His breath came heavy. Tired. Disorientation blurred the edges of his vision. His steps were… almost steady. Almost composed. Despite it all, something burned within his chest. A cold, gnawing sensation. They had done something to his body. He drew in a deeper breath. No. They had done several things to his body.
What about Athena… his Mantle Blade?
Just the faintest feel of it told him something was wrong there as well. Could they do that too…? No answer came to his silent question. His gaze drifted toward the courtyard in the distance. Still ominous. Still indifferent.
Behind him. No… above. A crimson beam tore into the sky, piercing through the seven rings, staining the near-sunny expanse in blood-red light. From its length, thousands of black, crimson-eyed crows spilled forth—bursting outward in a frenzy of feathers and shrill cries. Their wings beat in chaotic rhythm, scattering loose feathers that drifted upon the wind, settling across the keep—
Only to dissolve into a creeping, dark fog.
Their purpose was singular.To spread the word.To spread it fast.
To every corner. Every inch. Every ear in the Vale.
A heresy had been invoked.
And all were invited to bear witness.
He glanced down once more at the scroll in his hand, eyes settling on the only lines that mattered:
[Blood Trial Decree — Approved]
[Time — Midnight, 25th of September, 1730 I.C.]
[Location — Plains of Barbel, Arena of Ash and Embers]
He folded it with a faint, reluctant sigh. Ahead, the bridge stretched forward, flanked by the two statues. Blade. Scales. How ironic, he thought. He passed between them and stepped into the busy courtyard. The people moved with practiced precision, their indifference intact. But not untouched. Curiosity lingered now. Just enough for glances. Just enough to notice. Then they moved on, returning to whatever roles they played in this machine.
As he approached the threshold, he felt it again. That gaze. Foreign… yet familiar. His head tilted, just slightly. High above, in one of the galleries, a figure stood. A steel-polished helm. Motionless. Watching. Too precise to be coincidence. That one again. Unease coiled low in his chest. Still, he walked forward. He did not look again. He had work to do. Preparations to make. A creeping watcher was the least of his concerns.
****
Even as his steps carried him out of the Red Keep, his desired outcome secured, his thoughts drifted, inevitably, to where this whole charade had begun. That delusional, narcissistic bastard. And that was saying something, considering how highly Chion regarded himself. True… he had played a role in the massacre. Not a role. The role.
But still—
He had never intended for it to spiral this far. Never intended to leave loose ends. Questions. He had planned it better than that. Cleaner. Until he appeared. Until he ruined everything. Forced him out of the shadows, out of the quiet, calculated safety of the silent protégé, and into the boots of the Devil. How irritating.
He exhaled faintly, already catching the whispers drifting through the crowds, now enlightened to what had transpired within the Red Keep. To what their favorite devil had done. He ignored them. Completely.
He would repay that bastard's "kindness" in full. For the Chambers. For the… effort invested in burning him afterward. The gates of the Inner Vale loomed ahead.
Behind him, the whispers swelled, louder than a storm. Ahead… not much different. Only quieter. A silence enforced by law, one that would see a man beheaded for speaking too freely within its bounds. Let them whisper. It changed nothing. Hopefully, Violet had followed instructions. Then maybe, just maybe, his day might begin to improve. If only slightly.
He passed through the gates without pause, moving toward his chambers in silence. Gazes followed him. Bewildered. Curious. Uncertain. Some… outraged. He ignored the poetry of it all.
*****
As Chion approached his doors, he felt it. A presence. No. More than one. Four.
His gaze narrowed. Not satisfaction. Not yet. Threat? Very possible. One hand drifted toward Athena. The other pushed the door open with a soft click. The familiar air greeted him, cool, yet warm. Faintly scented with life.
His gaze found her first. Violet. Seated on his bed, her head resting lightly against the hilt of a blade planted between her hands. Her eyes shifted toward him, briefly. An invitation.
Then—movement. His gaze slid.
Hector.
Thirty-Ninth bearer of the Thirty-Ninth Generation.
Black hair. Blue eyes. Scars etched across his face as though he held a personal feud with the god of knives. If "loose cannon" could be given form, it would be him.
Slouched against the table, blade in hand. Sheathed. But still… in hand. Chion stepped in. One step.
Agatha.
Twenty-Seventh Mantle bearer of the Thirty-Ninth Generation.
She seemed oddly absorbed in his shelves, leaning into them with quiet focus. One hand rested on her hilt. The other turned a page. A fairy tale. One he, unfortunately, enjoyed. The book lowered slightly. Her silver gaze met his. She said nothing.
Then—the fourth. Runan…? Right. Wrong.
Just behind the door he had entered through, Leah Nyxvalis.
Sixth Mantle bearer of the Thirty-Ninth.
One of the few Nyxvalis women who stood well past six and a half feet. His gaze found her.
A moment.
Her posture. If she moved, if she struck, he wouldn't block it. Not fully. A quiet exhale left him. How… frighteningly competent Violet truly was.
And to think, he had gambled on the assumption the others would cooperate. He stepped fully inside. Took a breath. Closed the door behind him. His gaze flicked toward Violet, an approving side glance. She answered with an irritated sneer. Good.
"Welcome…" he intoned, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The book in Agatha's hand shifted.