one spoke of it.

Barney was the first to falter.

He’d been holding out. Grinding his teeth. Focusing on breath. Discipline. But the scent wrapped around his skull like a velvet noose.

He took a single, sharp inhale—and his shoulders slumped.

The shield slipped from his fingers with a dull thud. His jaw went slack. His mouth curled upward into a crooked smile.

The change, while subtle, rippled outward.

Daniel swayed on his feet, blinking slow. Miranda ran a thumb over her lips, eyes glassy. Henry mumbled something about music in the walls. Meg let her arms drift out like wings.

The air was thick with enchantment.

Malum tried to step away from it. He could feel it now—the pull. Not magic, not entirely. Something deeper. Psychological. Social. Spiritual. The room was folding inward, turning on itself like a flower devouring its own petals.

He moved through the crowd, trying not to breathe too deeply, hand closed tight around the stag ring thrumming against his skin.

He almost made it to the edge of the room—

—before a gloved hand caught his wrist.

Mistress Voss.

Her grip was warm. Familiar. Steady. Her expression unchanged: regal, amused, mothering.

“My dear,” she purred, tilting her head. “You’re not leaving, are you? When the fun’s just beginning?”

He glanced at her, then back to the others.

His friends were smiling now. Too wide. Too content.

“I need air,” he muttered.

Voss stepped closer, sliding her hand to his elbow, then his chest. “The air here is better. Purified. Consecrated. There’s nowhere safer.”

Malum’s eyes flicked to hers. “This isn’t safe.”

She smiled, as if that were a compliment.

“You always did understand the subtext. That’s why I liked you. Still do.” She stroked the side of his face with idle affection. “You and your little band… so promising. So ripe. Why not stay? You could do more than fight and scheme. You could serve.”

He recoiled at the word. “Serve?”

Her hand moved to his shoulder—soft, intimate pressure. “Don’t think of it as servitude. Think of it as... cooperation. The old ways are returning, and I’d rather have clever minds beside me than beneath me.”

She gestured vaguely toward Daniel, Henry, Meg, and Miranda—still basking in the haze.

“They're already halfway there. All that’s left is your say-so. A word, and they’ll never feel fear again. Never doubt. They’ll belong.”

He looked at them—at their false serenity—and felt bile rise in his throat.

“No,” he said quietly.

Her smile didn’t fade, but her hand tightened. “It wasn’t a question.”

High above, Clement moved like a ghost through the outer halls of the manor, away from the smoke. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a warning drum. Every corridor was too quiet, the silk banners too still.

She passed a library, then paused—drawn in.

Books had been scattered. Scrolls pulled free. It looked like someone had been searching… or hiding something.

On the desk was a scroll not like the others. It was wrapped in cloth stamped with a black wax seal: a jagged mountain, a single hand bursting out of its peak. The fingers were wrong. Too long.

And below it, in ink the colour of dried roses, a name:

Empress Noveria.

Clement stared at the scroll. Her mouth went dry.

She knew that name.

Knew it wasn’t supposed to be here.

A creak behind her.

She spun, short sword drawn—but saw no one.

Just the flicker of candlelight—and an overturned chair.

She hadn’t noticed the figure sitting there before.

Now it was empty.

someone had been there.

And they’d left.

Silently. Unseen.

Only the smell of wine lingered in the air and the faintest impression of his voice, like an echo collapsing in on itself

Back in the ballroom, Malum stood eye to eye with Mistress Voss, her fingers light on his shoulder, her perfume now indistinguishable from the smoke curling around them.

She whispered, just above the music:

“Join us, darling. Be my voice. Be my charm. Be the Stag that leads the herd to pasture.”

Malum’s ring pulsed.

And deep within its warmth, something awoke—not a voice, but a sensation. Cold. Certain.

Not yet. Not here. Wait. Watch. Survive.

His hand curled into a fist.

But even he knew: if he said one more wrong word—he might lose all of them.

The party did not end.

The descent had only just begun.

Clement ran.

Silk-lined corridors blurred past as she retraced her steps, feet light, heart loud. The scroll was tucked beneath her arm, but it felt heavier than iron. Noveria’s sigil throbbed in her mind like a curse. She didn’t know what it meant—not yet—but she knew it mattered.

She reached the balcony.

Below, the ballroom had grown quiet. Not still, not empty—quiet like a church moments before a ritual begins.

The smoke had thickened. Glittering, writhing. It danced around the crowd now like a lover, wrapping itself around limbs and throats, lifting chins.

And at the centre—Malum.

He was swaying slightly. Not dancing. Not resisting.

Just listening.

His hand still rested on the stag ring… but the light it gave off was flickering. Like a lantern guttering in a storm.

Voss stood beside him, radiant and terrible, her hand on his chest, her lips near his ear.

Clement saw it.

The shift.

The hesitation.

He was starting to nod.

She looked around—searching for Jona. For allies. For a miracle.

But the balcony was empty. The halls behind her were dead. The music played on.

Clement’s hand went to her hip.

The contraption there was cold and familiar. Six barrels, rotating. The last thing her brother had taught her to build.

The pepperbox.

Her fingers curled around it.

She aimed not at the crowd. Not at Malum.

But at the chandelier.

An ornate beast of iron and crystal, suspended above the dancers like a crown. The chains groaned faintly with each tremor of music.

She whispered, “Forgive me,” and squeezed the trigger.

The shot cracked like thunder.

Chains snapped.

And the chandelier—heavy as guilt—began to fall.

Chapter Text

The door shut with a hollow finality.

Then came the silence.

Not the kind broken by footsteps or distant conversation. Not the sort that invites peace.

This silence lingered—settling into the bones of the Emerald estate like a second soul. Heavy. Unyielding. Familiar.

Contra stood at the tall window, arms behind his back, watching the trail wind through the vineyard and vanish into the treeline. The dust from the military carriage still hung in the sunlit air—golden, suspended, slowly falling. He didn’t move.

Behind him, Curat straightened a crooked painting she’d ignored for years. Her reflection rippled faintly in the glass: still poised, still wearing her uniform like skin.

“He flinched again,” she said at last. Her voice was flat. “When the driver shouted his name.”

She didn’t clarify who. She didn’t need to. Contra didn’t answer.

“Malum will adjust,” she continued, brushing dust from the frame. “He already understands power. He’ll find leverage. Friends. Favour.”

“And Malus?” Contra asked, still watching the empty path.

Curat paused. “He’ll fight. He always fights. That’s… dangerous.”

Contra’s fingers twitched behind his back.

Curat passed him wordlessly into the kitchen. A kettle clinked onto the stove. Water poured. Motions practiced and plain, like she was pretending at a quiet life.

“They’ll keep each other alive,” she said, just loud enough to hear. “They’ll have to.”

Contra finally turned. “They shouldn’t have taken Natasha.”

Curat glanced back. “She chose to go.”

“She’s not blood.”

“No,” Curat said. “She’s worse.”

She met his eyes. “She’s loyal.”

Silence again. Then she poured only one cup.

Contra sat down at the long table. The chair groaned beneath his weight—he still sat like a soldier, never truly relaxed.

“I taught Malus the draw-cut at twelve,” he said. “He broke his wrist trying to keep up.”

Curat sipped her tea.

“He kept going. Bled all over the garden stones. I didn’t stop him.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t.”

The fire in the hearth crackled low. The pines outside scratched the glass. In the hallway beyond, an old training dummy collapsed with a wooden thunk—warped base finally giving way. Neither of them flinched.

Curat stood and began wiping the ring of her cup from the table.

“They’ll write,” she said. “Eventually.”

Contra’s voice was quiet. “They’ll think we miss them.”

Curat’s cloth stilled.

“…Do we?” he asked.

She didn’t answer at first.

Then: “That’s not relevant.”

Part II — The Thorn Beneath the Vine

The sitting room was dark when Contra returned hours later, soaked in rain and rage. He found her still seated, still composed, trimming the stem of a single rose.

“How long?” he asked.

Curat didn’t look up. “How long what?”

“The stable hand.”

Shears clicked. She didn’t flinch. “This one, you mean?”

Contra stepped further into the room, boots leaving muddy arcs across the tile.

“You knew.”

“Of course I knew,” he said, voice low. “You think I can track barbarian scouts by the scent of horse piss but miss a third pair of boots in the tack room?”

She set the rose down gently.

“It meant nothing.”

“It meant you didn’t trust me.” His voice rose—not loud, but sharp enough to cut. “Not while our sons are out there. Not while she’s out there. And you lied to my face.”

Curat stood slowly. Her jacket creaked at the seams—an old relic of campaign life she never stopped wearing. Her face was still stone.

“I needed something that wasn’t war.”

“Then ask me for it,” Contra snapped. “Ask your husband.”

“I needed silence.”

He stepped closer. The space between them narrowed like a battlefield before the charge.

“I would’ve given you that too.”

They didn’t speak again.

Not until the stable hand was called, dismissed, and quietly escorted off the grounds. No explanations. No accusations. Just a coat, a warning, and a closed gate.

The storm outside thickened—but inside, the air began to clear.

They didn’t speak still. But this time, they didn’t stand apart.

Scene: The War Hall of Stone

The old war hall still bore the pockmarks of battles long past. Arrowheads, rusted and embedded in its stone walls, framed the archways like ancient runes. Rain poured steadily outside, seeping into the flagstones. Torches burned low, casting long shadows like old ghosts. The air smelled of vinegar and smoke.

Representatives of the North had gathered: landholders, physicians, former soldiers, herbalists, and a few wary merchants. Not a full council—but enough. Enough to begin.

Curat stood at the head of the long table. Her posture was perfect, her coat uncreased, her hair pulled back in a soldier’s knot. She was not here as a mother. She was here as a veteran, a tactician, and—by necessity—a judge.

Behind her stood Contra, silent, alert. A statue of muscle and memory, his presence weighed more than words.

Curat spoke.

“There is a pattern,” she said, voice calm but firm. “And it is not a mistake.”

A murmur rose, but it faded when Loren Paleven stood. Rain tapped against the windows behind her.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held out a letter—creased, stained, handled too many times.

“My daughter, Natasha, left with the Emerald twins,” she said. “We argued the night before. I wanted her to stay. She didn’t. Said it was her duty.”
She paused. “I haven’t heard a word since.”

The room quieted. All of them had stories.

An aging steward from House Amreth cleared his throat.

“My son was drafted to repay a gambling debt—one not even his own. A family debt. They told me he’d be allowed to write.”

He held up a sealed letter.

“This came two weeks ago. Signed in his name… but not in his hand. I've read it a hundred times. It says nothing. Just... obedience.”

A merchant—plump and stiff in his silk—snorted.

“This is conjecture. Supply lines are slow. The Empire is vast. Letters take time.”

Curat’s eyes pinned him.

“Your son still writes?”

The merchant hesitated.

“Yes.”

Contra stepped forward, his voice gravel and iron.

“And your family holds no debts.”

The merchant said nothing else.

Then came the sound of wet boots on stone. A figure stepped into the hall, cloaked in black, water dripping from his hem. He said nothing as he removed his hood.

Scarred. One eye milky-white, the other sharp as a dagger. A faded tattoo peeked from under his collar—an old regiment mark, partially burned away.

“Second Regiment,” he said. “Eastern flank. I shouldn’t be here. But I buried friends who never made it to the front. Names never added to the roll.”

He laid a charred page on the table. Its edges crumbled at the touch.

“This was found in a firepit near the courier station. I think someone tried to destroy it before it reached home.”

Curat took it carefully. Ink bled through the soot.

“…not prisoners, not dead. Hidden. Moved. We are not soldiers. We are—”
“…the flame sings louder each day. The mask watches. They took J—”

The rest was ash.

A scholar stepped forward. He laid a map across the table. Dozens of pins—green and black—marked estates across the North.

“These families still receive letters. Every one of them owes nothing to the crown. The rest? Nothing. Silence.”

The truth hung in the room like smoke.

Contra finally spoke.

“They use us for their message. The North—peaceful, disciplined, useful. A mirror they hold up to the rest of the Empire. But only because we bleed quietly.”

“They’re exploiting the legacy we built,” Loren Paleven added. “We’re the ones who beat the warlord back. Who buried his sons in the forest. Now they draft our children as fodder and silence them when they go.”

Curat raised her chin.

“We are not traitors,” she said. “We are not rebels. But we are not blind.”

An old knight—Sir Eddelmar, formerly of the Royal Hunts—spoke from the shadows.

“If we do this… if we defy them, even in silence… we will never be imperial again.”

Curat stared at him.

“Then perhaps it’s time we remember we were something before we were imperial.”

A few heads bowed.

Others nodded.

“I propose a northern accord,” she said. “No banners. No oaths. No speeches. Just watchers in the dark. We intercept false letters. We plant truths. We use our old contacts. We reactivate the War Colleges.”

An old captain leaned forward, eyebrows drawn.

“You mean to wake the training rings?”

“Yes,” Curat said. “And every sleeper cell they still hide.”

The silence deepened—not from fear, but weight.

Then Contra stepped forward.

“We go to Roanoake,” he said simply. “Hackett reached out.”

Gasps, whispers. Hackett, the one who’d vanished after the siege of Black Hollow. A legend gone to ground.

“He says our children are alive,” Contra continued. “But something's wrong. Very wrong. And he can’t say more from a distance.”

Curat turned to Loren Paleven. Her voice was soft now, though no less sure.

“If we don’t return,” she said, “you’ll keep the North standing.”

Loren’s voice trembled.

“And the children?”

Curat met her eyes.

“Then bring them home. All of them.”

Loren bowed her head.

And that was enough.

One by one, the rest stood—old men, scarred women, sons of merchants, daughters of dead knights. They stood.

When the hall emptied, the torches flickered low—but no one noticed.

Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist.

Inside, something had ignited.

Not a fire.

But something colder.

And just as enduring.

The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the city of Roanoake still glistened as though scrubbed for ceremony. The cobbled parade route sparkled under torchlight, and long crimson banners fluttered from every post, each one bearing the imperial flower in gold thread. Somewhere far above, bells chimed—not mournful, not joyous, just constant.

A mother and her son stood on an iron grate near the old aqueduct, nestled between an armorer’s awning and a spice stall. She hoisted him a little higher onto the railings as the horns began to blow.

“Hold tight,” she whispered. “Here they come.”

The procession turned the corner in perfect formation—six columns wide, a hundred deep. Soldiers clad in grey and crimson, helms smooth and eyeless, faces hidden. Across their breastplates, some bore the old insignia of Ganymede. But others had newer symbols burned or etched into the metal—a mushroom, stylized, with its cap blooming like a halo.

The boy squinted.

“Why a mushroom?” he asked.

The mother hesitated.

“Because they grow in the dark,” she said softly. “And they feed on the dead.”

At the head of the formation strode a single man—not armored like the others, but no less striking. His chest was bare beneath a gilded mantle of plates, his torso crisscrossed with old scars that gleamed like veins of silver in the torchlight.

Zaeed.

His arms hung loose at his sides, like a man approaching an altar. He smiled, but it was the kind of smile one gave a funeral pyre: reverent, resigned. The crowd watched him in silence—no jeers, no cheers. Only recognition. The man who had once been mad, or worse, and had returned a prophet in iron.

Behind him came the soldiers—step perfect, breath held, utterly synchronized.

Then the horns changed tone, and every head turned toward the raised platform beneath the Emperor’s arch.

There stood Empress Noveria Ordo.

She wore no crown. No fur cloak. No sword.

Her robes were tailored silk in obsidian black, clasped at the throat with the golden imperial seal. A train of fine velvet trailed behind her like spilled ink. Her hair was coiled high, threaded with ribbons of red and silver.

She raised a single hand—delicate, commanding—and the procession halted as one.

“It is my wish,” Noveria said, her voice crisp as flint striking stone,
“that every soldier here today may one day proudly say—I am the holy flame that will sear through this world of deception.”

The soldiers shouted in unison:

“WE ARE THE BLADE. WE ARE THE LIGHT.”

“The chorus of our God-Emperor sings in our ears,” Noveria continued. “Speak the righteous words. Sing the praises. Defy the heretical darkness.”

“WE ARE THE BLADE. WE ARE THE LIGHT.”

“The veil parts before us,” she declared, voice rising like a wave cresting.

“IMPERATOR DOMINATUS.”

Their reply was thunder:

“IMPERATOR DOMINATUS.”

Noveria let the chant settle, like a blade lowered after a salute. Then she gestured behind her, toward the still and silent soldiers.

“The knights you see before you were once outlaws. Now, they are Redeemed. Once strays. Now, they are bound in covenant. And it is not by my will, but by the will of the Flame, that I name them—The Redeemed Fang.”

A stir passed through the crowd—recognition dawning slowly.

“You may know them by what they were. But I ask you to listen to what they have become,” Noveria said. “The one who guided them from shadows into fire. The one who broke them, and forged them again.”

She turned.

“General Farnese. Address your soldiers.”

The crowd turned with her.

And then she appeared.

Farnese.

Slim, composed, wrapped in ash-coloured plate that shimmered like coal under a dying fire. Her white under-robes moved like scripture, lined in dark thread. Her hair was drawn back tightly, but the burn scars on her neck and jaw remained visible—not hidden. Not shamed.

She did not salute. Did not bow.

Instead, she stepped forward with precise calm and leaned toward the brass-laced horn.

“Hm… huh. It’s been some time since I visited… ‘civilized places,’” she said.

“I don’t have fond memories of them. Too much love of money and ownership. Not enough love of God and giving.”

A few in the crowd chuckled, nervously. Others tilted their heads. A few even nodded.

“But I’ve always seen these places from the outside. Any society that derives its power and authority from the will of man alone… lives apart from God. And it will crumble in the end.”

“This way lies the path to Hell.”
“Of course—love the sinner, hate the sin.”

Zaeed, behind her, flinched. His mouth tightened. He said nothing.

“You’re not so certain?” Farnese continued. “Fair enough. We all have doubts.”
“Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”
“And you will see the Truth.”

“There’s much to be sceptical of. I understand. This world devours faith. So I don’t blame those who’ve stopped believing.”

The boy in the crowd whispered to his mother:

“Is she a preacher?”

The mother shook her head.

“No,” she said. “She’s something else.”

“But I believe our Lord was made flesh once. Died to redeem me. To redeem you.”

From a far window—The Fifth Stipe watched. Still as stone.

“It may be hard to accept. Harder to understand. But I know—I know—that though I am a sinner, I have been saved. There is something beyond this rock, this air, this water.
Something more.”

Zaeed’s eyes dropped to the stones.

“Whether God exists or not… He does not depend on what we believe.”

“The light of the mind alone cannot dispel the world’s darkness.”

“The path is always there. No matter how many times you fall.”

“We are made and kept by covenants. His laws.”

“And in return—eternal salvation. That is the comfort. In a world like ours… it’s everything.”

The silence in the square was dense—but not hostile. Just still. Caught between awe and uncertainty.

“But this is the waking world,” she said. “No need to cry. No need to dream.”

“The day will come when our Lord returns to judge us all.”

“Until then… we must honour His laws. We must start others on the path, if we can.”

She turned slightly, and the torchlight caught her burns.

“I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me. I fell… and the flame burned on.”

“Their love. God’s love. That fire carried me.”

She closed her eyes.

“I will never be able to repay the debt I owe to them.”

“But I must try.”

Then, finally, her eyes met the crowd.

“Thank you for staying with me.”

“Tomorrow will be here soon.”

“And there is much work to be done.”

“God be with you.”

The crowd didn’t erupt in applause.

They just… remained. Moved, perhaps. Uncertain, definitely. Not afraid—but deeply, deeply aware that they had heard something unshakable.

From the tower, Contra watched the silence settle.

“We’ve seen enough,” he murmured.

Curat’s voice came quietly.

“She’s not insane.”

“No,” Contra said. “She’s worse.”

They slipped from view—back into the rain-slick shadows—before the Redeemed Fang could raise their arms and bellow:

“WARRIORS.”

And beneath that cry, beneath the banners and torches and roars—

A sermon still echoed.

Not loud. But permanent.

The parade square was distant now—just the echo of drums, scattered petals, and the hum of a city trying to make sense of its saints. Rain lingered in the gutters. Smoke curled from rooftop chimneys.

Contra and Curat stood before a crooked wooden storefront: Hackett’s Flowers.

The doorbell chimed as they entered.

The shop smelled of damp earth and crushed mint. Every pot bore a name, carefully written on twine-tied parchment.

Tain Verric. Ridgewatch Patrol.
Ilara Stone. Third Pike Division.
Korr Vin. Starward Flank.

Curat ran her fingers over a blooming blue hyacinth. The tag read: Arlen Voss. Thunder March.
When she touched it, the tag slipped off. She didn’t catch it.

Behind the counter, Hackett appeared—broad-shouldered, grey-bearded, and still carrying himself like a man who hadn't quite put down his sword.

He gave a tight, unreadable smile.

“Came to smell the dead?” he asked.

Contra grunted. “Didn’t know you’d turned your retirement into a memorial.”

“Wasn’t the plan. But… people stopped naming the fallen. Someone had to.”

Curat looked around. “We’re not here to mourn.”

Hackett’s smile didn’t change. “No. I didn’t think you were.”

They sat in the greenhouse behind the shop. Rain ticked lightly against the glass panes.

Hackett poured drinks. Neither Contra nor Curat touched theirs.

“You heard about the conscription patterns?” Curat asked.

“I heard,” Hackett said. “I also heard what you’re doing about it. The Palevens said you’d stirred up half the North.”

“Then you know what we’ve risked,” Contra said. “So don’t waste our time.”

There was a long silence.

Finally, Hackett nodded once.

“They’re alive.”

He turned toward the window. “I can’t tell you where. Can’t even tell you why. But I can say this—Malus is here. Roanoake. Arrived not three hours ago.”

Curat inhaled sharply. Her knuckles whitened.

“Just Malus?” she asked, voice low.

“I saw Natasha,” Hackett added. “Bruised. But standing.”

Curat turned away. For a moment her face twisted—not in anger, but something else. Something like grief.

“Where’s Malum?” she asked quietly.

Hackett didn’t answer.

Contra's voice was gruff. “Can you take us to them?”

A pause.

“…Yeah. But you’ll need to be careful.”

Chapter: Offloading
The depot yard was grey with dust and shadow. Long, sun-battered sheds stretched toward the horizon. The stench of oil and horses was thick.

Hackett led them around the back, ducking between crates and broken carts. Two carriage guards stood by the offloading ramp—faces hidden behind iron instructor masks, smooth and expressionless, etched with strange sigils.

“They won’t stop us,” Hackett murmured. “They’ve already seen me.”

Curat’s steps slowed when the carriage doors creaked open.

Two figures emerged.

Malus stepped down first. Thinner than before. His eyes were hard now, no boyhood softness left. Blood stained his sleeve, and his gait was stiff. But he was upright. Composed.

Then came Natasha, one arm bandaged, her beanie gone. Her hair was tied back, but her face was set. Her eyes darted, alert.

Curat’s hand trembled.

She took a step forward—then stopped.

Malus turned his head slightly, as if sensing something. But he didn’t look back.

Curat made a strangled sound, something between breath and voice. “Where is he,” she whispered. “Where’s Malum…”

Contra placed a hand on her shoulder.

“They’ve been through something,” he said. “They’re not done yet.”

Curat turned away, jaw clenched tight.

“We shouldn’t be watching,” she muttered.

Hackett’s voice was low. “Then come with me. We’re almost out of time.”

Hackett led them into a grain warehouse—dark, dust-filled, long since emptied. The scent of mold clung to the beams.

He paused near the far wall.

“I had to make a choice,” he said.

Contra narrowed his eyes. “What choice.”

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.

Instructor mask. Black plate. Two sabres.

“Damn it,” Contra growled.

They turned just as another masked guard dropped from the rafters.

Curat drew her blade instantly.

No ceremony. Just steel.

Hackett didn’t move.

“I told them you were coming,” he said. “I asked them not to hurt you.”

Curat’s voice cracked like a whip. “You betrayed us.”

“I protected you,” Hackett snapped. “They were going to kill you on sight.”

“You think we’d thank you for this?” Contra’s voice was low, trembling with rage.

He shifted his cloak.

The hilt of a long, wide-bladed sword rose above his shoulder—its sheath lined with faint sigils. Old ones.

Hackett’s eyes flicked to it. “You brought that?”

“It stays on my back,” Contra said. “Until I decide otherwise.”

The first instructor moved.

The fight erupted.

The warehouse trembled with violence.

Curat twisted low, her short blade scoring a line across an instructor’s ribs. She parried high, shoved a masked figure into a pillar, then ducked behind a hanging chain just in time for another sabre to swing past her ear.

Across the room, Contra moved like a landslide—slow but unstoppable. His fists broke ribs. A low elbow dropped a soldier to the ground. But they kept coming.

Three instructors. Then four. Then five.

“They’re trained,” Curat hissed, barely ducking a strike. “Too trained.”

“They’re Spectre-grade,” Contra spat. “These aren’t city guards.”

The shadows shifted.

A new figure stepped down from the lofted catwalk above. The warehouse seemed to still as he entered the ring of torchlight.

His instructor mask was different—streaked with red paint, shaped into the abstract outline of a laughing skull. Five lines carved into its forehead.

The Fifth Stripe.

His armour was dark silver, matte and ceremonial, but pitted with scars. He carried no visible weapons.

Curat stepped back. “I know that mask,” she whispered.

“Last one you ever see,” Contra said grimly.

The Fifth Stripe didn’t speak.

He simply moved.

Faster than Contra could track—one blur, one pivot, then pain exploded across Contra’s side. He staggered, turning, only to feel a second impact slam against his ribs from behind.

Curat lunged, slicing at the Stripe’s thigh—he caught her blade with his bare palm and twisted it from her grip.

She reeled back, bleeding.

“Contra—!”

Another blow landed in Contra’s stomach. The big man grunted, dropped to a knee.

He looked up.

His eyes found Hackett, still standing in the shadows, unmoving. “This is what you wanted?”

Hackett’s expression was unreadable. “It wasn’t supposed to be him.”

The Fifth Stripe turned to finish it.

Contra finally reached over his shoulder.

His fingers closed around the hilt.

Steel whispered free.

The executioner sword—broad, elegant, unnatural. Its blade glimmered faintly with dull red sigils. And when Contra let go…

…it hovered.

The Fifth Stripe paused.

Curat stared, winded. “You’re actually going to use it…”

Contra’s hand opened.

The sword hung in the air before him.

Then it spun.

Fast. Unpredictable. Like a thrown sawblade controlled by a god’s whisper.

The Final Stripe stepped forward—

And the blade lunged.

It cut a deep arc through the air—faster than any hand could swing. The Stripe dodged the first pass, but the second grazed his chestplate, sending sparks flying.

Contra’s eyes glowed faintly.

He raised his hand—and the sword rose with it, twisting in the air like a predator circling prey.

The warehouse seemed to narrow, the air thick with heat and pressure.

The Final Stripe rushed forward.

Steel screamed.

They exchanged nothing but momentum—one fueled by rage, the other by invisible force.

The floating sword whirled around Contra like a halo of death. Slash, thrust, spin, parry—it moved with perfect precision. The Stripe tried to adapt, but the blade was alive, responding not to motion, but will.

A final clash—

Curat, half-recovered, slammed her elbow into the Stripe’s leg just as the blade punched into his back.

A shudder.

The Stripe froze mid-motion, mask twitching.

He stumbled forward, one hand grasping air—

Then dropped.

Dead.

Silence fell.

The sword hovered a moment longer, blood dripping from its tip, before slowly lowering to Contra’s outstretched hand.

He grabbed it.

The weight returned.

He looked at Hackett. “We gave you a chance.”

“I know,” Hackett said quietly.

He reached beneath his work coat—

And slipped on his own instructor mask. Simple. Steel. A skeletal hand carved across the front, reaching up from beneath a mountain.

Contra cursed.

But before he could raise the sword again, Hackett moved. Not fast like the Stripe—but fast enough. A black baton cracked against Contra’s neck. He staggered.

Curat rushed him—her boot caught Hackett’s leg, but she was bleeding, too slow, too late.

Thwack.

The second baton came down behind her ear.

She dropped.

Hackett stood there, panting, mask reflecting the torchlight. He looked down at the bodies of his old friends. At the corpses of the instructors. At the floating sword now lying still.

Then he crouched.

And whispered—barely audible through the mask:

“I’m sorry.”

They dragged Contra away first, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, but his spirit unbroken—at least, for now.

Below the city, in a vast, shadowed hall lit only by flickering torches, the true weight of his captivity began.

The Briar Set awaited.

Crafted not by magic, but by cruel, deliberate craftsmanship—its twisted iron thorns coiled like barbed vines, sharp-edged and jagged, designed to pierce and chafe with every movement. The armour was a prison tailored to torment flesh and will alike.

Every breath, every step, every swing of his weapon sent fresh waves of agony searing through his muscles and skin.

The Briar Set did not curse him—it punished him with its sheer physicality, grinding his endurance down, bit by bit, day by day.

His legendary executioner sword—the one that obeyed his silent commands and floated as an extension of his will—was returned. But now it was a spectacle: a tool in a deadly show, a cruel mockery of his former glory.

Forced into a relentless cycle, he fought without cease. Prisoners and criminals, broken men and desperate souls were thrown before him in ceaseless combat.

Each clash was accompanied by the instructors’ voices, chanting, jeering, cutting into him as sharply as his foes’ blades.

“Weakness!” they spat.

“Lost! Broken! Forgotten!”

His body screamed in protest. Sleep became a memory. Hunger gnawed at his edges. Yet, the Briar Set held him firm—and he held on, because surrender was unthinkable.

His broad shoulders, once the unyielding foundation of his family, now sagged under the weight of iron and shame.

This was no longer a warrior’s trial.

It was a living martyrdom.

Curat’s captivity was another kind of battlefield.

No chains bound her wrists. No bruises marred her skin.

Instead, she was shackled by silence, isolation, and a slow, inexorable assault on her mind.

Her cell was cold and stark—a place of quiet despair where the passage of time was marked by a single presence: the voice of the Empress herself.

Noveria Ordo sat quietly near her, a red leather-bound book resting in her lap, her voice steady and unyielding.

“I once believed as you do,” she said softly, eyes distant but piercing. “Love for the North, for your children... for Contra.”

Curat’s hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening.

“But such love,” the Empress continued, “can blind a soul. It can shackle the spirit, anchoring you to a past that no longer serves the future.”

Days turned to weeks. The Empress’s words were not shouted commands but calm, patient dismantling of Curat’s will.

They peeled back her doubts, her fears—layer by layer—until the core of her identity was exposed, vulnerable.

“You are no longer merely Curat,” Noveria declared one cold afternoon, voice like iron wrapped in velvet. “You are the Fifth Stripe.”

The title was more than a rank. It was a rebirth.

Then, the Empress approached with a helmet: black steel, sleek but severe, the front emblazoned with a handprint—deep crimson, as if pressed by blood itself.

She cut her palm with a ceremonial dagger, letting the blood drip slowly onto the helmet’s cold surface before pressing it into Curat’s hands.

“You will wear this as a symbol,” she said, voice low and compelling.

Curat barely whispered, “Of what?”

“Of rebirth. Of power. Of allegiance.”

Her love for the North. For her children. For Contra.

Each thread twisted into a noose of justification.

The helmet was no longer just armour. It became her mask, her identity—the cold, relentless Fifth Stripe the world would come to fear.

Separated by walls of iron and will, yet bound by memories and a love once forbidden, Contra and Curat slipped into shadowed legend.

Two warriors remade—not by magic or fate, but by the cruelty of those who sought to wield them.

Their souls no longer their own.

But the North would remember.

And their children would carry the echoes of what they once were.

Chapter Text

The door to Malus’s cell creaked open with a slow, deliberate groan. Cold air rushed in, carrying the damp scent of old stone and torch smoke. The Fifth Stripe stood in the doorway, framed by flickering light, helm concealing all but the glint of eyes that caught too much. Beneath the bronze insignia-laced armour, they were unmoving—an emblem of rank and silence. Their voice cut through the quiet like a blade:

“Follow.”

Just one word. Sharp. Simple. Unemotional.

Malus obeyed.

He wasn’t in shackles. There were no guards flanking him, no chains on his wrists. Yet each step he took felt heavy, as though he were being led to judgment. His boots scuffed the worn stones of the corridor, the echoes of their footfalls folding into shadowy passageways that twisted like arteries through the heart of the fortress.

And in his mind, the spirit lingered still—its last whisper unravelling in the back of his thoughts like silk on a blade.

He didn’t ask where they were going. He only walked.

They emerged into a vast, oval chamber that swallowed all sound. The hush was sacred. Monolithic pillars lined the walls, carved with ancient scenes of martyrdom and conquest. The ceiling soared impossibly high, lost in gloom. Somewhere above, rainwater slipped through unseen fractures, falling in silver ribbons that vanished to mist before ever touching the floor.

At the centre stood the fountain.

Graceful. Delicate. Grand.

Two marble dragons coiled around each other in a perpetual embrace, claws entwined around a sculpted heart. Dragons in Love, the plaque read—hand-carved by Emperor Dessel Ordo himself when he proposed to Noveria, a gesture of vulnerability few believed he was capable of.

Beneath that quiet monument stood the Empress.

Empress Noveria Ordo held an umbrella in one hand, a paper-thin veil of black shielding her from mist that did not touch her anyway. In her other hand, she held the jagged shaft of a broken spear.

Malus froze. His breath caught in his throat.

The weapon gleamed faintly in the filtered gloom. Its haft, dark wood smoothed from years of handling, ended in a ruinous break. The blade was cracked, the tip gone, jagged like a shattered tooth. A black cotton ribbon fluttered beneath it, trailing like a mourning banner, frayed and scorched. The sigil that once decorated it—House Paleven—was barely visible beneath burn marks and blood.

He knew that spear.

Natasha’s spear.

The one she’d wielded in the final battle. The one she’d died with.

His thoughts scrambled. Part confusion, part disbelief. Why was she here? Why was she holding this? Why now?

The Empress stepped forward without ceremony. The Fifth Stripe remained still. Not a breath. Not a movement beyond a subtle twitch in their right hand—too quick to be anything but reflex. A flicker of something buried deep, something almost human, flickered in their gaze. But it passed. As quickly as it had come.

Noveria approached Malus and, to his shock, wrapped her arms around him. One hand cradled the back of his head, the other clutched the ruined spear. She smelled like old parchment and lavender oil, like memory.

Malus stood frozen, caught between disbelief and the fragile tenderness of the moment. His mind was a jumble of chaotic thoughts — questions without answers, a confusion that prickled behind his skin. Why comfort now? Why this closeness from someone who’d always seemed distant?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her voice was low, stripped of ceremony. It was raw, unexpected. A weight settled in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

“To lose your other half so quickly, so cruelly... it is a wound that will never truly close.”

He wanted to speak, but the words tangled in his throat. The warmth of her embrace felt like an echo of something lost, a memory clinging to the edges of pain.

The Fifth Stripe took a step back, retreating with a slow nod, head bowed. Their movements were practiced, respectful—but again, as they passed behind Malus, there was a pause. A hesitation. They turned, and for a heartbeat, their gaze met his. Not with hatred. Not with warmth. Just… something. A tension like recognition buried too deep to name.

And then they were gone.

The great door groaned shut behind them, sealing the mist-filled chamber in solemn quiet.

Malus exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

“I’m a terrible person,” he said, voice barely audible. “I should’ve died with her.”

Behind him, a voice replied, low and calm.

“You’ll never find peace if you keep searching for proof that you don’t deserve it.”

Mordin Vakarian stepped from shadow as if he’d always been there. Cloak damp at the edges, face untouched by time. He placed a gloved hand on Malus’s back, gentle and grounding, and guided him forward.

They walked past the fountain. Past the dragons cradling the stone heart. Past Noveria, now serene once more, the spear lowered but not forgotten.

The double doors opposite the chamber opened together.

Inside waited the surviving Initiates.

Carver stood stiffly, jaw clenched, arms crossed over fire-scarred robes. His eyes flickered briefly toward Malus with something unreadable — a guarded respect mixed with a hint of envy. Juhani was composed as always, hands folded behind her back, her eyes glowing faintly with the quiet power she wielded. She nodded slightly at Malus, her expression neutral but acknowledging the weight he carried. Walter stood tallest—quiet, eyes rimmed red, the pride and sadness in him simmering beneath calm waters. He gave a subtle, tight-lipped smile that spoke of battles fought and losses mourned.

Behind each of them stood their Spectres—silent, masked, ever-watchful.

They all turned as Malus entered. No cheers. No bows. No words. Only space. Respectful, careful space.

The Empress walked in behind him, once more regal, once more untouchable. She lifted the broken spear like a sceptre, its jagged edge catching what little light remained.

“You have all succeeded,” she said, voice carrying without echo. “You’ve seen the enemy with your own eyes. You’ve felt the cost of this war. You’ve been broken—and still you stand.”

Her gaze swept across them.

“To lose is to understand. To survive is to carry weight. And to carry that weight is to become more than what you were.”

The air grew still—not with ceremony, but with the quiet gravity of something understood.

The broken spear trembled faintly in her hand.

Malus lowered his head—not in shame, but in acknowledgement.

He would not forget Natasha’s death.

But perhaps, for the first time, he would carry it.

Not as punishment.

But as the quiet fuel beneath what remained.

The Empress’s voice faded, and silence followed—not the silence of endings, but of things waiting to begin.

The Initiates stood still. No cheers. No clapping. Just quiet. The kind that settles deep.

Then, slowly, the Spectres stepped forward—not in unison, not rehearsed. Just people moving with purpose.

Braylon approached Juhani first.

“You alright?” he asked, voice rough with fatigue. Not concern, exactly—more like checking the foundation after a storm.

She nodded. “Tired,” she said, flatly.

“Yeah. Me too.” He looked at her for a beat, then held out a folded set of armour wrapped in oilcloth. “Your size should be right. Had it made months ago. Just in case.”

She unwrapped it. Dark steel—utilitarian, jointed for movement, not beauty. The back plate bore a narrow column of symbols etched from the nape to the base of the spine. Another line traced the underside of each forearm, subtle, nearly hidden. Her name had been burned into the inside collar in small, clean script.

Juhani slipped it on, layer by layer. When she adjusted the fastening at her waist, a purple sash unspooled from her belt. It hung in the air beside her, motionless—suspended not by wind, but by her own gravitational field. An unconscious display of control.

Braylon watched for a moment, then grunted approval. “Looks right.”

That was all he said.

Walter stood nearby, arms crossed. Karith approached slowly, eyes on his face rather than the armour.

“You’ve grown into it,” she said. Not dramatic. Just… proud.

Walter gave a small smile—quiet, worn around the edges. “Didn’t think it’d happen like this.”

“It never does.” She handed him his armour.

Same cut, same steel. Etched runes. Serviceable, lived-in. The breastplate showed signs of hand-mending—bolts replaced, seams re-welded. Like someone had kept it ready out of hope, not certainty.

Walter fastened it carefully, like he was afraid of damaging it. When he was done, he reached for a flask hanging from a leather strap on the side of the armor. The steelwork was ornate—filigree of waves, polished silver cap. It looked like it belonged at a banquet, not a battlefield.

He held it for a second. Didn’t drink. Just felt its weight.

Karith patted his shoulder. “You’ll know when it’s time to use it.”

Zash had already tossed Carver’s armour at his feet by the time he turned around.

“You still don’t know how to say thank you, huh?” she muttered, hands in her pockets.

Carver crouched and lifted the pieces—one by one, inspecting them.

Same core design: steel, etched spine and forearms, functional buckles. But the chest plate was different. Warped slightly, colour darker than the rest—heat-tempered and hammer-flattened. It had survived something. You could tell.

He shrugged into it without help, then looked up at her. “Thanks.”

Zash raised an eyebrow. “Well damn. Look at you. Growing.”

The fittings done, the room emptied slowly, each Initiate retreating to their own burdens and thoughts. Malus lingered last, the weight of the ceremony pressing down.

Mordin stepped up beside him, silently producing a black case, heavy and angular, from beneath his cloak. He handed it over without a word.

Malus accepted it with a steady hand, though his face remained unreadable. The case was solid, cold—its purpose clear even without opening: new armour, new weapons, new burdens to carry.

Mordin’s gaze met his briefly, unyielding but not unkind. Then he turned, leaving Malus alone with the echoing silence.

Malus walked through the corridor, the footsteps of his former comrades fading behind him. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the walls themselves leaned in, pressing on the memories he tried to hold at bay.

At last, he reached his quarters.

The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a small chamber steeped in shadows and silence.

And there it was—the statue.

Kneeling, head bowed low, its surface polished anew, no cracks or flakes to mark the passing of time. The statue from the vineyard, the one he had known since childhood—unchanging, silent, watching.

In its hands rested Natasha’s broken spearhead, the scorched family crest slowly rippling like a faint flame in the stale air.

Malus let the case fall to the floor with a muted thud, the sound swallowed by the stillness.

He stepped forward, hands trembling slightly, and wrapped his arms around the spear—not as a weapon, but as a memory, a promise, a fragment of her held close.

He closed his eyes.

A quiet breeze stirred.

A presence, barely more than a whisper.

No words came, only the faintest shift of air—a voice without sound, a comfort without form.

Then, quietly, Malus spoke.

“I wish I’d thanked you more… for the million little ways you loved me, even when I didn’t notice.”

A soft stirring, like a sigh.

“You were there, quietly, patiently. Loving me in ways I didn’t have the sense to see.”

Another gentle breeze, warmer this time.

“I was too loud in the wrong places, too quiet where it mattered. Didn’t say it then, so I’ll say it now... Thank you, for carrying what I didn’t even know was falling, for loving a version of me I hadn’t grown into yet.”

He opened his eyes, the weight in his chest shifting ever so slightly.

The statue remained silent, but the air hummed with something unspoken—a promise kept between shadows and memory.

Chapter: Gods in the Mud

The descent was wordless.

No briefing. No farewells. Just the slow grind of airships sliding low through red fog, Spectres flanking their Initiates like reapers with clipped wings. The whine of rotors vanished under the sound of distant shelling—booming like the heartbeat of a dying god.

The smell hit first.

Rot, piss, fire. A thousand trenches' worth of blood had seeped into the earth, turning the mud dark and viscous—thick enough to trap a boot and threaten to take the leg with it. Alchemical casks whistled overhead and exploded in green-and-orange blooms that never stopped burning. Someone’s guts were draped over the branch of a blasted tree.

This wasn’t a mission.

This was hell.

The airship groaned to a halt. No ladder—just a drop.

"Off," Braylon said. No ceremony.

Malus jumped. Hit the mud hard. Juhani, Walter, Carver followed in silence, some slipping in the mud, others hitting too hard. No one spoke. The breath it would cost wasn’t worth it.

Cheers rose from the trenches—raw and cracking.

Not joy.

Recognition.

"LOOK! STRIPE ONE!"

"THEY’VE SENT THE EMPRESS’S MONSTERS!"

"WE AIN’T DEAD YET!"

Men covered in soot and blood grinned through missing teeth. One soldier wept openly when he saw Juhani float over the mud without touching it.

A scarred man waited by the shattered husk of a cart, ash-coloured stubble clinging to sunken cheeks. His left eye twitched like it didn’t trust anything it saw.

Captain Jack Paleven.

His voice was a dry wheeze. "No flanks. No formations. You hold until they break or you do. That’s the briefing."

On his belt hung a bone-white dagger, scorched at the hilt.

Natasha’s.

Malus’s breath caught.

Jack didn’t notice him. Just kept talking. Too many helmets. Too much smoke. Too much time.

A hooded figure leaned in and whispered to Jack before vanishing into the haze. A ring glinted red on his hand.

Liara arrived mid-briefing, her cloak burned at the hem, boots soaked in blood and oil. Her face looked carved from ash.

"Captain," she said without preamble. "You’ll get your miracle. But when this is over, I want my people back."

Jack didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Just nodded and turned away.

The horns blared.

The ground trembled.

The Monocians came.

It wasn’t a battle.

It was annihilation in slow motion.

No tactics. No ranks. Just charging fanatics, some naked, others armoured in stitched flesh and bronze discs. They screamed hymns as they ran, mouths foaming.

Explosive casks rained down, blowing trenches apart. Limbs flew. Men screamed. Mud turned to fire.

One berserker took three sword strikes and kept coming. Juhani put him down with a single clean arc, floating just above the muck. Her sash glowed like a banner of war.

Walter raised a hand. The ground became quicksand. Screams were cut short as Monocians vanished into drowning mud.

Carver was a blur—his sword glowing red-hot, searing through armour like wax. Steam hissed around him with every strike.

Malus moved in tandem—sword in one hand, Natasha’s spear in the other. They moved as one: her ghost in his muscle memory. Grace and fury.

Then he saw it.

A Monocian brute.

Wearing a Paleven crest soaked in blood.

Like a trophy.

Malus stopped thinking.

The spear shot forward, impaled the man through the gut. Malus lifted him into the air, watching him scream. And then—without ceremony—hurled him into a burning crater.

He didn’t stop.

He cut. Moved. Breathed in rhythm with the dying.

He fought like someone trying to break his own bones.

Carver shouted, "MALUS! BACK IN FORMATION!"

Malus didn’t hear.

Walter grabbed his shoulder. “She wouldn’t want this!”

Malus threw him off.

He wasn’t fighting for her. Not anymore.

He was fighting because he needed to. Because it was easier than feeling.

The Initiates fractured, each pushed to the edge. Walter collapsed a trench with a wave. Juhani cleaved downwards like an avenging angel. Carver melted his way to the second line.

By dusk, it was over.

Steam. Mud. Silence.

The Monocians were dead or gone.

The Initiates regrouped at the edge of the firelight. Most sat. Some just stood and stared at nothing.

Malus stood apart, blood drying on his face. Not all of it Monocian.

Then—

"You lived through Wild Dogs Rest. Carried her out, didn’t you? That’s legend, that is."

He turned.

Teren Cassiel.

Mid-twenties. Wide-eyed. Scarred but bright. Like a candle that hadn’t been snuffed yet.

He looked at Malus like he was something holy.

Malus’s voice rasped, “It’s not a legend. It’s a fucking tragedy.”

Cassiel blinked.

Then smiled, like he hadn’t heard it.

“You give us something to believe in.”

Malus didn’t reply.

He just looked down at his hands.

Still shaking.

Still holding the spear.

And the weight of everything it meant.

Tomorrow would come.

He wasn't ready.

But he would keep walking.

Firelight sways. The air smells like broth and ash.

Night fell heavy over the camp.

Rain came in mist instead of drops, clinging to cloaks and skin, never quite enough to cleanse the blood. The trenches behind them were being cleared, bodies stacked like firewood. Somewhere, someone was laughing—too loud, too sharp—but it was laughter all the same.

Walter stirred the soup.

A dented tin pot hung over a low fire, the broth inside thin but fragrant, flecked with root vegetables and something unidentifiable but warm. Around the fire, the surviving Initiates gathered—Carver, arms folded but close; Juhani, sitting on her heels like a temple cat, silent but present; Walter, sleeves rolled up and eyes tired.

Cassiel sat among them now too, one knee drawn up, eyes wide with something too alive for the setting. He’d taken to shadowing Malus all day, like he expected wisdom to bleed off his boots.

“Salt’s from my own pouch,” Walter said with mock solemnity, ladling out a portion. “Means you owe me.”

Carver snorted, accepting his bowl. “This shit better be holy.”

A few chuckles rolled through the fire circle. Juhani offered Walter a quiet nod as she took hers.

Malus sat a little apart. Just enough distance to avoid needing to smile.

He held his bowl carefully. Didn’t eat.

The fire flickered across his face, but his eyes didn’t catch the light. They were fixed on something no one else could see—something behind the smoke, behind the years. The spear lay beside him, half-wrapped in cloth, Natasha’s ribbon tied near the base. He hadn’t let go of it since the fight.

The others talked. Laughed, even.

Carver told a story about a Monocian charging him while screaming, and Juhani deadpanned, “Perhaps he just hated your ugly face.” It earned a few laughs. Even Cassiel joined in, awkward but earnest, cradling his soup like it was salvation.

Malus watched them.

Not jealous.

Not angry.

Just… distant. Like a ghost trying to remember what it meant to be part of something.

He wanted to say something—anything.
But what would he say?
“I miss her.”
“I don’t know who I am without her.”
“I don’t know if I ever knew who I was to begin with.”

Instead, he nodded along to a joke he didn’t hear. Smiled, because it was what they needed. Because it was easier than the truth.

Someone bumped his shoulder. Cassiel. A little clumsy.

“Soup’s good,” he said.

Malus gave him a noncommittal grunt.

“You think we’ll get leave after this?” Cassiel asked, hopeful. “I heard there’s a bathhouse near Redwing with real soap.”

Malus didn’t answer.

He didn’t have the heart to crush that kind of hope. He didn’t have the strength to echo it either.

Later, the fire dimmed.

The others had drifted to bedrolls, quiet talk giving way to the steady rhythm of breath and sleep. Someone was snoring. Someone else was crying softly into their coat. No one interrupted either.

Malus sat alone.

Still clutching the spear. Still awake.

Across the dying coals, Cassiel had curled up, arms crossed like a child. Walter’s boots stuck out from under his coat. Carver’s back was to the group, but he hadn’t wandered far. Juhani slept with one hand on her sword hilt. All of them, wounded in different ways, but still intact. Still here.

Malus looked at his hand.

Still trembling.

He thought about her smile.
Her dumb jokes.
The way she never let him fall behind in training even though she was always faster, always stronger.

She had carried him once.
Now he carried her.

He lay back on the cold earth, the broken spear cradled against his chest like a relic.

He did not cry.

He did not pray.

He just… stared.

And tried to imagine a life where he didn’t have to fake being whole.

Far from the firelight, deep in Monocian territory, engineers moved beneath canvas canopies soaked in red. The first true prototypes were ready—sleek, brutal things with etched barrels and chambers packed with alchemical salts.

Rifles.

The kind that killed mana-slingers from a hundred paces away.

One of the officers scribbled a phrase across the crate lid before sending it to the front lines:

"to make Gods Bleed."

Chapter Text

Present Day – Cindalei Street, Outside the Tea Shop
The sky over Cindalei always looked like it had something clever to say but refused to speak first. Grey and low, pregnant with unshed rain, it cast the narrow brick streets in a tone of perpetual indecision.

Jona adjusted the cuffs of his pale blue jacket—linen shot through with golden thread—and stepped aside as a boy stumbled out of the tea shop and hit the cobblestones.

His face was bruised, lip split, eyes damp—not from pain, but humiliation.

Three young men followed. Knights-in-training, judging by the gleam of their family badges and the swagger of inherited confidence. One of them paused just long enough to kick the boy’s training sword farther down the street.

Jona stepped forward.

“God doesn’t recruit the flawless,” he said smoothly. “He redeems the fallen.”

The boy blinked up at him, confused.

“Stole that from a dreadful play,” Jona added, crouching to offer a hand. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m old and dramatic.”

He helped the boy to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from the lad’s shoulders with the flair of a tailor preparing a prince.

Inside, the tea vendor—a tired old woman with sharper ears than most—watched him approach. Jona dropped a few extra coins onto the counter and leaned in to whisper.

She raised an eyebrow. He nodded toward the three young men now seated, drinking and jeering.

She smiled faintly, reached beneath the counter, and retrieved a jar of Cindalei’s notoriously volcanic rock salt.

“I’m sure their drinks will be memorable,” Jona said cheerfully as he exited.

Years Ago – Ganymede, The Early Days
Selora had heterochromia—one baby blue eye, one brown. Jona always said it made her look like she was already halfway into some grand destiny.

They were born to the Altman line in newly founded Ganymede. A name that once meant something.

Their parents were unremarkable. Jona rarely spoke of them.

“One must choose who deserves to live in memory,” he often said. “And they never paid rent.”

But Selora?

She was unforgettable.

In school, she sabotaged. Jona deescalated. It was a pattern.

When a pompous noble boy once mocked Jona’s voice—too elegant, too soft—Jona replied with a casual remark about the boy’s family tree being more of a shrub.

Selora, meanwhile, had already slipped behind him and released a pouch of itching powder down the noble’s trousers.

“You could’ve let me finish it,” she said.

“And miss your dramatic flair?” Jona had smiled. “Unthinkable.”

Present Day – Near the Bathhouse
The bathhouses in Cindalei were famous for their mosaics and mystery.

Jona passed two girls chatting on the steps, one of them laughing breathlessly.

“He dropped his cane and bent to pick it up. The ol’ flesh chandelier fell right out the ballroom, if you know what I mean.”

Jona stopped. Turned. Smiled politely.

“My dear,” he said, mock grave, “you were gifted with eloquence and you use it for evil. How glorious.”

The girl laughed. “You’re weird.”

“Flatterer,” he replied, and moved on.

Years Ago – The Festival
The sky cracked open like a painter’s palette. A meteor streaked overhead in violet, green, and orange flame.

It struck the center of the festival square just before the crowd gathered.

Miraculously, few were hurt.

Jona, Selora, and a third friend wearing a fox mask slipped through the chaos before the guards arrived.

At the crater’s center, the stone did not smoke. It pulsed.

A perfect sphere of obsidian, its surface rippling like skin beneath water.

Red flowers had bloomed in its wake. Their petals curled like whispers.

Selora reached for the stone, then hesitated.

So did the boy in the mask.

Jona didn’t move. He just watched.

They never spoke of what happened that night.

But afterward, everything changed.

Some children flicked light from their fingers. Others sang and made the wind dance. The closer to the crater, the stronger the change.

And the three closest?

They never fully admitted what they had become.

Present Day – The Forgotten Shrine
He passed a moss-covered statue of a nameless god, face lost to erosion, hands outstretched in forgotten prayer.

Jona bowed mockingly, one hand on his heart.

“Don’t worry, old friend. I’m irrelevant too.”

Present Day – His Study
His study overlooked the canals. Lights shimmered across the water like fractured memory.

He wrote a letter.

Selora, you would love this place. It smells like salt and scandal.
I found a boy today. Full of bruises and potential.
You’d have called him a project.

He paused. Stared at the ink.

Then quietly struck a match and burned the page.

“You’d laugh at me, wouldn’t you?” he murmured.

The paper curled into ash. Outside, the wind caught it.

Years After the Meteor
Selora’s magic had come like a song—complete, undeniable, ancient. She spoke languages she’d never learned. Bent light. Whispered to flame.

Jona’s came subtly.

He disappeared. Then reappeared. A few inches to the left. Or a mile.

He could feel death brush past him… but never land.

And the boy in the fox mask?

His voice had grown cold. His skin flaked in places where it shouldn’t.

They never saw his face that night.

Only heard how he whispered about the stone—and how it had spoken back.

Closing – The Balcony at Night
Jona stood at the balcony rail, the stars above Cindalei flickering into place like reluctant memories.

Magic, in Ganymede, had a thousand names: Gift. Curse. Sin. Blessing.

But they were wrong.

It was none of those things.

It was a shadow.

He traced the line of his hand, still scarred, still aching with time he no longer obeyed.

He had outlived lovers. Cities. Kingdoms.

And Selora?

She was gone, too.

But when he closed his eyes…

He could still hear her laugh.

Not mockery.

Not sorrow.

Just joy.

Sharp. Free. Alive.

He would carry that.

Until the end of the world—

—and maybe a few days after.

Chapter Text

The chandelier crashed.

Glass and metal screamed against marble, shattering the trance like a harsh slap to the face.

“MOVE, bande d’idiots!” Clement’s voice tore through the chaos from the balcony above—a beacon in a storm.

The team surged toward her without hesitation, feet pounding the stairs beneath her perch.

But the zealots didn’t move.

Not a step.

Not a sound.

They just stared.

Eyes wide and unblinking. Faces blank as old parchment. Lips curled back like meat left too long in the sun—rotting, cruel.

Not shocked. Furious. Silently enraged at the interruption.

Malum and Mistress Voss were gone. Vanished.

On the far side, Henry and Meg forced their way through the frozen crowd, elbows sharp, shoulders crashing into unmoving cultists mid-chant.

A ceremonial tri-dagger gleamed at a cultist’s belt—ornate and razor-sharp.

It caught Henry’s hand.

A wet, tearing sound.

Flesh split.

Henry didn’t stop. Didn’t feel it. Not yet.

Barney rose from the floor like a bear stirred from sleep, charging forward with brute force.

He shoved zealots aside, breaking their ranks.

Daniel and Miranda followed, shoving, tripping, hearts pounding.

Only after they cleared the room did the truth settle: no one else was moving.

Miranda took point without a word, stepping into the mansion’s rotting heart.

The corridors reeked of spilled wine and discarded clothing, heavy and wrong.

Eventually, they slammed a door behind them.

A dining room—dust thick as smoke, half-collapsed and forgotten.

Safe. For now.

Henry glanced down.

And screamed.

Miranda didn’t flinch.

“I’ve seen worse,” she said coldly. “No need to cry over this.”

“THIS IS IN NO WAY A WE SITUATION!” Henry shot back, voice raw.

Barney swore, gripping his axe. “Meg, keep pressure on that wound—Daniel, stay sharp. Miranda, tell me we’re moving. If we lose anyone else, I’ll burn this damn house down myself.”

As they gathered, shadows stretched like grasping hands.

A portrait hung crookedly—a smiling family, faces duplicated, twisted like a broken mirror.

Nearby, a music box twitched open, playing half a melody before sputtering into silence.

A wooden chair sat in the corner—always facing the wrong way.

It hadn’t been there before.

They were trapped.

In a forgotten wing of a mansion cracked by age and neglect, suffocating in rot and perfume too old to be sweet.

The illusion was broken.

Lace curtains hung like shredded ghosts.

Furniture warped and hollow.

Behind them, the twisted remains of the chandelier lay shattered—glass shards scattered like brittle bones.

Miranda pressed her hands against the warped dining table, wood cold and splintered beneath her palms.

“This place was a stage,” she said flatly. “We were played.”

Henry flinched as Meg tightened the last scrap of cloth around his bleeding hand.

His missing finger throbbed with slow fire.

“So what now?” he asked.

“We move,” Miranda said.

“Henry—those stories you told me about old mansions? Calden estate’s hollow walls? Crawlspace access?”

He nodded slowly, teeth clenched.

“Dangerous. But possible.”

Miranda’s gaze hardened. “Then we use it.”

Daniel stood at the doorway, sword drawn.

“What about Malum?” he asked quietly.

Miranda hesitated, fingers tightening around her sword’s hilt.

Daniel caught the way she kept pacing since the chandelier fell, eyes flicking toward the hall Malum vanished into.

She hadn’t spoken his name.

Not once.

But her grip never loosened.

“He’s not gone,” she said finally. “We’ll get him back. But not if we die here.”

Barney sat slouched near the boarded window, helmet off, sweat crusted on his brow.

“No word from Clement?” he asked.

Meg shook her head.

“She’s not answering. Gone after the lights blew.”

Barney didn’t curse.

He rubbed his jaw, staring at the wall like he could punch through it.

“She’ll make it,” he muttered.

Daniel raised an eyebrow.

“Sure?”

Barney didn’t answer. Clement was... different.

Quick. Clever.

And just before the chandelier fell, Barney swore he’d heard something—something thunderous.

No magic.

No steel.

Something else.

He hadn’t said anything.

No one else noticed.

Or no one dared speak.

“I’ve seen her in worse,” Barney finally said. “She always finds a way.”

Miranda straightened, shoulders squared.

“We don’t sit here. We fortify and prepare an escape. Henry, you’re our map. Daniel, watch with me. Meg, keep pressure on that hand.”

Daniel glanced down the silent corridor again.

The quiet pressed in like a weight.

But Miranda—she was still watching.

Still waiting.

For Malum.

For the hallway where he disappeared.

She didn’t blink.

The halls twisted like lies told too many times.

Clement’s breath came sharp and shallow as she sprinted through the choking corridors.

The pepperbox pistol weighed heavy in her hands—not to fire.

No bullets left.

No reloads.

But it was still a hammer.

The satchel bounced against her side, heavy with ink-stained proof and blood-smeared parchment.

Names. Symbols. Ritual diagrams.

The Empress’s seal stitched alongside the Maw.

Her grip tightened.

Footsteps thundered behind her.

Screams.

Then silence.

Then more footsteps.

Her muscles burned but her mind refused to stop.

They said the halls were impossible to map.

She was beginning to believe them.

Corridors looped back on themselves.

Some ended in brick.

One showed someone else’s reflection.

She didn’t look.

Didn’t think.

Just moved.

A cultist lunged, drenched in wine and chanting a language no human throat should shape.

His jaw trembled with madness.

She didn’t scream.

She pivoted, bringing the pepperbox up.

And slammed it across his face.

A crunch echoed like shattering glass.

His jaw lolled, broken and useless.

His knees buckled.

He dropped.

Her breath shuddered as she stumbled past.

Her brother’s voice floated back, distant and smoky:

“You don’t drop the weapon just because it’s empty. That’s what gets you killed. A pistol’s still a hammer if your hands don’t shake.”

Her hands weren’t shaking.

Not yet.

Another hallway.

Portraits with too many eyes.

A vase filled with what looked like human hair.

A small wooden horse rocked on its own.

She didn’t look.

Didn’t think.

Just ran.

A sharp turn.

Stone collapsed behind her.

Something snarled in a tongue forgotten.

Clement vaulted a cracked banister, landing hard but rolling through it.

Her lungs burned.

The satchel thumped again—reminding her.

She ran for truth.

For proof.

For the team.

For Malus and Natasha, wherever they were.

For Malum and Miranda, if they still lived.

For the girl with the bow.

The boy with the lost finger.

The big one with the shield.

For those who didn’t know how deep the rot went.

A scraping sound echoed from the walls.

She limped to a nearby door, slammed it shut.

Pressed back against it.

Silence.

Darkness.

Footsteps above.

Creaking floors.

Whispers.

Laughter.

Crying.

She didn’t know how long she stood there.

But one thing was certain.

She was still alive.

And this place was not.

There was no light in the place they had fallen.

Only the stag ring glowed faintly on Malum’s finger.

Bronze slick with cold sweat.

The carved stag pulsed softly, flickering like it, too, wished to flee.

The glow stretched no further than a meter around him—a golden dome in an ocean of black.

He couldn’t see the floor.

Only feel it—slick, spongy.

He tried not to think what it might be.

Mistress Voss stood a few steps away.

Half her face caught in the light.

The shadows tugged at her features like they wanted her back.

She seemed unbothered.

Serene.

Almost too serene.

“Where are we?” Malum whispered.

His voice landed heavily in the thick silence.

Sound did not echo here.

It was swallowed whole.

Voss’s lips curled upward.

“The place between,” she said softly.

Malum turned slowly.

Beyond the ring’s light was nothing.

No ground.

No ceiling.

Only swirling ink.

Tendrils slapped and swished in the darkness.

Wet, massive, alive.

The sound turned his stomach.

From beneath, he felt it first.

Breath.

Then—the Maw.

A gaping mouth yawning eternally in the abyss beneath them.

No teeth.

Just flesh stretched too wide, too long.

Edges pulsed faintly, as if breathing.

No tongue.

No scream.

Just waiting.

Malum swallowed, throat tightening.

“This… this is older than belief,” he murmured.

Voss tilted her head.

In the soft staglight, her eyes shimmered like lacquered ink.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Malum didn’t answer.

He stepped back—subtle but deliberate.

The air shifted.

A tendril lashed down like a whip, missing the light’s edge by inches.

It recoiled instantly, hissing like boiling sap.

“You brought us here,” Malum said, voice sharp.

“I guided us,” Voss corrected. “You were the key. The stag is older than you know—older than your family. You just wore it better.”

“Others?” Malum’s voice sharpened. “I’m not the first?”

“No,” she said. “But you may be the last.”

A low rumble passed beneath their feet.

The Maw shivered.

Voss stepped forward.

The staglight clung reluctantly to her.

Her voice dropped, prayer-like.

“We are not in death.

We are not in life.

We are in the cradle of Udula.

The Dreaming Maw.

Here, there is no time.

Only hunger.”

Malum looked at her.

At reverence blooming on her face.

At the strange shimmer in her eyes.

“You’re mad,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I’m awake,” she said, eyes wide, smile too wide.

“For the first time.”

Another tendril swayed in the distance.

Not thrashing.

Searching.

“How do we leave?” he asked quietly.

“You don’t.”

He spun sharply.

“Then why bring us here?”

“To show you,” she whispered. “To show you what feeds beneath your empire. What has always fed. The crater was no accident. Your lineage is no gift. The ring you wear is not yours. It’s his. It always has been.”

Malum felt the stag ring tighten, pulsing faintly with the Maw’s distant thrum.

It glowed brighter now.

Resisting—or drawing something near.

“I don’t serve gods,” he said.

“Especially not ones that smile with too many teeth.”

Voss’s grin widened—too wide.

“You already do,” she said.

“You just don’t remember the prayer.”

The Maw pulsed below.

The tendrils grew curious.

And far beyond the light, something moved.

The dusty dining room was their sanctuary. For now.

Miranda and Barney worked hard, barricading doors and windows.

Heavy furniture dragged.

Splintered beams propped.

The scent of old wood mixed with stale wine and the metallic tang of Henry’s blood.

Barney grunted, bracing against the barricade.

“They keep coming. Only a matter of time.”

Miranda’s eyes never left the thin slits of light leaking past boards.

Her fingers curled tightly on her sword’s hilt.

“Then we make sure they don’t.”

Daniel crouched by cracked plaster.

Meg held the lantern close, peering over his shoulder.

Henry, one finger bandaged but clutching his mace, pressed shoulder against the wall.

“No need to break a door,” Daniel said quietly.

“We go under.”

The plaster was brittle.

Daniel produced a crowbar.

Wedged it into a crumbling seam.

Meg shifted the lantern.

Illuminated a narrow crawlspace behind a loose panel near the floor.

“Tight,” she said, “but if we strip gear, single file, the whole team might fit.”

Henry exhaled through clenched teeth.

“That’s the way out. No use waiting for them to smash the door down.”

Outside, quiet thickened.

A wet thud sounded from the ceiling.

Everyone’s eyes snapped upward.

A grotesque lump dropped heavy.

Still for a heartbeat.

Then convulsed.

Limbs stretched and twisted unnaturally.

Bones jutted at grotesque angles.

The creature rose—a mutilated mockery of humanity.

Skin rotted and torn.

Parts replaced by jagged spikes.

Faces twisted into silent screams with rows of sharp teeth.

Miranda’s grip tightened.

Barney hefted his axe.

Daniel, Meg, and Henry glanced at each other.

Returned to the wall.

Urgency spurred their efforts to widen the crawlspace.

Outside, shuffles and scraping.

Zealots gathering.

Slow.

Patient.

Endless.

Barney growled, “Hold them off while we make this quick. No one dies in here.”

Miranda planted feet firmly.

“No mercy.”

The thing lunged.

Claws scraped.

Daniel slammed the crowbar into cracked plaster.

Loosening stones and dust.

Meg notched an arrow.

Released it into bloated flesh.

Henry swung wide with his mace.

Buying time.

Barney shoved the door against pressure.

Shield splintered.

Pain bit into his palms.

A sickening crunch from axe strike.

Creature howled.

Retaliated.

Struck Barney’s ribs with bone spike.

Staggered him.

Henry hammered at twisted leg.

Claw swiped his arm, drawing blood.

He pressed on.

Meg loosed arrow after arrow.

One pierced glowing eye.

Creature screeched, whipped toward her.

She rolled just in time.

Sharp talons scraped jacket.

Miranda called, “Keep it off me!”

Barney roared.

Shield absorbing jagged blades.

Ribs cracked beneath blows.

He swung axe, driving monster back.

Henry shouted, “Aim for limbs!”

Miranda nodded, arms trembling.

“Focus on joints!”

They redoubled efforts.

Barney hacked legs.

Henry hammered claws.

Meg peppered with arrows.

Miranda sliced tendons.

Creature’s howls strangled.

Limbs severed one by one.

It fought desperately.

Jagged claw raked Miranda’s side.

Pain seared ribs.

She stumbled.

Pressed attack.

Determination burned.

Massive claw swiped Henry’s temple.

He crashed dazed.

Meg screamed, rushing.

Barney bellowed, swinging axe.

Creature shrieked.

Thrashed wildly.

Collapsed twitching.

Breath ragged.

Bodies shook with pain and fatigue.

The air was thick with smoke and sweat.

Barney hunched forward, hands planted on his knees, panting like a beast beaten but unwilling to fall. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts.

Miranda stood rigid nearby, her sword arm trembling as she held the severed limb—the monstrous claw now useless.

“Clement!” she shouted, voice raw and desperate.

No answer.

Only the crackle of flames curling upward, licking at the aged wallpaper and stained ceiling beams.

“Burn this fucking place down!” Miranda bellowed again, uncertainty clinging to her words as if hoping Clement could hear, hoping she was still alive.

Henry’s breathing hitched. The cloth wrapped tightly around his bleeding hand was soaked crimson, the wound stubborn and furious beneath the bandage.

Meg knelt beside him, frantic fingers trying to stem the blood as Henry gritted his teeth and refused to let go.

“We have to keep moving,” Meg whispered urgently, eyes darting toward the narrowing passageways.

Henry shook his head, pain stealing across his face. “Not while he’s still out there.”

Daniel’s voice drifted from the shadows, low and tense, “Clement’s out there. She’s the one who’s gonna get us out.”

Meanwhile, Clement was a storm—rolling, darting, and weaving through the mansion’s choking corridors.

Her pepperbox pistol was empty. Not a single bullet left.

Exhaustion gnawed at her muscles. Her feet throbbed with each pounding step, her eyes stung as though on fire.

Miranda's muffled call tore through the chanting and gasps. "BURN IT DOWN"

“Sanglant enfin,” she breathed out—a bitter laugh escaping her cracked lips.

Her hand shot out and ripped a wrought iron candelabra from the wall, the heavy metal clattering to the floor.

She hurled it behind her.

The metal slammed into the legs of a charging zealot, sending him sprawling into the splintered floorboards.

They didn’t stop.

The cultists were relentless—eyes impossibly wide, faces void of mercy, chanting incoherent prayers to something terrible and ancient.

Suddenly, screams pierced the smoke—a collective cry when they spotted the emblem stitched on Clement’s satchel: the Empress’s sigil, stark against the faded fabric.

“No! Protect the Dreaming Maw!” they screeched, voices rising into a frenzied chorus of desperation and madness.

The chase was on again.

Clement’s lungs burned.

Her mind screamed for respite, but there was none.

Only the promise of fire, the promise of escape, and the nightmare that hunted her in the dark.

Daniel moved through the mansion’s shadows like a storm—silent, precise, his fists an extension of instinct honed by years of fights. The stale air hung heavy with the scent of decay, but beneath it, something else pierced through: the sharp, biting smell of ash.

Not the comforting burn of a hearth. No, this was different.

The fireplace hadn’t been lit in an age, but the smoke clung here—thick, choking, unnatural.

He paused.

His eyes flicked toward a blotch of darkness nestled in the corner, where no light dared tread.

Within it, shapes shifted—fluid and formless—until a figure solidified.

Malum.

Or something wearing him.

Daniel’s breath caught. The stag ring on Malum’s finger glowed faintly, a pale beacon swallowed by shadows.

Without warning, Daniel reached inside the darkness.

Cold, slick, like dipping a hand into deep water.

A sudden pain stabbed his mind—a violent tearing.

His surroundings exploded.

Ash.

Endless ash.

Gray skies bled over a horizon that didn’t exist.

There was no land.

No colour.

Only a suffocating, endless expanse of ash drifting in silent winds.

The sky was glazed with muted hues—ash-coloured greys and brittle blues.

A bleak monochrome world without sound except for the ragged breaths of two figures locked in a brutal dance.

Bare-handed.

Desperate.

Crying.

Their fists and feet landed with a ferocity born of agony and betrayal.

Daniel’s voice caught in his throat.

He tried to call out.

To stop them.

To make sense.

But his voice was swallowed before it could escape.

Mistress Voss’s lips moved.

But the words weren’t hers anymore.

Too slow.

Too smooth.

Too many teeth in her smile.

A voice layered beneath hers whispered in a tongue ancient and sharp.

A presence stirring.

“Another intruder,” Voss said, eyes wide.

Her smile stretched too far.

The tendrils of shadow around her writhed, lashing like living things.

Daniel’s mind reeled.

He was yanked back—

Back to the mansion.

The cold stone floor pressed against his palms.

The air thick with dust and dread.

Malum was gone.

Only the dark void remained, pulsing softly in the corner.

Clement’s breath came ragged, each inhale a sharp stab in her chest as she sprinted down the mansion’s twisting corridors. The pepperbox pistol weighed heavy in her hand—not from bullets, but from exhaustion, misuse, and the weight of failure. The once-bronze metal was now dented along the barrel’s edge, stained with dark crimson smears that spoke of desperate last-ditch strikes rather than careful shots.

No ammo left. No reloads. Just the brutal, blunt promise of cold steel in her fist.

She burst onto a balcony overlooking the manor’s courtyard.

Behind her, footsteps thundered—relentless, closing.

Eyes glinted from the shadows: zealots, their faces wide and empty, mouths moving in silent prayers to the Dreaming Maw.

Clement raised the pepperbox, her knuckles white on the handle, but there was no shot.

She slammed it down, bashing skulls and breaking noses in rapid succession. Every strike was a hammer blow, a prayer for survival.

The circle tightened.

The air thickened with the stench of incense and madness.

Then—

Suddenly—

An eruption of arrows rained down from the nearby rooftops, piercing the night like deadly needles.

Spells crackled through the air, arcs of blue and gold bursting with blinding light and thunderous force.

The zealots faltered, screams splitting the air as they fell, one by one.

From the shadows stepped a woman clad in worn black armour, her presence commanding and cold.

Spectre Zash.

Her eyes scanned the battlefield, sharp as a hawk’s.

Behind her, a team followed—silent, deadly—the Redeemed Fang.

Zaeed, the burly giant with a scarred jaw, strode forward, axe gleaming in the firelight.

Clement’s voice cracked as she shouted, desperate and unsteady, “Help! Over here! We’re trapped!”

She didn’t recognize the Redeemed Fang—not fully—but their intervention was undeniable.

Zash’s gaze met Clement’s.

“Hold fast,” the Spectre said, voice low but resolute.

Clement nodded, shoulder drooping as she cradles the contraption in her arms, "Merci, Thane"

Blood streaked the weapon, dark and sticky, a testament to its last, desperate use.

Zash gestured sharply.

“Fall back to the inner courtyard. Move now.”

Clement swallowed her fear and obeyed, moving faster than she thought possible.

Behind her, the sound of battle faded into grim silence.

For the first time in hours, she allowed herself a breath of hope.

The team gathered in the crumbling courtyard, breaths heavy, wounds raw, and nerves frayed from the harrowing escape. Daniel appeared from the shadows, stepping silently between broken pillars and flickering torchlight. Relief washed over the group—he was back. No one asked where he had been, nor did he offer.

His secret vision remained locked away.

“Daniel,” Miranda said softly, her eyes searching his face. “You’re here.”

He nodded, expression unreadable, then scanned the perimeter.

Before anyone could say more, a ripple passed through the air—a subtle shift in the fabric of reality. From the gloom, a figure emerged: hooded, silent, moving like a shadow sewn from darkness itself.

Instinct snapped tight like a wire.

Weapons raised in unison.

“Cultist,” Barney growled, stepping forward.

The figure raised a slender hand and snapped fingers sharply.

Time stuttered.

In a blinding pulse of light and sound, Malum and Mistress Voss were yanked from the void’s endless abyss and collapsed onto the cold stone floor.

Chaos froze.

Daniel stared, eyes narrowing, burning holes into the hooded figure.

The figure turned slowly, face shadowed beneath the hood.

But as they stepped back, the mask was revealed—an ornate visage split cleanly down the middle: one side deep, polished black; the other a vibrant, almost electric blue.

The figure’s presence was cold, unsettling.

Without a word, they vanished—dissolving into the night like smoke on the wind.

All eyes shifted to Malum and Voss.

Malum coughed, ragged and disoriented, his emerald eyes flickering with lingering terror.

Mistress Voss stirred, her lips curling into a twisted smile as understanding dawned—too late.

“Mistress Voss raised her head, eyes wide with revelation, and began—”

Miranda’s blade flashed, steel singing in the tense air.

And with a single, decisive stroke—

Miranda’s sword ended it.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with finality.

Barney exhaled slowly.

“We move. Now.”

The flames devoured the Calden estate in a furious roar, sending embers swirling like angry fireflies into the choking night air. Smoke coiled in thick black tongues that clawed at the sky, blotting out the stars. The mansion—their battleground, their prison, their nightmare—was collapsing into itself, a monument to betrayal and bloodshed.

In the courtyard, the remnants of the team huddled beneath the flickering light of torches. Faces streaked with soot and sweat, breaths ragged, bodies bruised and broken, they leaned heavily on one another and the sharp-eyed soldiers who surrounded them. The Redeemed Fang.

The Redeemed Fang.

The very same faction that had hunted them down, that had once marked them as enemies. Now they were their rescuers.

A tense silence hung like a shroud, thick with disbelief and suspicion. Hands gripped weapons not out of readiness but habit. Eyes darted, searching for signs of betrayal or treachery in those solemn faces.

Barney stood apart, his broad frame taut with vigilance, gaze locked on the newcomers with hard suspicion. His fingers never left the haft of his axe. Beside him, Miranda stared puzzlingly at Barney's attitude. Henry’s bleeding hand trembled despite Meg’s careful bandaging. Daniel’s eyes, deep and wary, scanned every detail of Malum.

Then Spectre Zash stepped forward.

She was a striking figure, tall and lean, moving with practiced grace that spoke of countless battles. Her dark cloak whispered over cracked cobblestones as she approached Malum, who lay on a blanket, pale and drained.

Zash’s eyes softened just a fraction as she knelt beside him. “You’re safe,” she said quietly, voice low and steady like a lifeline tossed in a storm. “We brought you out.”

Malum’s lips parted, words caught between exhaustion and relief. “Thank you…”

Her hand settled on his shoulder, firm but gentle. “Rest. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Around them, the team watched. Some faces flickered with hope; others held the weight of old wounds.

Clement, still clutching her dented pepperbox—its once-pristine bronze casing now scarred, a smear of dried blood staining the grip—let out a shaky breath. The weapon had served her as hammer and shield, even when empty, but now it was a battered reminder of how close they’d come to losing everything.

The others exchanged glances. The bitter irony wasn’t lost on anyone: salvation handed to them by those they once fought.

Barney broke the silence, voice low and gravelly. “We owe you more than words. But don’t think this means trust.”

Zaeed, one of the Redeemed Fang commanders, stepped forward, eyes flicking between Barney and the rest of the team. “Nor do we. But enemies have reasons to fight—and sometimes, reasons to fight together.”

Miranda’s eyes never left Malum as she spoke. “We’re not your prisoners. We’re survivors. And if you’ve brought us back, there’s a reason.”

Zash nodded. “We don’t pretend this changes the past. But right now, you’re here, and that means something.”

A heavy pause settled, broken only by the crackling fire and distant collapse of the mansion’s bones.

Then Zash pulled a folded piece of parchment and a quill from within her cloak.

“This,” she said, handing it to Malum, “is your lifeline to Malus. A letter. It’s the only way you can reach him.”

Malum’s eyes flickered with something like hope—but the weariness lingered.

He took the parchment with a trembling hand.

Daniel finally spoke, voice low and measured. “You said ‘only way.’ What makes you so sure?”

Zash met his gaze, unwavering. “Because the paths between you and your brother are tangled in more than just miles and walls. This ring”—she nodded toward the faint gleam of the stag on Malum’s finger—“connects you to places few understand.”

The team shifted uneasily, the unspoken truths swirling between them like smoke. The ring—an artifact that had carried them through shadows and horrors beyond imagining—was a bond and a curse.

Barney crossed his arms, voice sharp. “We don’t have time for mysteries. We’ve been through hell, and we’re not out yet.”

Zaeed’s expression hardened. “The Lord has plans that don’t include anyone falling behind. Your fight’s just begun.”

Meg, her voice breaking the tension, let out a bitter laugh. “Can we just have one bloody mission that isn’t trying to kill us in some new, horrible way?”

A reluctant chuckle spread.

But the relief was fragile.

Daniel excused himself, muttering a vague excuse. His boots crunched over scattered ash—beige-grey flakes that clung to leather and stone like ghosts of the burning past.

He slipped out of sight, leaning against an old wagon wheel just beyond the torchlight.

His hands trembled as they gripped his face, breaths shallow and rapid.

The sky above still burned—a haunting palette of perfect blues and fiery oranges, etched deep into his memory.

His thoughts swirled, trapped between the fire’s glow and the darkness he’d glimpsed beyond.

He looked back toward the ruins, the flames casting twisted shadows across his face.

And somehow, no matter how much he wanted to look away…

He couldn’t.

Chapter Text

The first memory Liara ever trusted wasn’t one of pain, or fear, or even love.
It was rhythm.

The click of boots on marble. Sharp, even, and perfectly spaced — not rushed, not lazy. Intentional. She’d learned the meaning of power long before she could spell it.

And it walked like her Father.

He was tall, with salt-flecked hair that never looked unkempt and a voice like cooled steel: smooth, but never warm. He did not raise his voice. He did not repeat himself. And he never, ever, left things unfinished.

Every room he entered became a chamber of intent. Even the dining hall.

“Liara,” he said once, calmly placing a porcelain bowl in front of her, “I’ve prepared your breakfast.”

She was seven.

He’d made congee with saffron, the same color as the high-crest banners above the household gates. He never tasted it himself. He sat across from her, fingers folded, watching her chew.

“Slowly,” he instructed, not unkindly. “Food is taken, not devoured.”

She nodded. Swallowed. Obeyed.

Then he reached forward and tucked a stray curl behind her ear — the gesture so gentle it almost made her cry.

But then he added, “If you finish it all, I’ll tell you what I learned about your instructors. Their weaknesses.”

Her throat closed. She wasn’t sure if it was the porridge or the implication.

Father loved her. That was the truth she had believed. And when it stopped feeling good, she held onto that belief harder. Like a grip on a sword with no hilt.

The house had no corners. That’s what she remembered most about it. Every room was circular, the walls curved gently, the furniture bolted to the floor. Father claimed corners trapped energy — and lies.

She believed him.

She learned to fold her papers in thirds. Like him.

To end sentences without hesitation. Like him.

To avoid sleep, sometimes. Like him.

That was the first thing she noticed when she became old enough to notice things as strategies. He never slept for long. Sometimes, not at all. She once found him standing in the corridor at dawn, staring at nothing, the glow of the alchemical lanterns lighting the edge of his face.

“You should be in bed,” he said, without looking.

She nodded, even though she didn’t move.

“Liara,” he added, “If I let you stay up tonight, you’ll owe me an answer tomorrow.”

She didn’t ask what kind of answer. He never wasted words.

There were good nights, though. She remembers them — not like dreams, but like old warmth trapped in cloth. The smell of his coat still brought comfort when she was tired or afraid, even though she hated that it did.

He once held her after a storm. The thunder had cracked close, and she’d bolted from her bed — instinct, not cowardice. She told herself that, even then. She had found him in the study, sorting scrolls by weight, not content.

Without speaking, he wrapped his coat around her shoulders and pulled her onto his lap. The tick of the clock was louder than either of their breathing.

“Some people mistake power for noise,” he whispered to her hair. “But the quiet ones are always watching.”

She fell asleep with that in her ears.

Only once had she seen him lose control.

She had asked about her mother.

He didn’t shout. That would have been too simple.

He picked up the alchemical lamp beside his reading chair and crushed it in his fist. The oil hissed across his knuckles. The flame caught the back of his glove. He didn’t flinch. He set it down, still burning.

“She is irrelevant,” he said, the words cracked and wrong.

Liara remembered the glow on his wrist where it blistered. He didn’t put it out. Just sat down and stared at the wall for hours. The next morning, the glove was gone, and the hand was wrapped in linen.

She never asked again.

By the time she was ten, Father had trained her in four forms of rhetorical manipulation, three languages, and two types of small-blade concealment.

But the most important thing he taught her was this:

Control is the purest form of protection.

He said it when she cried, once — not because she’d failed, but because someone else had.

A boy, two years older, had bungled an exercise in subterfuge. His mistake got him expelled from the program. She’d seen him crying in the corridor and said nothing.

That night, she wept.

“You are not upset for him,” Father told her, kneeling beside her bed. “You are upset because emotion makes you vulnerable.”

He tucked her in, gently. Even kissed her forehead.

“If you control yourself, no one can control you.”

She nodded. She swallowed. She stopped crying.

That was the night she decided to stop caring about kindness unless it was strategic. It was the night she chose usefulness over sentiment.

And yet…

Even years later, standing on academy grounds, reviewing encrypted messages from field informants, she still caught herself folding paper in thirds.

Still smelled his cologne in the wrong places.

Still heard his boots in the silence between footfalls.

And sometimes, when her control slipped just a little, she still wanted to crawl under his coat.

That was the part that made her most furious.

Not that he’d broken her.

That he’d made her miss it.

The first time she saw them, they were late.

The academy’s briefing hall was a cold, brutalist dome — ceiling high enough to vanish into gloom, sound swallowed in its geometric silence. Rows of recruits sat in perfect posture, parchment untouched, quills aligned. Liara had already written half a page. Not about the war. Not about the curriculum. About them.

Malum and Daniel.
They arrived as if the room owed them explanation.

He wore his hair up, dark and glossy like lacquered wood. He smiled too easily. Too frequently. And Daniel, the shadow just behind him, stood like furniture: dependable, silent, massive.

Liara didn’t look up when they entered. She looked sideways — subtle, sharp.

Daniel Claremont.
Strength: loyalty.
Weakness: loyalty.
Insecure. Possessive of group. Self-sacrificing.
Potential tool or liability.

She paused.
Drew a thin line through tool.
Did not replace it.

Malum introduced them both with a flourish. He made eye contact with every instructor. Called himself “a proud son of the vineyard provinces,” and winked. His words were carefully casual, gloved in ease. But his eyes weren’t resting.

Liara caught that.

Malum Caedo.
Strength: charm. Observation. Deception.
Weakness: indulgence. Vanity. Possibly addicted to performance.
Notes: suspects manipulation from others. Seeks control via attention.
Mask-wearer.

The smile irritated her. So did the voice — warm, assured, too close to her Father’s when he was trying to sound human.

That Night

She slipped from the dorms long after lights-out. Found a quiet alcove behind the old lecture theatre where the moonlight pooled in iron-laced puddles. The air smelt faintly of chalk and rust. Her journal opened with that familiar whisper of parchment folding under her hand.

She added to the dossiers.

Malum’s handwriting had been elegant. Left-leaning. He’d written a small joke on the form and still passed inspection. Daniel had no notes at all—just his name and a quote about service.

“Is that what loyalty looks like?” she muttered. “Silence and scars?”

One Week Later

Daniel caught a falling cadet during weapons drills. The boy had collapsed mid-swing, heatstroke from a bad enchantment infusion. No one else moved.

Daniel did. No hesitation.

He scooped the boy up like a child. Carried him across the field. Ignored the instructors shouting to leave him.

Liara watched from the shade. Arms crossed.
Chest tight.

He shouldn’t have done that. It was inefficient. Reckless.
But when the boy clung to Daniel’s shirt and sobbed thanks, she understood.

Update: Daniel Claremont.
Weakness — or principle?
Cares even when told not to.
May be immovable.
Watches Malum’s back constantly. Protective instinct or habit?

She watched them at meals after that. Daniel always sat second, never first. Malum always got them two plates.

Three Days Later

Malum argued with a senior initiate over food rations. It began as a joke. Something about wine being medicinal. But the moment the older student pushed Daniel’s tray off the table, the smile dropped.

Malum didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t swear.
He just said:
“You’ve made your point. Now apologize.”

The initiate laughed.

Malum said it again — quieter. “You’ve made your point. Now apologize.”

His hand rested on the hilt of a borrowed sabre.
Daniel hadn’t moved yet.

The third time, he didn’t speak at all. He just stared. The kind of stare Liara had seen from bounty hounds just before they lunged.

The initiate backed off.

Malum sat back down, pulled Daniel another tray, and made a joke about not crying over spilled beans.

Liara watched from the corner of the mess hall.

Update: Malum Caedo.
Charm as shield, not bait.
Uses performance as pressure valve. When forced, drops mask quickly.
Does not bluff with people he cares about.

She frowned at the last word. Crossed it out.
Wrote: People in proximity.

Later That Week — The Courtyard

“You’re watching again,” Malum said.

Liara didn’t look up from her notes. “You’re not worth the ink.”

He grinned. “Cold. But accurate. You know, I can’t figure you out.”

“I’m not for figuring out.”

Malum tilted his head. “Is this that part where you write something cryptic about me in your little leather-bound ledger and pretend not to be curious?”

She raised one eyebrow.

He smiled wider.

“Thought so.”

Liara closed the notebook. Folded the sheet she had been working on into thirds. Just like Father taught her. Neat. Clean. Controlled.

Later, she would reopen that same page. She’d stare at the words she’d written, and feel a faint irritation she couldn’t name.

Because her read on them — it wasn’t wrong.
But it wasn’t complete.

That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The sounds of the academy at night hummed softly — distant pipes, a shifting bunk, the occasional whisper.

Daniel’s voice echoed in her head — not loud, just steady.
“They matter. Even if no one’s watching.”

And Malum’s, teasing, from earlier:
“You’re not as unreadable as you think, you know.”

She closed her eyes.

Didn’t open the ledger again that night.

But she thought about it.

Just once.

Liara learned to smile with her eyes before she ever meant it.
In Ganymede, that was how trust was bought.

The nobles expected softness, an ever-so-slight lean forward, and the right tilt of the chin. The dockworkers expected stillness—honesty in silence. The traders wanted shared vices. The soldiers? Efficiency. Never more words than necessary.

Liara gave them all what they wanted.

Her network began as blueprints—Father’s diagrams, folded into her mind like pressed flowers. Timelines, leverage webs, lists of known sympathizers, old debts, dangerous names.

But soon it became more than memory.
It became motion.

It began with a tavern girl in Lower Silverrun. A bruised lip, a sharp tongue, and eyes that caught everything.

Liara left a pouch of silver and whispered the name of a Captain whose drinking made him loose-lipped.
The girl gave her a ledger a week later.
The pouch came back heavier than when it left.

The second was riskier.

She caught a whisper about a half-blind librarian in the East Quarter — a man who remembered everything he heard. She spent three nights in the archives asking benign questions, slipping a small bell on his favorite chair.

The fourth night, she “accidentally” dropped a coded note.

He didn’t return it.
The next time she asked about troop movement patterns from the Thirty-Third Battalion, he told her where the carts had paused for re-inspection.
He never mentioned the note.
Neither did she.

Three Months Later

The network began breathing on its own.

Messages tucked in statue mouths.
Coins left upright for confirmation.
Evenings spent drinking vinegar wine with toothless grandmothers who remembered which sons didn’t send letters home.

Liara walked between lives like smoke.

At the end of each day, she folded her findings in thirds, slid them into the false bottom of her satchel, and recorded nothing about herself.

She met Toren, the Albion blacksmith’s apprentice, in a market square. Barely seventeen. Kind face. Smelled like forge smoke and honest sweat. He’d slipped her a name without knowing the weight of it.

“Overheard that sergeant say something about ‘burning the Red List,’” he’d said, wiping soot from his fingers. “Didn’t know if it meant something.”

It did.

She paid him double and told him he was safe now.

A week later, he vanished.

She heard about the execution from a contact in the Ministry’s archives. Officially: desertion.
Unofficially? Someone had followed her. Someone had noticed.

She didn’t cry.
She didn’t stop.
But she stopped making promises.

The next time she met with an informant — an elderly man in a red scarf who reminded her so much of her father it hurt — she listened, thanked him, and left him in the path of a purge she could’ve warned him about.

He was arrested that night.

It bought her two weeks of clean movement and a confession from an intercepted noble.
She told herself the man would’ve understood.
That her father would’ve approved.

But she still remembers the way he waved at her.
Not suspicious. Not fearful.
Warm.

Her mask cracked that night.

In her dormitory, long after the hall lights dimmed and the city’s towers hissed steam into the night sky, Liara sat at her desk, unmoving.

Her notes lay flat. Not folded. Not ordered.

She stared at her hands.
Calloused.
Clean.

She whispered one of Father’s lines to the empty room:
“Control is the purest form of protection.”

Then:
“Protection of what?”

The network became hers after that.

Not his.

She stopped following the diagrams. She started using intuition.
She approached a retired thaumaturge who ran a perfume shop beneath the Gilded Spire.
Not because they had power.
But because they had memory — and regret.

She began using ritual gossip in religious circles to spread disinformation.

She got someone out, just once — a young courier with a forged pass, two fake names, and a single silver ring Liara had given her in case she was ever searched.

That girl made it.
Liara never heard from her again.
But she checked the border watch logs weekly just in case.

One night, as she paced a moonlit parapet to check a drop-point, she thought of Malum and Daniel.

Malum, with his too-easy charm and lingering words.
Daniel, always in the back, silent until the moment shattered.

She could use them now.
But they weren’t part of the network.

They were part of the ache.

Liara knelt in the alley behind the drop-point, checked the message for codes, and found something else.

A note. No encryption.

Just one line, in familiar blocky handwriting:
“You’re not alone. You just don’t believe it yet.”

She read it twice.
Burned it in her gloved hand.

Didn’t speak.

She folded the ashes into thirds.

And walked away.

The office smelled of cold brass and crushed violets.

Rain tapped the windows like fingernails on parchment, too even, too rehearsed. Liara stood near the hearth, unmoving. Shadows flared against her boots, cast by the gas lamp’s sputtering light. Across the room, the letter from her father rested open atop a marble desk—precise ink strokes like small, deliberate cuts.

“Sentiment clouds judgment. They’ve made you slow. Find the edges of your conviction, Liara. And sharpen them.”

She didn’t cry. She hadn’t in years.
But her eyes burned anyway.

Behind her, footsteps.
Two sets. Familiar. One loud and lazy. One soft, grounded.
Malum and Daniel.

She didn’t turn.

“Liara?” Malum’s voice carried its usual tilt—half-curious, half-controlled. The diplomat’s tone. “What’s going on?”

She said nothing. Not yet.

Daniel stepped closer, slower. “We noticed you cleared your things. You're leaving?”

Liara finally turned. Her uniform was pressed, every button precise. She held her satchel like it was armor. Her face was unreadable, her eyes… not quite cold.
Measured.

“I’m transferring to another division.”

Daniel blinked. “What?”

Malum’s jaw tightened. “Is this because of the last mission? Look, the failure wasn’t—”

“This isn’t about one mission,” she said. “It’s about the pattern. The drift. The indulgence.”

Malum raised an eyebrow. “Indulgence?”

“You’ve become comfortable,” she replied, voice even. “Adapting instead of evolving. Courting approval instead of building power.”

Daniel frowned. “We’re surviving. Together.”

Liara’s gaze softened for a half-second. “And I’m grateful. But I’ve outgrown this comfort.”

Malum took a sharp breath through his nose. “This isn’t about comfort. It’s about trust. You’re part of something here, Liara.”

She looked at him then. Fully.
“I’ve been part of things before. That’s not the same as being free.”

Daniel’s hand curled at his side. He stepped closer, his voice lower. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Liara’s breath caught—just briefly.
She met his eyes, and they weren’t cold now. Just… tired.

“There are things I can’t do as part of a trio.”

Malum looked away. Jaw clenched. “So that’s it?”

Liara reached into her satchel. Pulled out a folded parchment and laid it on the desk.

“Transfer papers. Approved this morning.”

Daniel’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “You’re not alone, Liara. You just don’t believe it yet.”

She stared at the desk for a heartbeat longer.

Then turned.
And walked out.

a few days Later

The academy courtyard was slick with drizzle. Gas lamps painted halos over the cobblestones, and the whisper of sword drills echoed in the distance.

She passed under the eastern gate, her steps crisp, silent. She had a route, a plan, and a destination. She always did.

But as she turned the corner near the barracks, she stopped.

Across the courtyard, the newly formed Verdant Stag team—Malum’s team now—gathered under a wide arch. They were laughing. Clement gestured wildly, one hand over her heart. Barney grinned, wiping blood from his chin. Meg bounced on the balls of her feet, pointing at a chalk map. Henry commented with his usual historical trivia.

They didn’t notice her.

A guard nearby misheard something Clement said in Virelaisian and muttered mockingly, “Oi, speak real tongue here, sweetheart.”

Clement didn’t speak.
She just stared in shock and bewilderment.
Unblinking. Until the man turned and walked off embarrassed.

Liara’s lips almost twitched.

Almost.

She lingered for a heartbeat longer.
Then stepped back into shadow.

She didn’t turn.
She didn’t stop.

But her pace slowed. Just for a second.

That night, in her new quarters—small, spartan, buried deep in the intelligence wing—she unpacked without music, without light beyond the dim crystal lamp. She folded her coat. Laid her knife beside the bed. Checked the lock.

And stared at the empty wall.

Her father’s voice returned, like always.

“Emotion clouds tactics.”

She said it aloud.

Then spat it.

And in the silence that followed, Daniel’s line returned—soft, unshakable:

“You’re not alone, Liara. You just don’t believe it yet.”

She lay back on the cot, arm draped over her eyes.

His words didn’t fade like her father’s did.

Not yet.
Not tonight.

The wind carried the smell of ash and ozone.
Alchemical fire licked the sky in blue and green arcs across the northern ridge. The distant boom of spells breaking shields echoed like heartbeats with arrhythmia. Even from the overlook, the battlefield breathed—a living, burning thing.

Liara stood at the edge of a half-crushed watchtower, her coat pulled tight against the sleet, her hands bare despite the cold. She preferred it that way.
The sting helped her focus.

Below, soldiers scrambled between trenches, banners slick with rain and blood. She could make out the detonation marks—irregular, uncontrolled. Someone had overcharged a sigil-bomb. Rookie mistake.

Her fingers tapped a slow rhythm against her side.
One-two-three-pause. One-two-three-pause.
Tick-tick… tick.

Behind her, a young officer approached, out of breath. “Commander LaCroix, second wave is requesting position adjustment. North flank's collapsing.”

Liara didn’t answer immediately.
She stared out over the trenchline, eyes sharp, but quiet. Calculating.

A beat passed. Then she spoke.

“Send unit six. Keep unit nine back. They're greener.”

The officer hesitated. “They’re asking for spellcasters, not steel.”

She turned her head. Just slightly. “And I said what I said.”

The officer saluted and ran.

She watched him go.

Then slowly, deliberately, she turned away from the ledge and moved back into the shattered interior of the watchtower. Rubble littered the floor. One of the doors had been splintered inward—burn marks curled at the edges like dry petals. Someone had screamed here recently. There were still bloodied fingerprints on the stone.

She stepped over them.

Her satchel was tucked under a broken support beam. She knelt beside it, brushing soot from the straps, and reached inside. Not for a map. Not for orders.

For the vial.

Clear. Heavy. Half full.

She held it up to the torchlight. The liquid swirled slowly, catching the amber glow like molten glass.
Her fingers tightened.
Then froze.

White tile.

The memory came without asking.

A room too bright, too clean. The soft hiss of alchemical gas lights. A clock ticking from inside the wall—perfectly even, like a second heartbeat. Her father’s coat draped over the chair beside her, wool and velvet, the scent of sharp herbs and warmer spice clinging to it. She used to press her face into it when he was away.

Control is protection.

She could still hear his voice.
The old watch on his wrist ticking too loudly in the stillness.
Same rhythm. Different battlefield.

She lowered the vial.
And said it aloud.

“Real doesn’t mean better.”

Her voice cracked. Just a little.
She blinked too hard. Just once.

Then shook her head and reached for the leather strap on her wrist. The watch. Silver, understated. The only gift her father ever gave without reason.

She turned the crown twice. Reset it.
Tick-tick… tick.

“Emotion clouds tactics,” she whispered.

Then spat the words. Literally.

A drop hit the stone. Sizzled in the cold.

She stood and stepped back outside. The wind hadn’t changed, but her breath caught on it now. For a moment, she let herself watch the flames again.
The soldiers below.
The chaos.
The lives she would guide, or sacrifice, depending on the minute.

Somewhere behind her, an alchemical clock in the forward command tent chimed the hour.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Same sound.

Different war.

Chapter Text

The front had gone still.

Three days without movement. No charge. No signals. No war cries.

Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that made grown soldiers flinch. That turned war into waiting, and waiting into something worse.

The wind forgot how to blow.

Smoke from fire pits rose straight and tall like grave markers. Water bowls sat untouched, their surfaces unbroken. The ground was dry, too dry, and yet no dust stirred. Footsteps felt heavier. Voices didn’t carry right—they echoed too far, or not at all.

Even the flies seemed nervous, landing and lifting like soldiers avoiding mines. They hovered over the corpses left between trenches, but never settled long. One man whispered that even the birds had abandoned the sky.

It was a silence no one trusted.

The Spectre initiates moved through it like shades.

Carver, ever restless, sat perched on a crate peeling dried pitch from his gauntlets with the point of a small knife. The scent of scorched cloth still clung to him. He hadn’t summoned flame in days, but his fingertips twitched like they missed the heat. His leg bounced.

Walter knelt near the edge of the trench, palms dipped into a tin basin. The water trembled faintly against his skin, not from movement—but from anticipation. He stared into it as if looking for omens. His lips moved in silent prayer or counting. No one knew.

Juhani leaned against a collapsed section of the inner trench wall, her arms folded. Calm on the outside, always calm. Her gravity magic lent her that strange stillness, like she was made of something heavier than flesh. She watched the horizon, chin lifted just a little, as if daring it to blink.

Around them, the regular soldiers were unravelling.

The captain barked orders just to hear his own voice. A boy with no facial hair snapped at his bunkmate over nothing and cried afterward. Someone threw up behind the latrine and pretended it was from spoiled meat. It wasn’t. It was the silence. Everyone felt it now.

Juhani spoke first. “It’s worse when they wait.”

Carver didn’t look up. “Feels like they’re watching us rot.”

Walter’s voice came soft. “it'll come, and we'll win next time”

Then—

Boots.

No call. No horn. No warning.

Just boots on hard dirt.

Vakarian emerged from the treeline, alone.

His coat was darker than shadow, his face pale beneath the high collar. Dust clung to the folds of his uniform, yet not a sound marked his arrival—not even birds taking flight.

He moved like the quiet belonged to him.

Carver rose halfway. “You’re late.”

Vakarian didn’t break stride. “I’m always late.”

Walter nodded faintly. “No one else comes from the west.”

“They don’t like what they see there,” Vakarian said, eyes on the sky for just a moment.

Juhani frowned. “What did you see?”

He didn’t answer.

He just walked on toward the command post, brushing past the captain’s salute with nothing more than a tight nod. “No movements yet?”

“None,” the captain replied. “We’re waiting for the scream before the storm.”

Vakarian’s gaze lingered on the tent at the edge of camp—the one with the flap closed, the lamp inside still faintly glowing.

“Not much longer now.”

He moved toward it.

Inside the tent, Malus sat hunched over his spear.

He hadn’t left all morning.

The whetstone rasped slow across the blade, again and again. A rhythm older than memory. His hands knew it without thought. His back ached. His legs tingled from being still too long. But he didn’t move except for the scraping.

The tent was dim. The oil lamp on the table behind him cast soft, flickering light.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone since dawn, but his lips moved.

Muttering.

Maybe to himself. Maybe to someone else.

The presence he sometimes felt—just over his shoulder, or behind the flicker of the lamp—didn’t reply. It never had. He didn’t know if it could. But when he sharpened the spear, when the blade caught the light just right, when the sound grew steady and sharp—it felt close.

Not visible. Not real. But close.

A breath that never reached him.

He didn’t dare look for it.

The whetstone hissed once more across metal. Then—

“Malus.”

Vakarian’s voice, low and even.

Malus didn’t look up. His hand stilled.

Vakarian stepped in, letting the flap close behind him. His boots didn’t make a sound on the canvas floor.

“I have something for you.” He held out a letter.

Malus stared at it.

He didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly, he set the spear down. The blade still hummed faintly in his ear. He reached for the letter—

—and froze.

The smell.

Gods.

A waft of old cologne, like rotting citrus and burnt incense. His father’s stench. The one that clung to uniforms, to wooden halls, to disappointment. To power.

Time folded in on itself.

For a breath, the war disappeared. There was no trench, no spear, no whispering quiet. Only that awful scent.

Vakarian didn’t speak. Just nodded and left, giving him the tent. Malus barely noticed.

He opened the letter with numb fingers.

The script was unmistakably Malum’s.

Not elegant. But full of strength. Steady lines. No wasted ink.

He read.

"You're worth it. Always were... and always will be."

A whisper left him. “Yeah…”

"Not 'cause you're perfect. Not 'cause you've always done right..."

His breath caught.

"But because you carried what would've crushed most... and you kept walkin’."

His hand gripped the edge of the cot.

"Because you gave when you had nothin'. Loved when you weren’t even sure you could."

His voice cracked again. A murmur, then silence.

"They don’t have to see it. They don’t have to say it."

Outside, a man prayed under his breath. Someone else sobbed once, then bit it back.

"But you know. Deep in your bones—you know."

Malus attempted to stand.

He hadn’t realized his legs weren't listening.

"You were worth it before the break... and you’re worth it after the rebuild."

These last words rang in his ears, he repeated "rebuild" to himself a singular tear scurried down his face.

Malus sat hunched over the cot, the letter limp in his fingers. The words hung in the tent like smoke.

"You were worth it before the break... and you’re worth it after the rebuild."

He blinked, slowly. His breath trembled, caught halfway between sob and silence. The whetstone sat abandoned. The spear lay beside him now, edge glinting in the lamplight like it still remembered the sharp rhythm of his hands.

His throat worked, a swallow too dry. One hand clenched into a fist, white-knuckled, then loosened again. He pressed the knuckles to his lips like he could shove the emotion back in. His eyes stayed dry. For now. But his jaw twitched—like something inside was cracking one Faultline at a time.

The tent felt smaller. Dimmer. Shadows stretched in the flickering oil light. The cot beneath him creaked softly as he shifted. There, in the cowhide sheets, a small divot pressed deep—subtle, but shaped as if someone had once lain beside him. A shoulder. A hip. The suggestion of warmth.

He noticed it without looking straight at it. Just a flicker in the corner of his eye. His hands lowered. Forehead met the spear’s shaft—his temple resting against it like it could give him strength.

Then—

His shirt stirred.

No wind. No draft. Just the slow, curling rise of fabric up his spine. A hand not there—fingertips brushing the hollow beneath his shoulder blades. Not a threat. Not hostile. It moved like memory, or love.

His breath caught. His eyes flicked toward the corner of the tent where no one stood. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

He whispered, “It was from my brother.”

The air shifted again—soft and close. Warmer than it had any right to be. Like breath on his neck.

“I miss him.”

The silence answered.

A hush, and then—

“It’s okay, baby. No one’s like us.”

The words weren’t sound. They were the stillness. Spoken directly into the place in his chest where things hurt the most.

He didn’t collapse. Not now.

He leaned into the emptiness—and the world held him.

Arms not there cradled his body upright. Not dreamlike. Not fantasy. Real in the way grief could be real. Real in the way hope sometimes whispered, even when all reason said it shouldn’t.

And for once, he didn’t need to carry everything alone.

His lips moved again, though no words came. The letter trembled in his fingers. The edges of it damp from where his hand had clenched too long, too hard. The light from the oil lamp danced across his features—softening them, even as the first tear fell.

Just one.

Then another.

Not sudden. Not wild. Just quiet, broken release. His shoulders quivered. His mouth opened as if to sob—but it came out soundless.

Outside, Vakarian waited.

His arms were crossed. His foot tapped rhythmically against the hard-packed dirt, each beat growing more impatient. The silence in camp was still total—no birds, no enemy movement. Just the thrum of tension stretched to its limit. Still, he didn’t interrupt.

Then the sob came.

Low. Choked. Real.

Vakarian’s hand paused mid-tap. He stared at the tent flap, then looked away. A breath passed. Two.

When he finally stepped inside, his voice wasn’t commanding.

It was gentle.

“Your future isn’t asking for perfection,” he said, arms still folded. “It’s asking for effort when no one’s watching.”

Malus didn’t look up.

His face was in his hands now, the letter fallen to the floor beside his foot. The spear still lay beside him, unmoving.

Vakarian gave him space. Stood just within the entrance, eyes soft despite the edge always welded into his voice. He let the moment breathe. Let the grief settle.

Malus pulled his hands away slowly, face flushed and wet. His eyes flicked toward Vakarian—not in shame, not quite—but with the kind of pain that only cracked open when someone actually saw you.

Vakarian didn’t flinch.

Malus whispered, voice hoarse, “How do you keep going?”

Vakarian tilted his head, considered. Then, just above a whisper:

“You pretend. Until you’re not pretending.”

A pause. Then:

“Then you help someone else do the same.”

Malus nodded, just once. The spear beside him gleamed again in the light. The ghost of a touch still lingered on his back—faded, but not gone. He could still hear it.

“It’s okay, baby. No one’s like us.”

And for the first time in days, the wind outside shifted.

Not much. Just a ripple across the grass. But it stirred the smoke. Made the fire pit’s plume bend.

The silence blinked.

And the scream before the storm finally drew its breath.

Vakarian’s voice had barely faded, his presence casting long shadows against the flickering lamplight.

He stepped closer, laid a hand on Malus’s shoulder. The gesture, rare from him, wasn’t command—it was something close to tenderness.

“There’s something you need to know,” Vakarian said, low. “Before the next movement. Before the scream finally comes. Your father—”

The whistle blew.

Not a signal.

Not practice.

The scream had come.

Not human—brass. A hollow shriek torn from steel and spit, the kind that snapped birds from trees and froze water in bowls. Camp rumbled. Men shouted. Boots slammed mud. Somewhere, someone was already praying.

Vakarian’s jaw locked.

Malus had already grabbed his spear.

Outside, the ground trembled.

A wagon had emerged from the tree line.

Black. Hulking. Plated in patchwork metal scales—crudely riveted iron bones across a curved frame, as if it had been armored by madmen in a forge-choked fever dream. It moved like a beast in pain. Heavy wheels cracked across old no-man’s land, sloughing through mud and broken roots.

No escort. No riders. Just the wagon.

“Is it a supply cart?” someone asked.

“Maybe a defector—?”

A few eager slingers and infantry surged forward, breathless, hope burning in their chests.

They shouldn’t have.

The wagon stopped.

A pause.

Then—

The world tore open.

Gunfire.

It wasn’t magic.
It didn’t shimmer.
It cracked.

The sound was wrong.

It split the air like an executioner’s blade, clean and brutal. No incantation, no color. Just lightless thunder and death.

The rushing soldiers fell.

Not caught by spells.

Shot.

A man’s chest caved in mid-chant. Another screamed, dropped his wand, and clawed at his leg where blood poured in pulsing jets. A girl turned to run, tripped, and vanished beneath a hail of bullets.

The mana slingers staggered—spells sputtered, shield wards failed, as if the world itself didn’t recognize what had been done.

"We've trained for fireballs," one screamed, "not this—gods, not this!"

Then the Monocians appeared.

From behind the metal beast and through the smoke.

Calm.

Too calm.

They walked. Shoulder to shoulder in tight formation, metal glinting beneath ragged cloaks, rifles braced against hips. Masks over faces. Boots crunching bone and charred roots.

They walked, and fired.

The trenches broke.

Men screamed. Others dropped their weapons and bolted. One mage turned and panic-cast a barrier spell backwards, collapsing his own trench section and burying three allies.

Vakarian’s voice rang out over it all. Cold and commanding.

“INITIATES. FRONT. NOW.”

Malus didn’t remember leaping from the tent. Only the jolt of his legs finding the earth, his spear slicing into the soil to balance the landing. The sound was everywhere. Echoing. Bouncing between skull and steel.

Behind him, the captain had fainted. The boy who’d snapped earlier just stood frozen, mouth open.

Walter was the first to move. His water magic surged outward, sweeping into thick barriers that wobbled under gunfire. Two shattered instantly.

Carver followed. Flames burst from his palms, coiling like serpents and licking across the field. But even fire dimmed under the scream of rifles.

One Monocian took a blast to the chest, staggered, then stood upright. His coat smouldered—but he raised his weapon again and kept walking.

“They don’t burn—” Carver shouted.

“Then we cut,” Juhani snarled.

Her gravity magic rippled the ground. Trenches groaned. Earth buckled and dragged two Monocians into the churn. Another flew sideways like a ragdoll, slammed into a tree with a sickening crack.

Still, more came.

And then: light.

It split the sky—not gold, not yellow. White. Blinding. Clean. Absolute.

A beam landed in the centre of no man’s land.

Mordin Vakarian.

He didn’t land. He appeared—as if summoned by the collective need for something divine.

Light flared from his back, and for a breath, wings arched wide—formed from condensed brilliance. Not real feathers. Just radiance. Fury. Purpose.

The Monocians faltered.

For a heartbeat.

Then Vakarian moved.

He vanished—reappeared behind a squad. His blade split three throats in a blink. Gone again.

He reappeared beside a gunner, struck down the rifle before it could fire. Another jump. Another slash. He was everywhere.

Malus could hardly breathe. Every second of battle became a blur—steel clashing, spells failing, smoke rising.

He stabbed a man who hadn’t seen him yet. His spear went through the side. He felt the resistance of ribs. He pulled it free and ducked just as a bullet cracked the air above his skull.

The gunfire didn’t stop.

It came in waves.

Crack.

Crack.

Click.

Bang.

That tiny, sinister click before the world broke apart.

“Down!” someone screamed. Malus hit the ground as the soil beside him exploded—chunks of armor and teeth flying through the air. A soldier above him clutched his own neck, blinked in confusion, then dropped to his knees. The prayer still on his lips never finished.

Malus rolled, thrust his spear through another man’s leg, twisted. His face was streaked with blood—not his. His body screamed for rest, but he kept moving.

Somewhere in the smoke, Carver’s hands were blistered. Walter had taken a bullet in the shoulder and kept casting. Juhani’s eyes bled, but she crushed men beneath the weight of their own armour.

They were breaking.

But not broken.

And then came the scream.

Not a horn.

Not metal.

A cry.

One soldier—just a man, barely twenty—rose from the trench and shouted. Not a war cry. Not something brave.

“They bleed!” he screamed, blade slick. “THEY BLEED!”

Malus rose too. “Push!”

Others followed. The magic returned. Wild. Unrefined. Desperate.

Fire met gunpowder. Stone met steel.

And in the smoke, Vakarian rose again—his wings blazing behind him.

He was rage. Grace. Wrath incarnate. An angel dragged from heaven and told to kill.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t celebrate.

He hated it.

But he fought.

The battle turned.

Not cleanly. Not heroically. But the Ganymedians held.

A line formed—not of perfect order, but of bruised resolve. Enough to stem the flood.

The wagon, at last, burned.

Carver’s third attempt found dry powder in its belly. The explosion painted the trees in shrapnel and flame.

The Monocians—what few remained—fell back. Their rifles still spat death, but now it was retreat.

Malus stood among corpses. Blood soaked his boots. The stink of gunpowder and scorched cloth choked his lungs.

Vakarian appeared beside him.

His wings faded.

He said nothing.

Malus stared down at his hands.

Shaking.

Then up at the sky.

It was finally quiet again.

But not the same quiet.

This was the quiet after.

The kind that knows it’s not over.

Just waiting.

Just breathing.

Smoke choked the trenches.

Gunfire crackled in the distance—less constant now, but no less cruel. The taste of blood and grit filled every breath, every throat. The air hung heavy with exhaustion, dread, and something worse: the sinking weight of inevitability.

The Ganymedian line was faltering.

The Monocians pressed on, numbers overwhelming. Their rifles spat death like cursed thunder. Some men dropped to their knees, clutching ears ringing from the clicks and bangs. Others simply froze—eyes wide, unable to move or look away.

Captain Verran’s voice sliced through the chaos, sharp but brittle.

“Hold the line! Hold the line, I say!”

But the soldiers barely heard him.

His orders bounced like a stone against a wall of despair. Some shook their heads, others covered their faces. A man behind the line vomited, his gagging a raw, ragged sound swallowed quickly by the roar.

A woman knelt, hands clasped in fervent prayer so loud it echoed against the mud.

“Please… please…” she whispered, voice breaking. “God, keep us safe…”

The rifles were heresy. The sound wasn’t like magic—it didn’t shimmer, didn’t hum. It cracked. It tore.

The men expected flame.

They got metal and thunder.

Sparks flew from shattered spells. Wands fell from trembling hands.

In that chaos, something inside the trench shifted.

Malus stumbled to his feet.

The spear weighed heavy, the spearhead smeared with grime and blood—not all his own. His breath came in ragged bursts, chest tight as though squeezed by unseen hands.

The flagpole beside him wavered in the smoke—the ragged banner fluttering weakly.

A soldier near him hissed, “Get down, you idiot!”

Malus shook his head, voice hoarse but growing louder.

“They don’t have to see your worth,” he began, voice cracking like dry wood.

He clenched his fists, fighting the tremble.

“They don’t have to name it.”

A gust stirred the banner; it snapped sharp in the cold air.

“But you know. Deep in your bones—you know.”

He faltered, swallowing hard.

“You were worth it before the break… and you’re worth it after the rebuild.”

A pause, the words hanging fragile as smoke.

More soldiers turned, eyes flickering toward him. Desperation and hope tangled in their gazes.

His voice cracked again. “I—”

“Get down!” someone yelled, but Malus raised the flagpole upright, steadying it with shaking hands.

The banner caught a fresh breeze, lifting. A rallying symbol in the wreckage.

A grunt of approval rippled through the trench.

“We are still here,” Malus said, voice raw. “Not because they see us. Not because they care. But because we’re still standing.”

He wasn’t a natural orator. His words stumbled, uneven and breathless, but they were real.

“Because sometimes… it’s not about how loud you shout. It’s about being here… when you don’t want to be.”

A soldier, young, eyes bright despite dirt and fear, let out a shaky laugh.

The captain, Verran, found his voice again, gruff but steadier.

“Hold the line!”

Another surge of spirit bloomed.

Malus gripped the flagpole like it was the last anchor in a drowning sea.

The rifles clicked and cracked.

Men gripped their weapons tight, faces set with bruised determination.

Magic flickered—wild, desperate, but present.

Somewhere beyond the smoke, a bird dared to sing.

The battle was far from over.

But in that moment, amid terror and ruin, a flag rose.

And beneath it, soldiers found a reason not to fall.

The horn sounded again.

A deep, guttural bellow that shattered the silence like a hammer on glass.

The scaled wagon rumbled forward, metal plates creaking and groaning under an unseen weight. Its wheels tore through the mud of no-man’s land, each heavy rotation a drumbeat counting down a reckoning.

The Monocians ceased fire.

Their rifles lowered.

Slowly, methodically, they began to withdraw.

The Ganymedians stared, disbelief knitting brows and freezing shoulders. No chase came. No victorious cheers.

The enemy marched backward in neat, disciplined lines — not broken, not defeated, but exhausted and calculating.

One figure lingered.

A giant among men.

Maudrick “Maud” Fell.

Dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, a mountain of a man whose face was scarred by old battles. His missing jaw clicked rhythmically whenever he spoke — a dry, echoing tick that somehow set a pulse in the air.

His breastplate bore scratch marks tallying lost teeth — five, or maybe fifteen. No one knew for sure. Maud let them think he was just a brutish dumb man.

He wasn’t.

Maud’s eyes were sharp, cold, watching.

He turned toward the Ganymedian line and stepped forward alone.

“Five Teeth Down,” he said with a rough growl — a name his soldiers had earned in grim humor.

He spat in the mud and beckoned.

“Someone to parley.”

Juhani’s eyes narrowed.

Malus’s breath hitched.

The Initiates exchanged glances, chests still heaving from the battle’s shock.

Juhani spoke first, voice steady: “Malus.”

Malus nodded, fingers tightening around the spear that had become a part of his flesh.

He felt it in his bones — he was the one.

He stepped forward, boots crunching dry earth.

Maud’s gaze swept him up and down, lips twisting into a cruel smirk.

“You ready to die, boy?”

Malus swallowed. “I’ve already done that.”

Maud barked a harsh laugh, the jaw-click marking every syllable like a heartbeat.

“Left Hand Oath, then. You know the rules.”

A hush fell.

The game was rare — sacred even.

Two hands bound, locked in a grip like a handshake.

A circle drawn in the dirt enclosed the combatants.

No stepping out, no surrender.

The first to break the circle or concede lost.

Maud and Malus faced each other, hands tied by coarse leather straps.

The crowd fell silent, the air thick with anticipation.

Maud’s jaw-click began, slow and steady.

A metronome of menace.

He made no immediate move.

Instead, he tested.

A false feint — a slow bend, a half-lunge — gauging Malus’s reaction.

“You’ve got a poet’s grip, boy,” he mocked, voice gravel and ice.

Malus gritted his teeth and tightened his hold.

Maud’s eyes gleamed with tactical cruelty.

He didn’t strike blindly.

Instead, he read Malus like a map.

Every step, every twitch measured.

Maud attacked — the click preceded each move — a ritual of violence.

Malus stumbled, nearly falling.

His legs betrayed him.

But he stayed upright.

Because there was nothing else left to do.

Not fighting Maud.

Fighting apathy.

The first half was brutal.

Maud dominated with strength and cruel precision.

Malus gasped, winded, arms aching, mind numbed.

Then—

Out of the corner of his eye—

A flicker.

A ripple in the air.

The faint outline of a woman — long hair flowing like water caught in slow motion.

The spirit.

Almost fully manifested.

She mouthed words, silent, urgent.

Malus felt something stir inside.

The fight shifted.

His body moved before his mind could catch up.

Muscles firing without command.

He danced with Maud’s size and weight, using his opponent’s momentum against him.

Maud lunged, but Malus sidestepped, aimed low — the knees.

A grunt from Maud — surprise and pain.

Maud tried to throw him out of the circle, a brutal shove.

Malus crashed against Maud’s leg like a battering ram, pulling them both to the ground.

Mud and blood mingled.

The jaw-click slowed, uneven.

Maud’s breath was ragged, but his eyes still sharp.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” he said with grudging respect. “Guess I was wrong.”

Malus pinned him, their bound hands locking Maud’s with crushing force.

And then the blows came.

Not wild, but precise.

One after another.

Fury and release.

Each strike was a word in a confession Malus had held inside too long.

A scream tore from his chest — raw, desperate, and finally free.

The battlefield froze, listening.

Malus’s body faltered.

Exhausted, broken, but unwilling to fall.

The crowd exhaled.

A small, scared recruit near the edge whispered, “He did it… he really did.”

Maud lay beneath him, the fight gone from his eyes.

Malus’s breath was ragged, sweat stinging his skin.

He looked down, clarity blooming.

He would try.

Not for glory.

Not for victory.

But because there was no other choice.

The mud clung to Malus’s bare back like cold fingers as he lay sprawled on the broken earth. Every bruise a dull throb, every breath a jagged cut in the quiet.

Beside him, Maud’s chest heaved, the massive frame rising and falling with ragged effort, jaw clicking out a slow, uneven rhythm.

They were both broken men—battered, bruised, and spent.

Malus’s eyes tracked the heavy sky above, thick with rolling clouds. Gray and oppressive, they pressed down like the weight of the world itself.

But as he focused—just a flicker of conscious will—he let his breathing slow, deep and steady.

In. Out.

In. Out.

The clouds began to shift, breaking apart.

Slowly. Reluctantly.

A thin sliver of blue.

Enough to breathe.

Enough to try.

His chest rose and fell, slow, deliberate.

No noise filled his ears except the sound of his own staggered breath—each inhale a small victory, each exhale a release.

The world hadn’t forgiven him.

But for the first time in weeks—

It didn’t crush him.

The battlefield around them lay still.

Silent but alive.

Waiting.

Just like Malus.

Chapter Text

Malum sat in the big leather swivel chair, its worn burgundy leather creaking softly as he spun it again—a nervous tic that had become a rhythm, a way to escape the spiral tightening in his chest. His fingers drummed restlessly on the armrests, tracing invisible patterns.

The bronze stag ring on his finger caught the flickering firelight, gleaming cold and heavy, a chain he couldn’t remove. He twisted at it—again and again—but it didn’t budge.

Did it ever?

Miranda sat close, watching. When the chair spun faster, her soft hand landed gently on the back. The movement slowed, then stopped. No words. Just steady presence.

“Well, the team will survive without me. Probably. Hopefully. They’re… resourceful,” Malum tried, voice brittle and forced. His attempt at levity fell flat.

Miranda blinked. “Mal.”

His jaw clenched tighter. The weight of Zash’s news pressed down: his brother becoming a legendary spectre, Natasha’s death—a wound clutching his heart. He clung to Miranda as if she could anchor him to sanity.

The door opened suddenly. Jona Altman stepped in with his usual dramatic flair.

“You won’t kill me, I hope, my dear Clement,” Jona said, a teasing smirk lighting his face.

Clement’s eyes narrowed, voice cold and sharp. “Go.”

Jona grinned wider, unrepentant. “Fabulous.”

“Unless I reconsider.”

“Not fabulous.”

With a final flamboyant bow, Jona turned and walked away, Malum and Miranda following.

As he stepped aside, Jona muttered with a sly grin, “She cannot kill me in a way that matters.”

Daniel, sitting against the wall nearby, stared at the floor, lost in his own swirling thoughts. His mind drifted in delirium, shadows creeping at the edges, the ashen lands threatening in his vision.

Back in the room, Malum spun the chair again, leather creaking under his weight. The ring on his finger was a cold chain.

He twisted it once more; it remained stubbornly fixed.

“Why wasn’t I there?” he whispered, voice raw.

Miranda’s hand closed gently around his arm, grounding but not romantic.

“Mal,” she said softly.

He swallowed hard. “Am I… a coward?”

“Sometimes,” Miranda answered quietly. “But courage isn’t absence of fear. It’s showing up anyway.”

The chair creaked one final time as Malum stilled, the silence hanging heavy.

Outside, the wind whispered secrets just beyond the window’s edge.

And in that fragile stillness, Malum let himself lean on the quiet strength beside him.

The mornings had taken on a rhythm since the mansion.
Steel on wood.
Boots on dirt.
Breath in clouds.

Daniel rose earlier than the others, not because he had to, but because every hour awake was another chance to push further. The vision of the Ashen Lands hadn’t broken him—it had sharpened him. Every face he had seen in that desolation, every voice calling from the smoke, had given him something new to aim for. A bar to reach, and no excuse to fall short.

Barney was always first to meet him in the yard. The big man rolled one shoulder before they began, like he was loosening the hinge on a heavy door.
"Another rep," Barney said, voice flat but expectant.
Daniel grunted through the push, muscles screaming. Another bruise bloomed along his ribs.
"Again."
Daniel smiled. He wasn’t here for comfort.

By mid-morning, the rest of Team Three filtered in. Henry had a mace in hand and that quiet, bookish look that didn’t match the weight of the weapon.
"That mace’ll break ribs, but only if you pivot like this," Henry said, demonstrating with a sharp twist of his hips.
Daniel copied the motion. Henry reached forward without thinking and tapped the spot where his finger was missing, gaze narrowing in thought.
"Better. Now again."

Meg’s turn was always different—half game, half ambush.
"Track me," she said, bouncing on her toes before darting into the hedges.
He pushed through the branches, scanning for bent stems, disturbed soil—
She vanished.
A tug at his ankle sent him sprawling. She grinned, chewing her thumbnail.
"You’re getting faster, though."

Clement’s sessions were worse than Barney’s in a different way. Knife in hand, she didn’t slow down for anyone.
His wrists burned, breath ragged, but she kept running. He followed through the winding path behind the barracks until the world blurred to tunnel vision.
"Stamina," she said simply, glancing over her shoulder. "You’ve got more of it now."

By the time they broke for food, Daniel’s shirt clung to him with sweat. His hands trembled when he raised his cup, but no one commented—at least, not directly.

"You’re trying too hard," Meg muttered as she untangled a lock of hair.
"Trying’s the point," Daniel said. His voice came out rough, but his eyes still carried that glow of purpose.

The truth was, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours in days. Each night was filled with flashes of scorched earth, skeletal silhouettes in the fog, the cold certainty of something waiting for them out there. The only way to keep it from swallowing him was to move, to keep the body working until thought was impossible.

When the others laughed at some shared joke, he stayed quiet, feeling the ache settle into his bones. Barney caught his eye, rolling his shoulder again—silent acknowledgment, or maybe warning.

That evening, as the shadows stretched across the yard, Daniel stayed behind after the rest had gone in. He gripped the training sword until his knuckles whitened. His stance wavered. The weapon’s tip dipped toward the ground.

He hadn’t realized how loud his heartbeat was until the world tilted.

The dim light of the study flickered from a single oil lamp on the heavy oak table. Jona Altman sat opposite Malum and Miranda, fingers steepled as his gaze drifted toward the window, where the silver moon cast restless shadows against the stone walls. A quiet tension filled the room, as if the shadows themselves were listening.

“So,” Malum prompted gently, breaking the silence, “What do you really know about the mansion cult? The Dreaming Maw?”

Jona’s eyes darkened beneath his tousled hair, and he leaned back with a slow breath. “The Dreaming Maw isn’t native to Ganeymede. That much I’m certain. Their origins—if you can call them that—trace back to shadows and the depths of the ocean, places where light never reaches. It’s... an old thing, something buried.”

Miranda’s brow furrowed. “Old? Buried? That sounds like mythology, Jona.”

He smiled faintly, a shadow playing on his lips. “Not mythology. More like an... instinct made flesh. That terrible sensation when you feel eyes watching you from just beyond sight—that’s what they embody. But don’t mistake their purpose. They’re not out to conquer Ganeymede, no. They’re reclaiming something lost, something that once belonged to them.”

Miranda’s impatience broke through the haze. “Reclaiming? You’re being vague, Jona. That sounds like a territorial spat dressed in mysticism. What exactly are they after?”

Before Jona could reply, Barney shifted uneasily, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Must be the talk. I’m sweating too much for this weather.”

“It’s not the weather,” Jona said softly, eyes narrowing. “There’s something else in the air tonight.”

Miranda exchanged a look with Malum, their unease growing. The mansion cult and the Dreaming Maw were whispers of an uncomfortable truth—one that lingered like a forgotten stain on the edge of their world. It was not Virelais culture itself, but a shadow clinging to its fringes—like an embarrassing ancestor no one wanted to acknowledge.

Before the conversation could deepen, the heavy door slammed open with a sharp bang. Meg stumbled in, breathless and wild-eyed.

“He just… dropped. I—I don’t know what happened!” she gasped, panic cutting through her words as the team rose immediately to attention.

Malum and Miranda exchanged quick glances while Jona stood abruptly.

“What happened? Where is he?” Malum demanded.

Meg’s gaze flicked toward the hallway. “Daniel. He just collapsed outside.”

Clement was the first to move, slipping past Meg with practiced grace. She knelt beside Daniel’s prone form, pulling up his sleeve with deliberate slowness.

The moment stretched taut as the sickly pallor of his forearm was revealed—rows of hives, swollen and festering, fractal patterns like coral growths beneath his skin.

The air seemed to grow colder, heavier.

Clement’s breath caught, a shadow crossing her face before she masked it with a calm that barely hid the panic beneath.

“His arm,” she murmured, voice tight. “It looks like he’s been branded... by coral. Puffy skin, fractal-shaped—like something grew underneath, then vanished.”

Malum’s eyes flicked to Clement, searching for some explanation in the cold light of the lamp.

“L’Appel de Rouelle,” Clement finally said, her voice low and steady despite the gravity. “The Calling of Rouelle. Or as sailors called it—The Wake.”

Miranda frowned sharply. “Rouelle? That old sea-legend? What does it mean?”

Clement swallowed, steadying herself. “Named after Rouelle, a mythical sea-spirit or saint said to ‘gift’ insight and madness in equal measure. Sailors whispered she spoke truths from the ocean floor—truths too harsh, too raw, that blister the skin and fray the soul.”

Malum’s mind flicked back to the last training session, to the fleeting glimpse of irritation on Daniel’s arm he’d barely registered. How could he have missed it? How had they all?

Miranda’s lips pressed thin. “If it’s this illness, then the only cure lies in Virelais—the Lofted Archipelago. It’s the homeland of those who understand Rouelle’s Wake.”

Clement hesitated, her usual resolve tempered by worry. “I... I don’t want to go back there. Not yet. But Daniel—if we don’t act, he’ll die.”

Before anyone could respond, Jona’s face brightened with something almost like eagerness.

“Virelais again. I haven’t been back in years. It’s good to see familiar waters, even if the company is... less than ideal.”

Malum smirked, shaking his head. “Of course you’re excited.”

Henry stepped forward, brandishing a worn but official-looking pass. His four-fingered hand was steady, despite the tension tightening his jaw. “This will get us through customs and military checkpoints in the Vassal State. We leave as soon as possible.”

Barney and Clement moved efficiently, gathering Daniel’s gear and preparing to transport him. Meg stayed close to his side, her hands gently stroking his forehead as if her touch might keep him tethered.

Malum pulled out a battered stack of books that Jona had recommended, flipping through them with a distracted grin.

“Half of these look like they belong in a tavern’s back room,” Malum joked.

Miranda, still affectionately calling him “Mal,” glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Mal, this one’s just... positions.”

Malum looked up, raising an eyebrow. “It’s historical, Miranda.”

She arched a brow in reply. “ It's Annotated.”

The room hummed with quiet determination as the team prepared to leave, a mixture of dread and hope tightening in their chests.

The shadows in the corners seemed to lean closer, watching, waiting.

The salt air was sharp and relentless, a biting perfume that clung to their skin and whispered promises of vast, untamed horizons. The wooden planks beneath their feet groaned and creaked in rhythm with the sea’s swell, a slow heartbeat to the ship’s journey. Cold wind rushed past, tugging at sleeves and hair, carrying the taste of brine and the distant cry of seabirds. Above them, the sky unfurled like a black canvas, studded with constellations ignited by the subtle glow of Mana slingers—twinkling orbs of light drifting lazily, magical lanterns that turned the night into a wonderland of floating stars.

Thanks to Jona’s unorthodox decision to hire Water slingers, skilled elemental magicians who propelled the ship forward by conjuring bursts of liquid force, the journey had shrunk from a torturous year-long ordeal into mere months. It was a luxury that none aboard took for granted. Most of the ship—and the majority of the luggage—belonged to Jona himself, a fact that earned him both respect and a touch of quiet suspicion.

The captain, a lean and steady-eyed trans man with weathered hands and a quick smile, had graciously relinquished his own quarters to house Daniel. Now, Meg and Malum took turns keeping a close watch on their comrade, whose injuries still demanded attention and quiet care.

The rest of the team stood scattered about the deck, their faces illuminated by the cold glow of lanterns and the warm crackle of camaraderie. The ocean stretched out endlessly, a mirror for the starlit sky. Most of them were wide-eyed, murmuring in awe at the vastness and the strange beauty of the floating lights.

Clement stood apart, still quieter than usual, her arms clasped tight across her chest, elbows clenched as if she could physically hold back the past—or the future. Her sharp gaze never wavered from the horizon, silently pleading with the dark water not to reveal the coastline of Virelais. She said nothing, but the tension in her shoulders spoke volumes.

Nearby, Barney and Henry had found themselves welcomed by the ship’s crew, their laughter booming over the deck as they stirred a large pot of stew in the galley’s makeshift hearth. The scent of herbs and salted meat mingled with sea spray, a homey contrast to the biting air.

Miranda, on the other hand, was a study in discomfort. Pale and green-tinged, she hovered at the rail, battling waves of nausea that rose unpredictably. Between bouts of interrogation aimed at Jona—who seemed an inexhaustible well of cryptic tales—she would clutch her mouth, stifling the urge to vomit.

Jona, lounging with casual flair on a coil of rope, finally relented to one of her desperate questions. “Tell me more about the Dreaming Maw. Anything,” she pleaded, voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not a religion,” he said, suddenly dropping the flamboyance. “Not really. It’s... ancestral. Like mold in the bones of a house.”

Miranda blinked, confused and still woozy.

“But no one likes a leaky metaphor!” Jona declared, snapping back into his usual extravagant self. “Onward!”

From the corner of the deck came the raucous music of the crew — sea shanties echoed off the waves, voices raised in unison. The rhythm of a drumbeat and the scratchy twang of a fiddle wove through the air. Jona himself wielded a peculiar Virelaisian instrument—an accordion-like device that hummed with strange overtones.

Barney tried to sing along, but the lyrics kept shifting, sometimes mid-verse. “Is the accordion… possessed?” he joked loudly, laughter rumbling in his chest.

Henry laughed with him, the sound warm and bright in the night.

Yet, in stark contrast, Clement remained still, her silence a shadow between their joy. She stood alone, a figure wrapped in quiet determination and loneliness, underscoring the fragile bonds the others took for granted.

Later, as the group settled beneath a patchwork of tarps and sails, Jona’s eyes caught on something gleaming at Clement’s chest. With a sly grin, he nodded toward the rebuilt pepperbox pistol holstered high on her right side, just beneath the collarbone—easy to draw with a swift, sideways flick.

“A spectacle, as always, my dear Clement,” Jona teased, voice low and amused. “Your grandfather would’ve stolen that contraption faster than you could blink.”

Clement’s lips twitched in a near-smile, but all she offered was a sharp grunt. “He tried once.”

Jona laughed, the sound like a ripple across the deck. “Ah, the family legacy of tinkering—and thievery.”

The ship creaked again as waves brushed against its hull, the cold wind tugging at sails and cloaks. Above, the Mana slingers drifted on, lanterns in the endless dark, guiding them forward—toward an uncertain shore, and stories yet untold.

The journey stretched on—endless miles of road and sea, the slow passage of weeks folding into months. Each day the same ache settled heavier on Daniel’s chest, the restless burning spreading beneath his skin like a silent storm. The intricate spiral of hives mapped itself across his neck and torso in cruel artistry—an inescapable reminder that time was running out.

Meg sat beside him most days, a small, restless presence who rarely left his side. Dr. Chakwas, summoned as a favor to Jona Altman, was the quiet anchor of hope, tending to Daniel’s worsening symptoms with a calm that barely masked her worry. Her hands moved with practiced care, tracing the contours of the hives as if trying to understand the language they whispered.

Daniel’s Perspective
Lying propped against the cold, hard pillows, Daniel felt the world bending around him. The chamber was dim, lit by a lone lantern flickering with the wind’s breath. Shadows pooled like ink on the walls, but his vision no longer belonged to the room.

Beneath his eyelids, images twisted and danced—a spiral of light, endlessly turning, pulling him deeper. It was like being caught inside the eye of a cyclone, the vortex of his illness spiraling outward and inward at once. The hives on his skin were mirrored by this internal maelstrom, every swirl and curl a whisper of pain.

The edges of his sight wavered. The ceiling dissolved into ocean waves—black and endless, stretching beyond any horizon. Above, a sun hung heavy and low, its light diffused and trembling, as if it too struggled against a weight unseen. It pulsed with a strange beige hue, vibrating on the edge of perception, casting a sickly glow that made Daniel feel like a drowning man watching the last light slip beneath the waves.

A voice broke through the haze—soft, uncertain.

“Daniel... Daniel…”

He turned his head slightly. Meg’s small hand was clasped gently around his wrist, her eyes glassy and tired. She muttered his name over and over like a prayer, the words a tether to this world.

“Don’t go... please...” Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps before exhaustion pulled her under. Meg’s head dropped onto the bed beside him, her hand still holding his wrist—warm, fragile, unwilling to let go.

Malum’s Perspective
Far away, where the land met the relentless roar of the ocean, Malum stood silent, staring out over the endless water. The wind tossed his dark hair like the restless sea itself, but his mind was elsewhere—trapped in the unbearable distance between him and his brother.

The ocean was impossibly beautiful that evening, painted in strokes of violet and gold. The sun hung low, a wounded sentinel bleeding soft light over the waves. Malum’s gaze hardened, the poetry of the scene twisting bitter in his throat.

The sun watches, he thought grimly, or maybe it cries. Perhaps it hungers. Like a god waiting to devour the world’s sorrows.

The edges of the sun flickered, vibrating faintly with an otherworldly tremble—an omen whispered in forgotten tongues. But Malum did not see omens. He only saw the cruel irony of beauty shining down on suffering he could not touch.

His fists clenched as the sea wind bit at his skin. Why does the world allow this? Why must the light shine so brightly when my brother burns beneath it?

The pain was a shadow that followed him, a quiet rage he could neither soothe nor fight. Somewhere out there, Daniel was caught in spirals darker than the ocean depths, and Malum’s heart fractured with every mile between them.

Back to Daniel
The night deepened. Meg’s breathing evened in sleep, a soft rhythm against the harshness of the room. Dr. Chakwas sat nearby, poring over notes, her face unreadable but for the faint crease of worry etched deep.

Daniel’s vision flickered again—vortices of pain and light spinning through his mind, each pulse a wave crashing against his ribs. His body ached for relief, for something to break the spiral before it consumed him entirely.

He reached out, fingers trembling, and found Meg’s hand. Clinging to it, he whispered the only words he could manage.

“Stay…”

Her eyes fluttered open briefly, soft and tired. “I’m here,” she said, voice a fragile promise.

The journey was far from over, and the spirals on Daniel’s skin told a story that no one wanted to read—but one that Malum would carry with him, like a wound open beneath the beautiful, indifferent sun.

The evening sun slanted low across the training grounds of Silverrun, the fading light pooling on the cobblestones where a small crowd had gathered. Malum’s usual easy confidence seemed brittle today, a flicker in his emerald eyes that did not go unnoticed.

Jona, standing apart with his familiar crooked cane, watched him closely. Since their meeting earlier, something had shifted in the younger man — a restless energy, a sharpness to his glance that didn’t belong to the usual polished charm.

Without hesitation, Jona approached.

“Malum,” Jona’s voice was low but carried the weight of familiarity. “You wear your smile like armor, but I see the cracks.”

Malum’s lips twitched, a practiced deflection. “I’ve been well, Jona. Busy as always.” His smile was quick, almost brittle, eyes flicking to the gathered crowd.

Jona smiled back, knowingly. “Busy, yes. But distracted. Come—let’s settle this with steel. A duel.”

Before Malum could respond, Jona clicked his cane sharply. The top snapped off, revealing a slender sword, its handle carved like a stag’s head, curved perfectly to fit the palm. With a theatrical flourish, he removed his fur cape, his attendant catching it mid-air with reverence.

Malum drew his sabre with a fluid motion, settling into his familiar stance—the blade steady, eyes locked on Jona. The crowd murmured, and Henry piped up, already lining up bets, “I’ve learned a trick or two from Daniel. I’m putting my coin on Malum.”

The Verdant Stag group cheered their protégé, voices rising, eager for the contest to begin.

Jona circled, his blade gleaming as he spoke, “You’ve grown, Malum. But I wonder—has your heart?”

Malum lunged, a flash of steel cutting the air. “Always, Jona. Heart and mind.”

The clash of blades rang sharp. Jona parried with a smooth deflection. “Then show it.”

Malum twisted, feinting left, then swung low, forcing Jona to leap back. “You hide behind wit, but steel doesn’t lie.”

Jona’s eyes gleamed, “Nor does experience.”

A rapid exchange—Malum blocked a strike aimed for his ribs, riposted with a swift counter. “You taught me well, but I’m no student anymore.”

Jona stepped closer, voice gentle but firm, “Yet the student always learns.”

Malum’s grip tightened, frustration flashing in his eyes. He pushed harder, aggressive, but Jona sidestepped, sweeping the leg with a precise flick.

Malum stumbled, hitting the ground with a thud.

Silence fell.

Jona extended a hand, steady and patient. “Lessons are won with humility, not just skill.”

Malum accepted it, pushing himself upright. His smile was there, but forced, lips barely concealing irritation.

“Thank you for the lesson,” Malum said, voice clipped as he turned away.

Inside, a flicker of admission: He hated losing, but needed this lesson.

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, Henry grinning widely, “Well, I lost my coin, but not my faith.”

Jona watched Malum walk off, a mentor’s pride subtle in his eyes. The duel was over, but the training—real and lasting—had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The Spectres moved through the dim morning light with the precision of predators, their armour and weapons whispering against one another in muted rhythm. They had been dispatched to reinforce a detachment of Albion-born soldiers stationed along the southern front—a line the strategists called quiet, though the calm had the brittle tension of ice over deep water. Since Malus’s violent clash with the Monocian commander Maud, the central fronts had fallen eerily silent, the absence of cannon fire and shouting a hollow echo that unnerved even hardened veterans. Now, the Spectres checked each strap, each blade, each breath, preparing to step into a conflict that might be small in scale but no less perilous, aware that in war, silence often carried its own deadly weight.

A thick, unnatural fog drifted over the southern plain, curling like smoke from some hidden forge, rolling steadily from the Monocian lines. Through its damp, grey veil came the faint, eerie sound of chanting, low and guttural, punctuated by the heavy, deliberate stomp of boots that seemed to follow the fog’s advance. The Spectres tensed, shadows in the mist, eyes darting for any sign of movement. Then, without warning, the fog erupted into a hellish orange glow, molten light flaring as the Monocian lead belchers unleashed their first salvo. The air vibrated with the roar of metal and fire, the fog turning into a wall of heat and destruction that hissed across the field, swallowing the quiet southern front in chaos.
Walter barked, “Fall in.”

(Fall in? Fall where? I sound like an idiot. Gods, they’re all staring.)

The trench smelled of wet earth and gunpowder. Smoke clung to everything like a second skin. Monocian lead-belchers coughed, spitting flame into the fog. Walter’s boots sank slightly in the mud.

“Keep your heads down. Wait for my mark.”

(Heads down. Really? Is that even what you’re supposed to say? Just sound like someone who knows what they’re doing. They can’t see how much you’re guessing.)

Malus was at his left, calm, composed. Each movement precise. Walter found himself reflexively mirroring the other boy’s subtle shifts.

(Don’t copy him. They’ll notice. But how do you not copy someone who doesn’t make a single misstep?)

Carver huffed on his right. “You’re mumbling orders again, Walter.”

Walter grunted. “Shut it. Focus.”

(Carver’s going to mock you. Don’t trip. Just lead.)

Juhani stayed on the far edge, eyes scanning the haze, hatchet ready. Her braid swung in rhythm with her steps, calm but alert.

“Move up on my count!” Walter barked.

(Count? How fast does a count even go? One-two-three? Gods, don’t screw this up.)

He glanced down the line of regular soldiers. Sweat streaked their faces, nerves showing. Walter swallowed and stiffened his jaw.

“Up—now!”

The Monocians fired. Powder flashed in the fog. Lead spat into the trench in short bursts. Screams. Mud flying. One soldier went down, clutching a leg. Walter ducked, yanked off his belt, and tied a makeshift tourniquet.

“Hold pressure. You’ll live,” he commanded.

(Hands remember knots. My head? Not so much.)

Malus shifted beside him, one simple, imperceptible movement. Walter copied it reflexively.

(Don’t let him see. Not a flicker.)

A Monocian advanced, slightly out of cover. Walter drew his longsword, tried the move Malus had just used in the last drill. It worked, just barely. The enemy faltered.

(Did anyone notice? They must’ve noticed.)

“Get ready! Pace yourselves!” he barked.

*(I’m sixteen. I shouldn’t even be here. But they believe me. They follow me anyway. Why?)

Smoke curled over the Local troops’ flag. Albion’s red and golden crown now lay darkened with mud and oil. Every Albion-born soldier wore a trade charm—hook, needle, hammer—to mark the rite of thirteen. Walter’s string bore a bone.

(Fish bone. They think it’s from a catch. Lies. Always lies.)

The second lead-belcher coughed. “Forward, two files!” Walter barked.

(Forward? Into death? Into mud, smoke, fire? Just act like it’s nothing. Nobody can see the truth.)

The soldiers moved. They followed. His teeth clenched. He barked commands, dodged heretical fire, applied bandages, repositioned troops. The initiates flanked him, mirroring every order.

Walter felt the swirl inside him, the spiralling panic. And yet—they were following.

Even if the mask was paper, it held.

The mud and smoke clung to them as the skirmish ended. Walter wiped grit from his face and motioned for the remaining soldiers to fall back. The wounded were stacked onto stretchers, groaning softly, the acrid smell of gunpowder still thick in the air.

“Move back! Keep apart! Don’t give them targets!” he barked.

Malus covered the left flank, precise and calm. Carver grumbled as he helped lift a stretcher. Juhani herded the last of the scattered troops, her braid swinging like a pendulum, calculating every movement.

The line moved in orderly retreat, trudging through mud and smoke, until the camp’s station came into view. Tents flapped against the wind. The Ganeymede flag, dirtied and tattered, still stood in the weak breeze.

An officer approached from the command tent, clean and composed despite the chaos. “Coral,” he said, nodding. “The new recruits are lined up outside. They’ve finished training. The higher-ups suggested the Spectres—your team—review their readiness.”

(Review? Me? They want my opinion on soldiers fresh out of training?)

Walter’s jaw stiffened. “Fine. Lead the way.”

(Yes. And please do all the talking for me.)

The stretchers were moved aside. Walter stepped toward the line of recruits. Their armour gleamed faintly, still fresh, the smell of polish strong against the lingering smoke. They all stood rigid, eyes flicking nervously at him.

(They think I know exactly what I’m doing. They don’t know I’m imitating someone else for half of my ideas.)

The officer stood the troops to attention. "Good morning, my shiny new friends. Welcome to the front lines."

(Oh good. I don’t have to talk. Just keep the stoic face on, Walter.)

A short, wiry messenger darted in, whispered into the officer’s ear, then left just as quickly. After a moment of troubled deliberation, the officer turned to Walter. “I am sorry, but Captain Paleven has asked to see me. Please take over for me.”

Hiding his stunned expression, Walter nodded to the initiates behind him.

(Fuck, that wasn’t a ‘let’s do this’ nod! I was hoping one of you would take my place.)

He took a second to scan the line. His gaze caught a familiar figure at the edge of the formation. His sister.

Isobel.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. Just watched.

(What is she doing here? Is she here for me? She won’t last out here!)

Walter’s hand twitched near the hilt of his sword. He gave the recruits a clipped nod. “Stand ready. Eyes forward. Show me what you’ve learned.”

Walter stepped along the line of recruits, boots sinking slightly in the wet soil. He crouched beside a boy adjusting his harness. “Adjust the strap here. Keep the blade close, ready to swing, not drag.”

(They’re following well. Am I a good teacher?)

He leaned closer, inspecting the cracked leather at the wrist. Tugged it himself to show the motion. “Like this.”

(And somehow they believe I actually know what I’m doing. Excellent.)

Malus stood a few paces away, arms crossed, observing quietly. Walter’s stomach tightened a little.

(Calm. Always calm. That’s the magic. And here I am, trying not to breathe too loudly.)

Carver nudged him. “You’re mumbling orders again, Walter.”

“I’m… projecting authority,” Walter said, a little too quickly.

(Projecting authority. Right. Absolutely convincing. Totally.)

He moved down the line, inspecting weapons. A girl’s short sword was chipped near the tip. Walter crouched beside her. “You need a new edge. A dull weapon is worse than none.”

(And here I am, giving advice like I’ve sharpened a dozen swords. Brilliant.)

He demonstrated a short strike he’d memorized from Malus. The girl copied him exactly. Walter’s chest lifted just slightly.

(They’re following. They think I know. That’s… something.)

He locked eyes with Isobel as Juhani was checking her basic form, he turned as she grinned smugly and waved with the tip of her sword.

(you'll give people the wrong idea idiot!)

The troop review wrapped as the sun climbed higher. Smoke from the battlefield still clung to the air. The officer gestured toward the camp’s edge. “Good work. Take a break. You’re dismissed.”

Walter led the initiates toward camp, feeling an odd mixture of relief and mild disbelief.

(They actually let me walk away like I earned this? Incredible.)

At the campfire, the Spectres began to wind down. Walter dropped onto a log, mud still clinging to his boots. He untangled a rope to secure a tarp. Fingers moved almost automatically—years of mending nets had trained him well.

(Huh. I do know knots. Look at me, using fishing skills to impress soldiers. Practical. Useful. Take that academy drills.)

Carver leaned against a crate, polishing his longsword. “Need a razor, Coral? Sharpest in Ganeymede.”

Walter stared for a moment then snatched it eagerly. “Thanks. I've needed a new one of these”

(What exactly does he expect me to do with this again?)

Dinner was a disaster. Smoke clawed at his eyes, the ration pack half-burned. “It’s fine,” he said too loudly. “The smoke keeps bugs away. Adds flavour. You’re welcome.”

(Adds flavour. Of course. They think I meant it. I clearly planned that.)

Later, sprawled on his blanket, he muttered in his sleep, “Mom…”

The watchman froze. Walter shot upright. “I said, get back on post!”

(He probably thinks I'm a bastard now, I cant let them know)

Malus observed silently, nodded once, and walked away. Walter’s chest loosened slightly.

(Even he didn’t call me out. That’s… encouraging.)

Isobel approached, smirking. “You still cry in your sleep.”

Walter bark-laughed. “No. Training is… intense.”

(Training. Absolutely. Not sleep-crying.)

He watched the older soldiers around the fire: repairing armour, reading letters tied with ribbons, shaving with ease. He quietly mimicked small movements, brushing his own sword with exaggerated precision.

(See? I look competent.)

Malus leaned against a crate, his shoulder dipped slightly down as his eyes darted to his side, on edge or something else?. Walter memorized subtle movements: the calm exhale before issuing orders, the way Malus shifted his weight, the one-word praise given to others.

(That’s how a soldier carries himself. That’s how I’ll look. That’s how I’ll be.)

As the fire dwindled and the camp settled into quiet, Walter’s mask stayed in place. But small slips revealed themselves: fumbling with rations, asking Carver for help, muttering in sleep, secretly admiring Malus.

Even so, every slip was catalogued, analysed, and stored—ready for the next day, the next recruit, the next battle.

The briefing tent smelled of wax and parchment, lamplight bending shadows across the canvas walls. Captain Paleven stood at the head of the table, a block of a man whose beard seemed to bristle in time with his voice. The map before him was scrawled with red chalk arrows, each line a reminder of places men had bled.

“Albion’s flank will hold here. The Monocians are pressing with lead-belchers, but we’ll answer with speed and discipline.” His finger stabbed a line. “Questions?”

The circle of officers shifted, muttering, exchanging uneasy glances. One thin-faced lieutenant finally spoke. “Sir, with respect, this seems rash. Our men aren’t—”

Paleven’s eyes flicked sideways. Straight to Walter.

Walter stiffened.
(His eyes are on me. Why me? Gods above, pick Carver. Or Malus. Or the bloody cook.)

He leaned forward, voice low and gravelly, the sound he’d been practicing since he was fourteen. “We’ll adapt. Soldiers don’t need to know every detail, just where to point steel. You start explaining every little risk, you lose ‘em before the first battle.”

The tent went still. Heads nodded. Someone even grunted in approval.

(Oh great. Now I’m a sage of war. Fantastic. Just keep your jaw tight. Don’t show your teeth. Don’t laugh.)

Liara, arms folded, brown hair pinned tight as ever, added smoothly: “Coral’s right. Soldiers don’t want philosophy, they want certainty. That’s what wins. That’s why they follow him.”

Walter nearly choked.
(She what? No—don’t look at her. She can’t mean that. She believes this act? Oh no. She thinks I’m… her equal? A kindred spirit? This is bad. This is so bad. Or… is it good? What does she want from me?)

Out loud, he only grunted. “Hmph.”

Later, when the officers dispersed, Liara lingered. She leaned closer, her voice soft, conspiratorial. “You know, most of them are idiots. But you—” her eyes narrowed, studying him, “—you remind me of me. Surrounded by mediocrity, trying to drag them into competence.”

Walter’s heart clanged like a dropped hammer.
(WHAT? No, no, no, don’t smile. She’ll see. She’ll know. Just grunt. Gruff equals safe.)

He grunted again. “Tch. Idiots, sure.”

Her lips twitched into what might have been the faintest smile. For a terrifying heartbeat, he thought she was about to wink.

(WHY IS SHE LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT? Is this flirting? No, no way. She’s just… what if it is flirting? What do I even do then? Gods, do not blush. Stop blushing. You’re blushing.)

The drills the next morning ran like clockwork. Malus sparred three men in a row, calm, deliberate, almost mechanical in his rhythm. He ended each bout with a clean pivot, sweat sliding down his temple. He wiped it away with the back of his wrist—casual, smooth.

Walter copied it immediately. Poked himself in the eye.

(Brilliant. Absolutely flawless imitation. Nobody saw that. Except… yep, Carver saw it. He’s laughing. Wonderful. Just wonderful.)

By midday, an soldier—broad-shouldered, nervous—sidled up. “Uh, Coral? You move… kinda like Malus.”

Walter froze.
(He noticed. It’s obvious. Everyone’s been watching. Gods, they think I’m pathetic. Say something—no, grunt. Grunt fixes everything.)

Walter grunted. “Discipline’s discipline. Doesn’t matter who you copy it from.”

The man blinked. Then nodded. “Makes sense.”

(Makes sense? Really? That’s all it takes? I’m getting away with murder here.)

Isobel cornered him that evening by the supply crates, her grin sharp as ever. “You remind me of Malus, you know.”

Walter’s chest squeezed, heat creeping up his neck.
(She noticed too? But… she doesn’t sound mocking. She sounds… almost proud. Gods, stop smiling, idiot. Don’t let her see.)

She tilted her head. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’ve got a crush on him.”

Walter bark-laughed, a sound that came out too loud, too cracked. “Don’t be stupid.”

(I’d rather die than admit how much I do admire him. Crush? Not like that. …Maybe a little like that. Shut up, brain.)

Isobel’s smirk softened. Just for a moment. Then she jabbed his ribs with the flat of her hand and skipped away, braid bouncing.

That night, under lantern glow, the initiates gathered with the new recruits for more drills. Walter found himself correcting a recruit’s grip on her spear. “Too high on the shaft. Slide down. Balance it like a lever.”

The girl adjusted, struck the target dummy cleanly. She beamed at him. “Thank you, sir.”

Walter blinked.
(Sir. She just called me sir. I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time. I stole that line from Malus, I think. Or did I? No… that bit was mine. I thought of that. That was me.)

A strange warmth crept through his chest.

When the drills ended, Walter sat by the fire, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Across from him, an older soldier muttered to another, “That Coral boy—sharp one. Knows what he’s about.”

Walter’s hand stilled on the whetstone. His heart thundered.
(If only you knew. If only you knew this mask is paper. But it’s holding, isn’t it? Somehow… it’s holding.)

Isobel passed behind him, muttering just loud enough: “You’re starting to sound like him.”

Walter shot her a glare. “Shut up.”

Inside, though—he glowed.

Chapter Text

The edge of Virelais emerged over the horizon, jagged cliffs and rolling forests stretching toward the sea, but it was the cities along the shore that drew every eye. Clement’s shoulders eased slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. For the first time in months, she felt the faintest flutter of… home.

Jona, sensing the moment, threw his arms wide and announced, “Watch this, my friends!”

A moment later, the creaking of cables echoed through the air, mingling with the faint tang of ozone and burning fuel drifting from the hovering airships. Clement caught the scent and inhaled sharply. The attendant at Jona’s side, a young man named Mark, hoisted a flagpole with precise attention, and as the Virelais banner unfurled, the country itself seemed to respond.

Buildings along the shore lifted slowly, ballooned like lanterns tied with invisible strings. The shoreline rose, no—inflated, the airships lifting to resume fishing and commerce as if nothing had changed. The Verdant Stag group pressed against the rail, eyes wide. Barney’s jaw dropped. Henry’s hand hovered near his mouth. Meg clutched her bow strap, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Henry whispered, voice tinged with awe.

Clement slapped the handle of her pepperbox with a quiet, smug satisfaction. “It isn’t,” she muttered. The shoreline rose. No, it inflated. Buildings lifted like paper lanterns on strings.

Malum raised an eyebrow, glancing between Clement and the spectacle, a small smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Leave it to Virelais to make physics… flexible.”

The ship’s gangplank lowered, and the group descended, greeted by a line of guards standing at rigid attention. Halberds and rifles caught the sunlight, polished to a mirror shine. Every guard’s posture was meticulous, feet planted evenly, hands steady on weapons. A few muttered under their breath as the group approached, the tension vibrating like a taut string.

One guard stepped forward. A female captain, her helmet adorned with an elegant plume of feathers, blocked their path. Her expression was stern, eyes sharp as the halberd she held.

Jona strode forward, arms out as if taking a bow on a stage. “Mark, my words,” he declared.

Mark stepped forward, head bowed slightly in obedience. From his hands, he produced a tiny, leather-bound thesaurus, which Jona accepted with solemn reverence. He flipped through it with exaggerated care, muttering under his breath, fingers tapping on the pages, pausing, scanning, then jabbing decisively at a word.

The captain’s eyes narrowed.

Jona met her gaze, and in a deadpan voice that seemed to defy the tension of the moment, he said, “Bitch.”

The group froze. Meg’s eyes went wide. Henry’s hand twitched toward his mace, Barney’s eyebrows rose nearly into his hairline. Clement’s smug grin faltered for just a second, and Malum’s lips twitched in suppressed amusement. Every muscle in the Stag group tensed, bracing for a fight they were sure would come.

The captain blinked once, then exhaled slowly. A sigh that seemed to carry decades of patience. She waved them through, her halberd lowering gracefully. “Welcome back, Monsieur Altman,” she said, voice even and unflinching.

For a moment, silence hung over the group, broken only by the faint hum of the tethered airships above.

“Did… did that make sense to anyone?” Malum finally asked, tilting his head.

Meg shrugged, cheeks pink with suppressed laughter. “Nope. But that’s Jona for you.”

Clement rolled her eyes, smirking once more, and the group stepped forward, moving past the line of guards. Behind them, Virelais stretched like a living, breathing machine—impossible, beautiful, and utterly alive.

The smell of ozone lingered, mingling with salt and the faint scent of burning fuel. Buildings swayed slightly on their ballooned foundations, and airships rose and fell with graceful precision. For the first time in months, Clement felt a spark of pride flare in her chest.

She shot Henry a look, sly and triumphant. “Told you it wasn’t impossible.”

Henry could only shake his head, eyes still glued to the spectacle, and mutter, “I… I think it is.”

Malum, following Clement’s gaze, allowed himself a private smile. Between the floating buildings and the theatrical antics of Jona, Virelais reminded him, as always, that reality was only ever as rigid as those willing to push it.

The doors of the council hall opened before them, polished brass reflecting the glow of chandeliers that seemed almost alive, gears and cogs spinning faintly in their frames. Clement’s chest rose with a mix of pride and tension, her grin stretching wide, practiced, the sort of show she and the Ibis family perfected over years of careful rehearsal.

“Behold, the proud Fell family,” Jona announced, sweeping his arm toward the first council seat. The Fells were unmistakable—Maudrick Fell’s kin, renowned for their enhancements and customizations. One member’s left arm ended in a polished steel contraption, fingers whirring softly as if testing for friction, while another balanced a tiny, hovering automaton that darted between their shoulders.

Across the hall, the other families stirred to life. Torrance, the clockwork engineers, ticked and clicked in synchrony, each movement deliberate, almost mechanical. Mireille, perfumers and chemists, waved a vial casually in the air, the scent of lavender and sulphur drifting in a subtle cloud, as though their experiments extended beyond their workshops. And at the far end, Clement’s own Ibis family held their posture with immaculate precision, the silent pride of lineage etched into their features.

The Verdant Stag group followed, wide-eyed. Meg whispered under her breath, “They all look… alive, but also like they could explode at any second.”

Henry swallowed. “I don’t know if I want to touch anything.”

Clement spun dramatically on her heel, pepperbox in hand, slapping it against her hip with a flourish. “Relax, mes amis,” she said, voice playful, masking the tight coil of nerves beneath. “They like a little performance.”

The families welcomed her like royalty, each bow and nod heavy with expectation. Clement paraded among them, extravagant gestures, wide grins, the perfect hostess. Malum followed, quiet amusement hidden behind his calm exterior.

Meg leaned toward Henry, whispering, “Is it just me, or is Clement… smiling? Like, a lot?”
Henry adjusted his collar. “Feels like she rehearsed this. Not our Clement.”
Barney muttered, “I miss scary Clement. She made more sense.”

Malum leaned slightly toward the group, muttering under his breath, “Another ball going wrong, another disaster narrowly averted.”

Meg jabbed him lightly in the ribs. “Shut up, ‘Mal.” Her eyes flicked toward Miranda with a mischievous glint, poking at the subtle tension Malum always carried around her. Malum’s ears flushed red; he cleared his throat and smiled faintly, deflecting the tease with the kind of grace only he could manage.

Malum sipped the strange violet liquor, eyes flicking over the council table. Every smile here was sharpened like a blade, he thought. Every bow a calculation. The spectacle dazzled the others, but to him, it looked like Silverrun all over again—only dressed in brass instead of marble. Meg tore a piece of steam-baked bread, steam puffing against her face. For a moment she closed her eyes, the warmth reminding her of her mother’s kitchen, of woodsmoke and laughter. When she opened them again, brass gears and chandeliers had replaced it, and she blinked fast, as if shaking off a dream. Henry set down his fork carefully, staring at the mechanical platter as it trundled away on brass wheels. “Back home, we were lucky if dinner didn’t burn,” he murmured. His voice was quiet, almost reverent, and for once he didn’t reach for a correction in the history books.

Each family member carried some over-complicated invention, testing it subtly as they moved. One Torrance scrolled a miniature mechanical scroll, gears spinning like a galaxy trapped in brass. A Fell adjusted a limb so smoothly it was almost imperceptible, while a Mireille wafted fragrant smoke toward the ceiling, eyes darting like a hawk tracking invisible prey.

Jona guided Clement and Malum toward the council heads, his theatrics still faintly echoing in the cavernous hall. “And here, my friends, are the stewards of Virelais, the voices that shape its laws, its technology, its… very soul.”

The heads of the council—three from the Fells, two from the Torrances, and one from Mireille—observed Clement with a mixture of curiosity and restrained warmth.

Clement straightened, chest lifted, and bowed slightly. Every movement was measured to perfection, each flourish and smile a shield against the strange mixture of familial expectation and subtle estrangement that hovered over her. The other families regarded her as odd, perhaps, but the performance mattered; it maintained the delicate balance of appearances that Virelais demanded.

The feast began. Tables groaned under the weight of dishes both familiar and alien: mechanical platters that rolled automatically, steam-baked breads that puffed and hissed, aromatic concoctions that wavered with strange, colourful smoke. The Stag group tried to focus on their meals, but their eyes kept flicking to the inventions, the performers, the floating chandeliers, and the subtle calculations behind every gesture.

Clement moved through the crowd, sharing witty observations, laughing at jokes carefully chosen to impress without overstepping. Her performance was flawless, but every now and then, Malum caught a flicker—a pause in her smile, a tightness in her jaw—small signs that beneath the brilliance, the girl they knew remained, burdened by expectation and distance.

The weight of family pressure pressed on Clement even as she played the part of the triumphant daughter. The Stag group watched quietly, sensing the tension beneath the pageantry, each of them understanding, in their own way, the delicate balance of show and self that Clement had perfected over a lifetime.

By the end of the evening, Clement’s grin was effortless, the applause sincere, but when Malum caught her glance in a private moment, the mask slipped for a heartbeat. Her wide smile vanished, leaving only a thin line of resolve. A quiet acknowledgment passed between them, unspoken yet understood: home could be magnificent, but it could never fully ease the weight of belonging.

Jona’s insistence carried weight in the council hall. With grand flourishes and punctuated speeches, he persuaded the Virelaisian elders that Daniel deserved the highest care their country could offer. By the time he concluded, the decision was unanimous, the council swayed by a mix of logic, spectacle, and sheer Altman charm.

Clement’s attention shifted to her family, the Ibis household, who waited quietly at the edge of the hall. Peculiar, composed, deliberate—they exuded a kind of stoic affection, the kind that made everyone else wonder if love could be measured in silence. Each member maintained impeccable posture, facial expressions betraying nothing, yet their eyes softened slightly whenever they glanced at Clement.

Her mother, Carla, approached first, hands folded neatly as she studied each member of the Verdant Stag group with clinical precision, yet it was unmistakable: every one of them was personally acknowledged, cared for, as if she were measuring their well-being and approving it in her heart. Meg noticed, whispering to Henry, “She looks like she’s about to give us a pop quiz on how we’re feeling.”

Henry blinked. “I’d fail.”

Clement guided the group toward the inner gallery. Meg’s eyes caught a large, framed painting—a young man with a mischievous smile, surrounded by early prototypes of engines and strange metallic devices. Meg tilted her head. “Who’s that?”

Clement’s voice softened, almost a whisper. “Lucius. My brother.” She traced a finger lightly over the frame, absentmindedly. “His hair was always—toujours—just a little bit smoking. Never flames, just… that smell, you know? Burnt air. Because his experiments, they’d explode—boum, like always. I used to tease him about it. Mon pauvre frère… he never learned.”

The words lingered, carried on the faint scent of mechanical oil and heated brass, blending with the lingering fragrance of the Mireille’s experiments from earlier. The sounds of the hall seemed to fade, the chatter of inventors and the clatter of contraptions dimming to a soft background hum. Clement’s hand hovered over the painting, trembling slightly, before she withdrew it. She muttered something indistinct, her lips moving but barely audible over the distant hiss of steam valves.

Malum, standing just behind her, watched silently. In this private moment, her public performance—the wide smiles, the flamboyant gestures—dropped entirely. The grin vanished as if she had cast it aside, leaving only Clement, the sister who missed her brother, whose heart quietly weighed the absence of someone irreplaceable.

Nearby, Virelaisian doctors moved with meticulous care, carrying Daniel to the waiting medical chambers. The group followed, cautious yet relieved. Meg let out a long breath. “He’s… calm. Not like the voyage at all.”

One of the lead doctors gestured for the group to step back. “His case is peculiar,” she said. “The Wake seems neither to advance nor regress. He is… stagnant.”

Henry furrowed his brow. “Stagnant?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes. Observe.” She moved a gloved hand along a small device, and the coral-like spirals embedded within Daniel’s skin pulsed softly, shimmering like light playing over water. It looked as though he were submerged, trapped in a gentle current, waves reflecting off the surface.

Daniel’s breathing remained steady, his eyes closed but relaxed. He didn’t flinch as the attendants adjusted his positioning. Around him, the room was still save for the faint rhythmic pulse of the spirals. Malum stepped closer, unconsciously lowering his voice. “It’s like he’s… underwater.”

Meg tilted her head, whispering, “But… he’s awake. He’s not dreaming, right?”

The lead doctor glanced at her gravely. “He is aware, though the nature of this awareness is… unique. He perceives his surroundings, but through a lens that we do not yet understand. The spirals respond to him, as if connected to the ocean itself.”

Clement stayed near Malum, glancing at Daniel briefly. She returned to her mother’s side, receiving a quiet nod of approval from Carla before letting herself exhale fully. For a brief moment, away from the spectacle and expectation, Clement allowed herself to feel the weight of family, of absence, and of the strange relief that Daniel’s life—however peculiar—was secure in Virelaisian hands.

Outside, the hall buzzed with conversation and clinking cutlery. But inside that chamber, with the faintly glowing coral spirals and the quiet weight of memory, a small bubble of calm existed—an acknowledgment of past loss, present care, and fragile hope.

Rubicon did not welcome them quietly.

Salt hit first, thick and briny, filling mouths and nostrils alike. Then the city’s voice rose—the clang of gears, the whistle of vents, the clatter of boots over iron grates. Rubicon never whispered; it hummed. A thousand unseen cogs turned beneath the cobblestones, a mechanical heartbeat that reverberated up their bones.

The Verdant Stags pressed against the ship’s rail. Clement breathed it in with something like pride, though the smile she wore was more armour than joy.

“Like a beast,” Henry murmured, eyes shining. “The whole city… alive.”

“Alive and expensive,” Barney grunted, his arms folded.

Meg bounced on her toes, pointing at every passing crane, every airship moored like a sleeping gull. “Do you see that clocktower? The glass—it’s all stained, but moving, like—like—oh, oh, the hands are spinning backwards! Why are they spinning backwards? Someone explain!” She laughed breathlessly, not waiting for an answer.

Jona simply spread his arms, a maestro drinking in applause. “Ah, Rubicon. The city where reality comes to rehearse before performing.”

Henry spotted the crooked sign first: Les Mémoires de Fer. He dragged Jona with the urgency of a starving man spotting bread.

The shop was a tomb of books. Shelves leaned against each other for support, as though one shove might collapse them into a papery avalanche. Dust swirled in sunbeams like ash.

Henry inhaled so deeply his sneeze rattled the shelves. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Jona plucked a tome at random. “‘The History of the Imperial Line,’” he read, lips curling. He flipped it open. “Wrong already.”

Henry spluttered. “You haven’t even—”

“Henry, my boy, the very first line. It says Dessel Ordo was born in a quiet spring. Lies! Snow that year. I slipped twice on the palace steps.”

Henry gawked. “You were not—”

“Prove it.”

Their bickering grew so fierce the shopkeeper slammed a ledger shut. “Messieurs! Argue outside. My shelves are not built for passion.”

Henry stammered apologies. Jona only bowed flamboyantly, eyes twinkling.

Barney drifted, as if drawn by scent rather than will. The flower cart was draped in violets and marigolds, colour splashing against the brass and soot of the street.

Anaïs.

She moved with easy rhythm—snipping stems, arranging blossoms. Her daughter Beatrice peeked shyly from behind her skirts, giggling.

Barney froze. His chest felt too small.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” Anaïs said, voice soft, sure.

Barney coughed. It sounded like a dying engine.

Meg appeared at his side, eyes alight. “Ohhh no. He’s doomed.”

Beatrice giggled louder. “Maman, he’s red like a beetroot!”

Anaïs smiled patiently, though her eyes lingered on Barney with curiosity. “Would you like some flowers, monsieur?”

Barney nodded so hard the cart rattled. His massive hands fumbled for coins, nearly spilling them everywhere. Meg caught one mid-roll, winked, and whispered, “Congratulations. You’ve officially lost your mind.”

Malum and Miranda walked the wide avenue lined with brass statues and snapping banners. Miranda narrated like a guide, trying to crack his gloom.

“See those pigeons? Brass wings. They roost with the real ones.”

Malum offered only a faint smile.

Finally, Miranda’s patience snapped. “You’ve been brooding since we landed. You think I don’t notice? That no one does?”

He blinked, startled by her sharpness.

“Sometimes,” she pressed, voice shaking, “I feel like I’m the only one holding us together. And you—you’re supposed to be clever. But half the time, you’re just… elsewhere.”

Silence weighed between them.

Her voice softened. “I don’t mind carrying weight. But don’t make me carry you too.”

Something cracked in him. His smile was small, rueful. “You make it sound like a partnership.”

“Maybe it is.”

They passed a fortune stall painted gaudy blue. Happy couple’s discount! the barker called. Both recoiled instantly. Malum flushed crimson. Miranda laughed so hard she bent double, tears streaking her cheeks. Malum stalked on, muttering curses, which only made her laugh harder.

Elsewhere, Daniel drowned.

Doctors wiped sweat from his brow, tended the spirals that pulsed along his ribs. But in his mind—

He sank.

Darkness closed around him, an ocean without end. Above: strands of light slashed downward, unreachable. Salt burned his tongue. The water pressed cold against his skin, yet his lungs drew breath as though air.

And beneath him, it waited.

The Dreaming Maw. No teeth. Only eyes, closed, twitching as if trapped in nightmare. Each exhale bubbled past him. The heartbeat—his heartbeat—thudded in synchrony.

Then realization: he could move. Faster than thought. He surged upward, water glitching to air mid-stroke, salt flickering to dust.

He emerged into a vast hall. Black-and-white tiles stretched forever. Tables the size of hills, and at them, masked giants—grotesque, ornate, each unique—murmured in endless conversation.

Chains rattled from hooks, pulled taut toward the sea. Something waited, straining to be reeled in.

One giant turned. Its mask was carved into a serene smile. “You’re not supposed to be here,” it said gently.

Daniel froze, chains scraping louder, dragging, dragging—

The others gathered in a cramped café, papers and bread crusts scattered across the table.

Miranda leaned forward, voice steady. “We can’t fix Daniel. But this—we can help Barney. Give him something real.”

Meg slammed her palm down. “Operation Daniel. Mission: Romance.”

She jabbed Miranda. “You’re awfully invested. Planning Barney’s date—or your own?”

Malum choked. Miranda’s glare could scorch brass.
“Meg.”
“Shutting up.”

The girls tore through shops. Meg waved a neon jacket. Clement hefted a tactical vest. Miranda returned with a stiff military coat. They stood dumbly before pastel dresses.

“Oh no,” Meg whispered. “We’re idiots.”

Meanwhile, Barney endured a haircut with silent dread. Henry guided his choices with quiet authority. “This one,” he said, picking a charcoal suit. Barney exhaled, shoulders loosening.

Malum adjusted his own cuffs, offering useless advice. “Compliment her flowers. Just… don’t say they look fertile. I did that once. It went poorly.”

In a shop window, Malum caught his reflection—hair neat, posture rigid, eyes hollow. For a moment he didn’t recognize himself. He looked like someone still drowning.

Barney tugged at his collar. “Just wanna be held like Daniel was.”

The laughter around him faltered. Silence pressed down.

Outside, gulls screamed. A bell tolled.
And Daniel dreamed on, chains tightening in the deep.

Chapter Text

The city woke like an orchestra tuning before a grand performance. Crisp morning air drifted between rows of damp cobblestones, carrying the mingled scents of roasting nuts, baking bread, and wet stone. Wooden shutters cracked open in uneven rhythm, their hinges squealing like errant notes, while vendors laid out their stalls in time with the chiming bells of distant towers. What others called routine, Adrian heard as music — the shuffle of feet, the calls of merchants, even the clipped scolding of a washerwoman to her child — together weaving the prelude to another day.

Adrian’s siblings moved in their own tempos, never quite aligned but never dissonant either. The younger clung to his coat hem, cheeks flushed with delight, eyes tilted up toward him as though he alone were worth watching. She hummed nonsense to herself, every laugh a trill bright enough to pierce through the morning murmur. The elder darted ahead, leaping puddles with long-legged bounds, throwing teasing remarks back at him like offhand grace notes. Yet for all her bravado, she stopped often, waiting just long enough to ensure he hadn’t fallen behind.

They were his counterpoint, two voices that made his life bearable. He had surrendered his own education long ago, setting aside ambition so their melody could grow unbroken. His parents worked themselves threadbare to keep the family intact, but it was Adrian who had chosen to become the reliable harmony — dependable, quiet, supportive.

When a neighbour waved from across the lane, Adrian lifted his right hand to return the greeting. Pain lanced through his palm. His fingers spasmed, the movement sharp and ugly. He swallowed quickly, transformed the wince into a smile, and shoved the hand into his pocket before anyone noticed. The rhythm of the morning carried on, though a faint discord hummed just beneath his skin.

At the school gates the prelude softened. His younger sister blew him an exaggerated kiss, while the elder snapped a smart mock-salute that would have embarrassed any real officer. Then, like measures closing, they vanished inside.

Adrian lingered longer than he should have, staring at the gates as though he might coax them open again by will alone. At last, he turned toward home. His route was well worn — each vendor greeted him like an old refrain. A baker thrust a paper bag of candied almonds into his hand with a grin, teasing that one day Adrian ought to play something quick enough for the whole square to dance to.

At the bread stall, his right hand betrayed him again. Coins slipped through trembling fingers and rang sharply against the counter. The vendor’s expression softened; without a word, he swept the change neatly into Adrian’s left palm. Adrian murmured thanks, ashamed, the rhythm stumbling again.

Further along, the words of another vendor caught him mid-step: “Our daughter’s been invited to play before the Emperor!” The exclamation soared above the din like a brass fanfare, sharp and ringing. Adrian smiled faintly, though the phrase settled in his chest like a stone.

The clothing store waited for him as though a concert hall dressed in disguise. Warm light pooled across the creaking wooden floorboards. Bolts of silk and velvet cascaded down the walls like waterfalls of colour, their texture whispering of wealth he could never hope to touch. Yet nestled in pride of place, facing the window that overlooked the procession square, stood his piano. His anchor. His voice.

The shop owner, the man who had given him shelter when his family nearly collapsed under debt, greeted him with a pat on the shoulder, as steady as a conductor’s downbeat. Adrian returned the smile. Before lowering himself onto the bench, he pressed his left thumb hard into the cramping muscles of his right hand. No one noticed. No one ever noticed.

Among the silks and brocades, Adrian’s plain jacket sleeves looked pitiful. He rolled them back anyway, exposing his wrist, thin and pale where his hand trembled faintly in defiance of the day.

The shop soon filled with quiet, reverent customers. They moved carefully between displays, their whispers subdued, as though the very act of browsing must not disturb the music. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, striking ivory and ebony keys until they gleamed.

Adrian began to play. Notes rose with easy grace, his fingers carrying them like banners through the stillness. Outside, a palace guard paused mid-march, his shadow spilling across the window display as he lingered to listen.

Halfway through a melody, Adrian’s hand clenched tight. Pain flared. To cover the hesitation, he twisted the phrase into an improvised flourish, spinning a melody that almost sounded intentional. Customers smiled appreciatively, and a few even clapped softly. But beyond the glass, a vendor frowned, having caught the way Adrian flexed his fingers in sharp relief after the passage ended.

Still, the music held him steady. The city’s heartbeat seemed to pulse with every note he coaxed into being. For as long as he played, his world had order.

The door chime shattered it.

A courier stepped inside, uniform polished, Imperial crest flashing in the light. Conversations died instantly. The man’s crisp steps sounded too loud as he crossed the floor. He held out a sealed envelope and read aloud: By decree, Adrian is summoned to perform before the God Emperor at the next royal procession.

Gasps swelled. Customers pressed closer, whispering of grandeur, perfection, and impossible standards. Some claimed the Emperor could end a man’s career with a look. Others swore the palace consumed those who played poorly.

Adrian beamed anyway. His cheeks burned as he struck the keys again, the melody brighter, faster — an allegro bouncing like laughter. The shop felt lighter for it. Only his right hand betrayed him, tingling with pins and needles, a warning he shoved down, buried under joy.

He ran to the school. His siblings spilled into the street confused, but soon laughing as he spun one into the air and the other hummed a trumpeted “royal fanfare.” Their laughter turned the street into celebration, though when the younger clutched his hand, she noticed the stiffness beneath the skin. She said nothing.

The palace waiting hall smelled of polished brass and cool stone. Sunlight streamed through windows high enough to swallow him whole. Dozens of musicians clustered together, each tending to their instruments — strings plucked nervously, reeds tested, bows rosined, voices murmured.

General Farnese entered with a smile as sharp as a conductor’s baton, her eyes weighing every movement with practiced precision. Redeemed Fang knights lined the walls like statues, ornamental yet oppressive. The head maid rattled etiquette rules with clipped precision, each syllable a staccato note that carved the silence.

When his turn came, Adrian played. His piece flowed, rich and warm, spilling into every corner of the room. Then came the command to play again.

His right hand seized. He forced it to move, dragging his body forward note by note, sweat stinging his brow. Images flashed in his mind — siblings smiling, debts vanished, bread never short. He could not stop. Not now.

Those chosen were led deeper into the palace. Corridors narrowed. Stone floors swallowed echoes. Servants vanished. Guards disappeared. Only their footsteps remained, the rhythm of a march into silence.

The throne room opened vast and cold. The throne itself faced away, towering and unmoved. On either side stood Noveria and Farnese, unmoving, their stillness heavier than stone.

Only the Emperor’s hand showed — pale, thin, almost glowing faintly in the dim light. It twitched when he wished something begun.

The musicians obeyed, their music spilling out too loud in the oppressive hush. Sweat and desperation mounted. Bowstrings snapped. One lost tempo. Another cracked a note. Still the trio before the throne remained silent, immovable as statues. Again they played, harder, frantic, the music collapsing into ugly dissonance.

One by one, drained and broken, the players packed their instruments. They fled, shame hollowing their steps.

Adrian remained.

He pulled a picture of his family from his coat, fingers trembling. “If I stop, I’ll regret it forever.” The words steadied him. He slid the picture back and set his hands upon the keys.

The pain came at once — hot, slicing, merciless. His fingers locked, then bled, staining ivory. He played on, hearing the notes slip like wet stones beneath his grip. He refused to falter.

When the final chord echoed into silence, he looked down. The decadent piano gleamed faintly pink, stained with his blood.

Then — applause.

He looked up to see Noveria, Farnese, and the Emperor himself clapping. Smiling. Genuine, warm, approving. The pale hand twitched on the throne. Pride surged in Adrian’s chest — he, a shop pianist, had earned their applause.

Redeemed Fang knights waited beyond the door. Their captain stepped forward, holding a satchel bulging with gold and thick papers. Debt forgiveness. Deeds cleared. Siblings’ education secured. A place at the musical academy. The man congratulated him with a voice flat as a funeral march. His eyes, though, betrayed sorrow.

Days passed. His hand remained bandaged, still twitching beneath the wrappings. Yet his shoulders felt light. For the first time, no debts weighed him down.

He saw the other musicians in the city, their faces gaunt. Their music faltered — missed notes, rhythms collapsing, cues missed, duets faltering into silence. Week by week, their talents withered to nothing.

Only Adrian remained unbroken.

Then the store door opened, and Dessel Ordo himself entered. Not the husk from the throne — this man glowed, armour radiant, presence overwhelming. He approached Adrian and, without hesitation, embraced him.

“Thank you,” the Emperor whispered in his ear.

Then he turned and left.

Adrian stared after him, breath caught. He looked down. His hand no longer twitched.

He did not know what exactly he was being thanked for.

The sonata ended in silence.

Chapter Text

Mud swallowed his boots, sucking at each step as though the earth itself wanted to claim him before the enemy could. Smoke coiled in thick, choking swirls, masking the shapes of soldiers, wagons, and bodies alike. The grey-beige sun above hung like a tattered banner, casting the battlefield in half-light, half-dread. Around him, the sound of war was not noise but a living thing: the thunder of Monocian wagons, the crack of rifles, the shriek of cannon fire, and the low rumble of earth torn apart.

Malus held his weapons with a kind of stubborn reverence. The sword in his right hand was steady, predictable, a line of command amidst chaos. In his left, the jagged shard of Natasha’s broken spear pulsed with memory and menace. His stance was uneven, rhythm thrown off by the spear’s irregular weight, but that very unpredictability gave him an edge. Hook, thrust, jab, slash, pin, drive—each motion improvisational, each strike a lesson carved in mud, iron, and blood.

The blue of his right eye flared, veins spider-webbing across his face. Magic surged through both weapons, every pulse amplifying his speed, his strength, his reach—but every pulse came with pain, sharp and raw, a reminder that power always exacted its cost.

A Monocian war wagon thundered toward him, massive and iron-bound, its wheels grinding stone and flesh into mud. Malus spun, spear tip hooking into the axle, yanking it off-course just as his sword thrust into the driver’s chest. The wagon shuddered, then toppled sideways, crushing the soldiers behind it in a tide of iron and blood. Mud sprayed like liquid clay, pattering against Malus’s face and armour.

No time to breathe.

Rifle volleys cracked through the air, their sharp rhythm punctuated by explosions from detonated wagons and collapsing barricades. A cannon blast hurled men and debris skyward. Malus leapt into the chaos, spear hooking a charging rifleman off his feet, sword slicing through the air to deflect another’s swing. Each motion was a dance of survival, each strike a statement of control amidst the anarchy.

To his right, a cavalry unit broke through, hooves hammering into mud and bodies alike. Horses screamed, riders bellowed. Malus pivoted, spear catching a rider’s leg, yanking him into the mire. Sword flashed, splitting saddle straps, unseating another. He rolled past, already carving through the next wave, blood and sweat stinging his eyes. His lungs burned, but he moved as if the battlefield were merely an extension of himself.

The ground shook. More wagons advanced, some overturned, crushing soldiers beneath their iron weight; others barrelled forward, threatening to split the allied lines entirely. Malus jabbed the spear into the underframe of one, lifting it just long enough to hurl an enemy into the mud. With a violent swing of his sword, he drove jagged spikes of earth beneath its wheels, splintering iron and timber alike.

Everywhere he looked, the fight was monumental. Men and women screamed, flags tore and vanished into the smoke, fire raced across wagons and huts. Magic clashed with steel in bursts of light and shadow. A volley of arrows arced overhead, embedding in bodies, shields, and the sodden ground. Malus hooked the spear under a fallen soldier’s arm, yanking him out of harm’s way, then rammed his sword through the next Monocian to clear a dozen yards of space.

The veins on his face pulsed darker as his eye flared. Magic surged again, ripping jagged stone from the ground to impale charging soldiers, driving them into one another. Sparks leapt from exploding wagons, scorching mud into sizzling fragments. Another cannon fired—close enough to rattle his teeth and shiver his bones—but Malus pressed on, sword and spear a blur of steel and death.

Then he saw it—the battering ram.

A monstrous beast of timber and iron, braced with chains and ironwork, rolling toward the allied centre. Soldiers screamed as its wheels crushed them beneath its weight. Malus lunged, spear stabbing into the gap between its wheels, sword thrusting into the driver’s shoulder. The ram faltered, shuddered, halted for a precious heartbeat. Enough to let nearby soldiers rally. Enough to buy breath.

But more wagons thundered. More rifles spat. The Monocian tide would not break easily.

Men fell in droves around him. Shouts layered over cannon blasts, steel clanged against bone, bodies hit the mud with sickening finality. Malus felt exhaustion tugging at the corners of his body but refused to yield. Hook, jab, thrust, slash—he moved like a storm incarnate, chaotic yet precise, leaving ruin in his wake. Each strike of the spear whispered Natasha’s memory. Each swing of the sword recalled his father’s uncompromising drills.

Then came the cannonade.

The air itself tore apart—mud, fire, smoke surging into a wall that swallowed vision and sound. Wagons crushed forward, rifles spat relentless lines of death, cavalry swept in from both flanks. Malus pressed deeper, spear pinning one soldier to the mud while his sword split another cleanly in two. Magic surged violently. His blue eye burned brighter, veins straining as though ready to burst. He pulled more force than his body wanted to give.

The ground answered.

Mud erupted, spikes of stone tearing through boots and shins. Wagons juddered to a halt as their wheels shattered against his summoned barricades. Soldiers stumbled, trampled one another in the sudden chaos. Explosions rippled outward.

For a moment, it seemed impossible. Too many wagons. Too many rifles. Too many bodies. Soldiers were being thrown aside like rag dolls, the field transformed into a living nightmare of mud, blood, fire, and twisted metal. But Malus pressed forward, carving a path where none existed, rallying those who could still stand—not with words, but by sheer, unyielding presence.

And then, impossibly, the Monocian line faltered. Wagons toppled. Cavalry retreated. Rifles fell silent as barrels emptied. Allied soldiers, mud-streaked and blood-drenched, raised hoarse cheers into the choking sky.

Yet Malus did not cheer.

Through the smoke he saw them—shapes flickering at the edges of vision. Shadows that moved with purpose, not panic. His eye burned brighter, veins flaring raw, magic screaming for release. He raised his sword in warning, in signal, in defiance.

The cheer broke across the mud like a wave, but Malus’s hand did not tremble.

Beyond the veil of smoke, the real storm was gathering.

He lifted the sword higher, ready to command the charge—

—and the world ripped apart in front of him.

Chapter Text

The coffee shop was warm enough to blur the glass with their breath, a small sanctuary against the chill of Virelais. Outside, the street bustled with carts, shawled vendors, and the occasional horseman, but inside, the team was pressed shoulder-to-shoulder at a table that felt too small for them all. Mugs steamed. Chairs creaked. Every glance was trained on the man across from them, who was not touching his drink.

Barney.

The flowers looked fragile in his massive hands. Every time his thumbs rolled over the petals, they bent, threatening to snap.

Meg had been buzzing since dawn. “The red ones mean passion, the white ones mean sincerity—oh, and you got the ribbon too, right?” She’d double-checked his sleeves, his collar, even brushed non-existent lint from his shoulders. Now she drummed her fingers so fast against the table it was more percussion than fidget, breath catching on every sigh.

Henry, sprawled in his chair, watched with one arched brow. “All that prep, all this tension, and it’ll come down to whether she sees him as a lover or a lunatic. Place your bets.”

Miranda silenced him with a look sharper than any blade, though her gaze kept flicking toward the window. Analytical. Measuring. She was already preparing to disassemble Anaïs’s reactions like a puzzle.

Clement, though—Clement hadn’t moved for minutes. She was staring at a painting hung on the wall opposite them. Always the same painting. Eyes locked, still as stone, as though she could drown inside its frame.

The bell above the café door jingled as another patron left, and Barney stirred. His shoulders squared.

“It’s time,” Meg whispered, biting the inside of her lip so hard her teeth left indentations.

He rose, scraping chair legs across the wooden floor. Outside, his hulking frame cut a path through the crowd like a ship through reeds. The flowers looked laughably small against him.

Anaïs had just stepped out of the dressmaker’s, tugging at her gloves. She turned, startled at first, then her expression softened—eyes widening a fraction.

From the café window, the team could hear nothing. Barney’s voice was too low, too muffled. His lips moved carefully, almost stiffly, as if reading from lines memorised in the mirror.

“—thought of you since—”

“—couldn’t stay quiet—”

“—always saw you—”

Meg pressed her face to the glass, whispering the fragments as if she could pull the words free. Her eyes flicked wildly between Anaïs and Barney. “He’s saying it perfectly. He’s saying it exactly the way we planned.”

But Anaïs’s face…

At first, it softened. Then stiffened. Then her brow drew tight, lips trembling with something unspoken. She looked away, then back at him, and in that space was every answer and no answer at all.

Barney’s voice grew firmer, almost desperate, lines tumbling out rehearsed but faltering at the edges. His hand extended with the flowers, his whole body leaning forward in supplication.

Anaïs’s eyes shimmered with something that could have been longing—

The slap cracked like thunder.

It came so suddenly the flowers were still between them when her palm struck. Barney’s head jerked sideways. Petals tore loose, tumbling to the street like broken wings.

Meg clapped both hands over her mouth, muffled squeals breaking out between her fingers. “No, no, no, that wasn’t supposed to happen!”

Henry leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Well. Guess we got our answer.”

Miranda didn’t flinch. She leaned forward, voice steady. “Watch closely. She’s not finished.”

Anaïs stood frozen, chest heaving, her gloved hand still half-raised. For a heartbeat she looked ready to walk away forever. But her shoulders betrayed her—hesitation, the smallest falter. She glanced back. Once. Twice. Then, with a sharp breath, she stooped, snatched the flowers from the cobblestones, clutched them to her chest.

And she fled into the crowd without a word.

The team sat in stunned silence.

Meg half-stood, half-collapsed back into her chair. “She came back for them, she did, she really did—oh gods, but that slap! He’s probably ruined, he’s humiliated, it’s all my fault—” She covered her face again, bouncing her knee so hard the table rattled.

Henry sipped his coffee, unbothered. “If that’s romance in this city, I’ll stick with paying for company.”

Miranda exhaled slowly, eyes sharp. “She’s conflicted. Which means it isn’t over.”

Clement hadn’t looked once. Still, she stared at the same painting, as though the entire drama hadn’t happened at all.

The café bell jingled.

This time, the door opened with a different weight. Jona strolled in. He didn’t stride, didn’t hesitate—he moved with that effortless balance that made it seem the room bent around him. The barista straightened instantly.

“Monsieur Jona. The usual?”

He smiled faintly. “Of course. You remember me too well.”

The barista dipped their head, voice lowered almost reverently, as though afraid to be overheard. Jona’s gaze skimmed the café, landing on the team’s table for the briefest flicker. A look so casual it became suspicious. Jona waved at them while waiting for his drink.

Meg froze mid-fidget, eyes darting. “She looked at us. Did she look at us? She looked at us. She definitely looked at us.”

Henry muttered, “Or maybe you’re paranoid.”

But Miranda noted the glance too. And Clement—still staring at the painting.

Barney trudged back in, slumping into his chair with the weight of the world on his back. His cheek was flushed. His hands shook. Meg reached for him at once. “Barney, I’m so, so sorry—”

He shook his head, eyes shut. No words.

The bell chimed again.

The door opened, but for a moment the swell of coats and bodies obscured who had entered. Then the crowd shifted, and they saw her.

Beatrice.

Small, stiff-backed, her walk precise as if the wooden floor itself required discipline. In her hands, half-hidden behind her skirt, she carried a folded letter.

Meg gasped, almost tipping her drink. “She’s adorable! Look at her little face, her little boots—oh gods, if she wasn’t terrifying I’d hug her!” Her words spilled too fast, voice climbing until Henry nudged her knee under the table to quiet her.

Beatrice ignored them all. She walked straight to Barney. Without a word, she extended the letter.

He didn’t take it.

So she set it carefully on the table, her hand lingering on the parchment as though it burned. Then she turned, spine rigid, and left.

The bell jingled once more.

Barney stared at the letter. His lips moved soundlessly. He didn’t reach for it.

Meg leaned forward, fingers twitching. “Open it! Open it, you can’t just sit there, it’s a letter, it’s a love letter, it has to be, right?”

Barney didn’t move.

At last Meg snatched it up, broke the seal, and began to read. Her voice trembled.

“When you looked at me, I felt beautiful again… not as a wife, not as a mother, but as Anaïs.”

Her breath hitched, words sticking in her throat. She shoved the letter toward Miranda.

Miranda took it, voice steady. “My husband is not cruel, not unkind. He simply no longer sees me. I cannot betray him, yet your words reminded me of the woman I once was.”

Barney’s fists clenched on the table. His head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Miranda read the last line, her voice like the stroke of a scalpel. “You should not write again… but I pray that you do.”

Barney reached out, tearing the letter from her hands. His voice broke like splintered wood. “Enough.”

The café fell silent.

Henry cleared his throat. “That’s a trap waiting to happen.”

“Shut up, Henry!” Meg snapped, on the verge of tears.

Miranda folded her hands neatly. “It isn’t love. It’s dynamite. And we’re standing too close.”

Clement still hadn’t moved. Still staring at the same painting, as though it were the only thing in the room.

Barney folded the letter slowly, deliberately, as though it might tear if handled wrong. He tucked it into his jacket, pressed his palm against it like a prayer. His eyes stayed downcast, but the war between hope and despair was written across his face.

The others exchanged uneasy glances—Meg’s guilt, Miranda’s suspicion, Henry’s discomfort, Clement’s silence.

And in that silence, they understood: this was not a fleeting romance. It was a wound waiting to open.