The chamber hidden behind the massive enchanted doors impressed with its scale and luxury. A spacious hall with high vaults was supported by dozens of graceful columns stretching to the very ceiling, laid with ornamented stone inlaid with gold. The walls were adorned with magnificent woven tapestries, between which stood shelves with rare books, ancient weapons, and artifacts. In the center of the hall stood an elegant dark wooden table, framed with carvings in the shape of winding vines and stylized flowers. On both sides of the table stood expensive armchairs with soft upholstery. A bit further, closer to the right wall, towered two bookcases crammed with old folios. The illumination of the hall was created by suspended magical crystals, smoothly hanging under the ceiling and radiating a warm, soft light that made the stone floor gleam with a polished shine.
But it was not the decoration that mattered most. The space was filled with people. By the walls and closer to the center stood about a hundred men in plain but finely sewn civilian clothing—Lorenzo's employees, those who managed his business, trade, logistics, and finances. They bustled, shouted to one another, some clutching weapons, others only glancing around nervously, as if hoping for a miracle. Beside them, like black shadows, stood forty well-armed brigands—some guarding the entrances, others in the center, ready for battle. Still closer to the central table lined up seventeen guards in identical black formal suits—matching down to the smallest detail. They stood as if on command, like a living barrier before their master. Their eyes did not move, their faces remained absolutely blank and cold, like dolls, and their palms confidently gripped the hilts of swords and daggers.
And in the very center, between the table and the nearest guards, fussed Duke Lorenzo. His usual self-confidence had vanished without a trace. The duke paced back and forth, nervously biting his finger, sometimes even tugging at the edges of his doublet. His eyes darted around the room, his breath was quick and shallow. From time to time, he stopped, glanced at the doors, and began pacing again. Sweat stood out on his brow, and his movements grew sharp. Every sound, every word from the others made him flinch, and though he tried to keep the remnants of his dignity, fear was written on his face. A frightened predator, trapped.
Suddenly, one of the guards broke the tense silence. The man in the black suit gave a slight bow and, with exaggerated politeness, addressed the duke:
"Please, sir, you need not worry so much. The doors are enchanted with the strongest protective barriers—even Mister Jester will not be able to break through without great effort. Besides, there are more than a hundred and fifty people in this hall, ready to defend you to the last. The brigands he had to fight on his way here should have weakened him somewhat. Even if, by some miracle, he manages to enter, he will spend too much strength just to open these doors. Victory will be yours, my lord—it is only a matter of time."
The words were meant to reassure, but only partly succeeded. Lorenzo, still gnawing his finger, tried to pull a mask of confidence onto his face. He licked his dry lips and gave a crooked smile.
"Yes… Yes, that's right. I prepared for this day quite thoroughly… That damned Jester won't reach me so easily… And when this is all over, I'll personally make sure his head decorates my office. And also…"
But he never finished his threat.
The chamber suddenly trembled. A powerful rumble rolled through the walls, and from the entrance rose a huge cloud of dust. Stone thundered, fragments rained down. Everyone in the hall—brigands, guards, common lackeys—instinctively turned to the source of the sound. Metal screeched in the air, blades flashed from their scabbards, dozens of hands lit up with magical circles. Wind mages raised their arms—gusts blew away the dust… and revealed a scene unthinkable just seconds ago.
Two figures stood on the threshold. Alex and the Jester.
Calm. Unharmed. Threateningly silent. Behind them loomed the shattered stone frame of the doors—its debris still crumbling down, leaving nothing but a gaping hole.
The Jester stepped forward, smiling with that same, familiar and at the same time sinister expression. His eyes gleamed with a cold light.
"Duke, remind me, please," his voice was almost playful, "did you say something about what you'd do with my head? Would you repeat it, I didn't quite catch it…"
Lorenzo's gaze darted wildly across the hall, his face turned pale, panic shone in his eyes. He began to back away slowly, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet.
"Kill them! K-… kill them! At once!" the duke shouted, trying to sound firm, but his voice broke into a cry, trembling and faltering.
The words were the signal. The nearest brigands lunged forward, and dozens of mages around the hall launched their projectiles. Fireballs, lightning bolts, and spears of ice whistled through the air. Hundreds of boots thundered across the marble floor.
Alex and the Jester exchanged a quick glance.
And smiled.
A blood-forged sword appeared in Alex's hand, while in the Jester's right palm flared a refined blade of light. Without a word, both surged forward—straight into the storm.
The first wave of brigands never even reached them. Alex slashed upward—his blood-sword cut the space in an arc, slicing two attackers clean in half. Their bodies stood for a moment before thudding to the marble, leaving crimson streaks. With another blow, Alex took a man's head clean off, dodging a fireball at the same time.
The Jester, meanwhile, slid between strikes as though dancing. His radiant blade left dazzling trails in the air, every movement deadly. He drove his sword into a guard's chest, pulled it free—and in the same instant spun, cleaving another from shoulder to hip. Blood fountained high, staining his cloak, but the Jester only laughed.
Magical projectiles flew across the hall, but most missed their mark—or struck their own allies. One sorcerer managed to ready a spell, but in the next moment Alex was already at his side, driving his sword straight into the man's face. The blade burst out the back of his skull, mixing blood and brain into pulp. The man dropped soundlessly.
Screams. Flashes. Blood on the walls, the floor, their hands.
The Jester leapt high, flipping in the air, and landing behind four enemies—one sweeping slash tore through their throats. One head did not even fall before it bounced across the floor toward Lorenzo, rolling like a ball.
With each step, Alex left more corpses behind. A mercenary tried to block him with a massive axe, but Alex simply stepped aside and severed his knee, then his throat. Blood poured over the floor.
When the number of bodies exceeded the number of living, the attackers began to retreat—but too late. From all sides, magical spikes of light and darkness rained down, piercing bellies, chests, skulls. One guard screamed about reinforcements, but in the next second his body was split in two by Alex's sword.
The battle turned into a massacre. Out of a hundred and fifty present… only about ten remained.
The guard who moments earlier had tried to calm Lorenzo now stood pale and drenched in sweat, watching the slaughter of his comrades. His eyes darted from one corpse to another, his hands shook. At last, he dashed to the duke, who had cringed into a corner of the hall, and hissed sharply:
"I'll take you to safety at once, my lord!"
His hand was almost on Lorenzo's arm when suddenly—like a nightmare ripped from sleep—the Jester materialized before them. His cloak swayed in the air, heavy with blood that dripped now and then onto the floor. His face was spattered with gore, and on his lips played that familiar, almost playful smile.
"And where might you be going?" he asked slyly, tilting his head.
Lorenzo could not make a sound—he only wheezed, breathing heavily through his nose like a trapped boar. The guard, wasting no time, drew his sword and charged the Jester with a cry. But the Jester's expression didn't change. He caught the strike effortlessly with his own blade, then seized the guard by the throat with his free hand and slammed him into the wall. A dull thud, a crack, and the body slid to the floor.
"One," the Jester said almost cheerfully, turning back to the duke.
But before he could continue, a hoarse battle cry rang out from behind him. Another guard, wielding a halberd, was already rushing toward him. The Jester instantly stepped aside, lowering himself, and the blade whistled just above his head. In the next second, he was already behind his attacker. A swift motion—and his sword slashed down the man's back from shoulder to hip. The guard collapsed to his knees with a drawn-out groan. The Jester didn't even stop walking—his blade gleamed as it swept across the man's neck, and the head fell to the floor, leaving a fountain of blood behind.
"Two," he remarked, casting a glance at Alex, who was finishing off the last of the guards by the entrance.
Then he turned back to Lorenzo. The duke was already lying on the floor, trembling and trying to crawl away, as if that could save him. The Jester had barely taken a step when a lightning bolt hissed past his side. He dodged easily and looked to the source.
It was the same guard he had smashed against the wall earlier. The man was still standing, his face twisted with rage and pain, and he charged with a sword in hand.
The blade was already nearly at the Jester's face—only a heartbeat away. But then, suddenly, several spikes of light shot up from beneath the guard's feet, brutally impaling him: one through the groin, another through the chest, a third bursting out of his jaw. The guard froze mid-motion, choking, hung suspended for a moment, and then collapsed to the floor, dead.
"Three," whispered the Jester, still smiling as his eyes returned to Lorenzo.
The duke lay sprawled across the marble floor, his luxurious clothes torn and filthy, his hands trembling, fingers clutching at the carpet in spasms. His terrified eyes locked on the Jester, as though refusing to believe any of this could be real.
Alex approached the Jester and stopped beside him. Without a word, his cold gaze settled on Lorenzo. Meanwhile, the Jester slowly turned to look over the ruined hall, where dozens of corpses lay scattered in chaotic positions.
"You know," he finally spoke, his voice carrying a strange lightness, "there is one thing he deserves thanks for. It's not every day someone brings you a few hundred scum on a silver platter and says, 'Help yourself.'"
He smiled and looked back at the duke.
"So thank you, Lorenzo. You've done at least one good thing in your miserable life. You gathered them all here, just for me… well, for us." He nodded toward Alex.
The duke finally tore his eyes from the Jester and turned them toward Alex. His face was distorted with fear, lips twitching.
"You… you're Alex," he stammered. "What… what are you doing with him?"
Alex crouched slowly, so their eyes met on the same level. His voice was calm, cold.
"I'm not 'with him.' I simply had business with you. On the way, I ran into the Jester—so we came together. All I need are the documents for the 'Ray of Hope.' Once I have them, I'll be on my way."
The duke's gaze darted between them like that of a rat cornered in a trap. Then, taking a deep breath, he tried to muster a shred of confidence.
"I… I'll give you the documents. I will. But only if… only if you kill him." His trembling finger pointed at the Jester.
A burst of genuine laughter rang out. The Jester nearly doubled over, covering his face with one hand as though trying to contain himself. Alex gave him a brief look, then turned back to the duke.
"Fine. But first—the documents. As a guarantee of your words."
Hope flickered in Lorenzo's eyes. He rose slowly, walked to a large writing desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out a thick folder. His hands still trembled as he passed it to Alex.
Alex skimmed through the papers briefly before storing them in his inventory. Then he looked at the duke again.
"Thank you. And now…" He turned toward the Jester. "I'll leave him in your capable hands."
"No! You must kill him! You promised! YOU MUST!"
Lorenzo fell to his knees, clutching Alex's leg in desperation, almost pleading. But disgust crossed Alex's face. He yanked his leg free and said coldly:
"To be honest, I'd take great pleasure in killing you myself. But I trust the Jester will approach this with… more imagination."
The Jester stepped closer to Alex and patted him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. His ending will be very… unconventional. I promise."
Lorenzo stared at them with such horror, as if two demons from the depths of Hell stood before him.
At that moment, the Jester touched the magical artifact in his ear.
"Henrich, how are things?"
Henrich's voice came through clearly:
"All the slaves are in your estate. They're receiving medical treatment as you commanded."
"Good. I'll be there shortly," the Jester replied.
"We'll await your return, Master."
The connection cut off. The Jester turned back to Alex.
"In two days, come see Henrich. He'll bring you to me, and we'll talk. You'll also have a chance to visit the freed slaves. I'm sure they'll be glad to see one of their rescuers."
Alex nodded.
"I'll definitely come."
The Jester extended his hand.
"Thank you for your help, Alex."
For a moment, Alex hesitated, then shook it.
"Glad to help."
Alex cast one last glance at Lorenzo. Then a magic circle flared to life beneath his feet. A heartbeat later, he vanished from the room, leaving the duke face-to-face with his living nightmare.
Alex appeared in the same room where the magic circle to the dungeon had been. For a few seconds, he simply stood still, allowing himself one deep breath—the first calm one since the bloody slaughter. Then he put the mask back on his face. Just as he reached for the door handle, Siren's voice rang in his head.
"Showing yourself in public looking like that is hardly the best idea, don't you think?"
Alex looked down at his clothes. The dark fabric was soaked with splashes of other people's blood.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath.
At that very moment, the door handle turned slowly, and a familiar man peeked cautiously inside—the agent of Astarion. He silently scanned Alex from head to toe, taking in the situation with a single glance. Then he pulled another set of clothes from his inventory—almost identical to the previous, except with a red shirt instead of a white one—and handed it over without a word.
Without saying anything, the agent stepped out and closed the door firmly behind him.
Alex froze, still not fully believing what had just happened. Then he lowered his gaze to the clothes in his hands and muttered under his breath:
"How the hell did the Count foresee this?.."
Without wasting time, he changed, hid the bloodstained suit in his inventory, and put the mask back on. Then he carefully opened the door, where a familiar man was already waiting for him in the corridor. The man gave a short nod and moved forward. Alex followed him.
"How did it go?" the agent asked quietly without looking back.
"As planned," Alex replied calmly.
"Glad to hear it."
"How's the situation in the house?"
"All is quiet, except that guards keep disappearing from time to time. There are only ten left in the building, standing by the exits."
"I see."
Without further words, they continued walking. Finally, upon reaching the first floor, they both stopped. After exchanging short nods, each headed in a different direction.
Alex scanned the hall and quickly spotted familiar faces—at one of the tables near the large window sat Elizabeth, Rogan, and Cassandra. Their expressions glowed with lively interest as they discussed something animatedly. Elizabeth was the first to notice him. She immediately smiled and waved. Soon Rogan and Cassandra's eyes also turned toward Alex. A warm, slightly playful smile touched Cassandra's lips.
When Alex approached the table, Cassandra took a graceful drag on her cigarette and, with a pleasant note in her voice, said:
"Glad to see you again, mister with incredible luck."
"The pleasure is mine, my lady," Alex replied with a slight bow in his usual reserved, elegant manner.
Cassandra's gaze slid down, lingering on his new shirt. She squinted slightly, and, exhaling a cloud of smoke, added with slyness in her tone:
"Perhaps I'm mistaken… but wasn't your shirt a different color earlier?"
Alex smiled softly.
"One of the guests must have been too overwhelmed by tonight's festivities—got flustered and accidentally spilled wine on me. I had to change."
"I see," Cassandra nodded, smiling. "Red suits you."
"Thank you for the compliment."
Alex took a free seat beside Elizabeth, who greeted him with a friendly nod, and the atmosphere at the table grew a little warmer.
"By the way…" Cassandra took another elegant drag. "During all the time you were gone, did you happen to run into the Duke?"
Alex raised a brow in surprise.
"He still hasn't returned?"
Cassandra shook her head with feigned sorrow, a little theatrically.
"Unfortunately, no. After our last conversation, he seems to have vanished into thin air. I've asked many—both guests and guards—but no one has seen him."
Alex leaned back in his chair with a faint smile.
"I think he'll show up again once he settles his affairs."
"I really hope so," Cassandra sighed. "Because disappearing from one's own party, leaving the guests unattended—well, let's just say it's not elegant at all."
"I couldn't agree more," Alex nodded.
"And while you were away…" Elizabeth cut in, turning to him. "Cassandra and I managed to discuss just about everything under the sun. And Rogan even started telling his favorite stories about magical duels."
"I'm glad to hear you didn't get bored without me," Alex said with a smile.
The conversation gradually shifted into a light, easy exchange. Gentle laughter, witty remarks, refined jokes echoed around the table. Alex, though he maintained his usual composure, felt how—after everything he'd just gone through—his heart was finally beginning to beat at a normal rhythm.
In the laboratory, where the light was somewhat brighter than the last time, a heavy silence reigned, broken only by the faint rustle of paper—Elios was carefully going through notes on parchment, seated at his desk. But suddenly the space beside him trembled, and a faint shimmer appeared in the air. A moment later, Jester appeared in the room—together with Lorenzo, who was on his knees, jaw slack, panic written all over his face. His eyes darted across the walls, tables, shelves filled with flasks, artifacts, and unknown devices, unable to grasp where he had ended up.
Elios lifted his gaze from the papers and slowly turned toward the visitors.
"And why did you drag him here?" he asked calmly, rising from his chair and leaning against the edge of the desk.
"Imagine—I'd almost finished him off," Jester replied just as calmly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "But at the last moment, I thought maybe you'd prefer to do it yourself."
Elios smiled faintly at the corner of his lips.
"If memory serves, the fans of brutal solutions are you and Mirael. I don't think I quite fit that description."
"No one's arguing," Jester shrugged. "But I thought I'd give you the chance… just in case you change your mind."
At that moment, Jester cast a quick, almost casual glance at the Duke. Lorenzo flinched involuntarily, then shifted his gaze to Elios.
Elios stared at him in silence, then grabbed his chair by the back and slowly pushed it toward the Duke. Stopping just a few inches away, he turned the seat backward and straddled it, folding his arms across the backrest. His gaze was cold and steady.
"Listen carefully, Duke. This is your last chance to keep your life," he said quietly. "If you can convince me that you can still be useful to us—I'll have a word with him," Elios nodded toward Jester. "And perhaps, I'll spare you."
He paused briefly, tilting his head slightly to the side.
"But if not…" his voice remained calm, but a chill appeared in his eyes. "Well, you're not a fool, are you? You can guess what awaits you."
Lorenzo swallowed the lump of fear and felt his fingers trembling. Summoning the last of his dignity and strength, he slowly rose from his knees. His legs still trembled, his shoulders twitched convulsively, but he forced himself to stand straight. Elios observed him silently, his expression unchanged. Jester, meanwhile, took half a step back, crossing his arms over his chest and smiling inwardly.
"Well then, let's see how he justifies himself this time."
Lorenzo drew a heavy breath, trying to steady his voice and suppress the trembling in it.
"I…" He inhaled again and straightened even more. "For the entire past year, I've diligently carried out all of Mister Jester's orders. Without exception. Every week, as agreed, I delivered ten gravely ill slaves… the weakest, the most hopeless—the very ones you asked for. And not once was there a delay or misunderstanding."
His fingers clenched nervously into fists, yet his voice grew steadier, as though with every word he was regaining confidence.
"I paid everything down to the last coin, without delays. And not only that—I also carried out every little errand that came from him or his people. Papers, deliveries, information—everything was done precisely, quickly, and flawlessly."
He shifted his gaze from the Jester to Elios, as if trying to read his reaction.
"I… I served. I never broke a single condition, not a single promise. I…"
"Enough," Elios cut him off in a cold, detached tone.
His hand flicked subtly in the air, a gesture to stop—and the duke fell silent at once, like a child caught in a lie.
"It seems you didn't quite understand what I asked for," Elios continued calmly. "I don't care about your, let's call them, service duties. What you've just listed could be done by anyone else. Anyone the Jester would entrust it to. Nothing unique, nothing that would make you… indispensable."
Something like confusion and fear flashed across the duke's face. His fingers began to tremble again.
"But," Elios allowed a slight smile, though it carried no warmth, "today you are lucky. I'm in a good mood. And I'll give you another chance. More than that, I'll even make it easier. Now I will ask questions. And your task is to answer honestly. Understood?"
"Y-yes…" Lorenzo muttered, far less confidently than just a moment ago.
"Glad to hear it," Elios nodded. "Let's begin. Why did you meddle in the 'Ray of Hope'?"
Lorenzo blinked, swallowed several times, then finally began in a quiet voice:
"Slaves… Mister Jester needed slaves. Getting them lately has been difficult. Difficult and… troublesome. I thought… I thought the best place would be the orphanages. Mister Jester never cared about the age of slaves, so I figured it wouldn't be a problem. Orphans… they're already abandoned. They're practically slaves. Just with a naïve hope for the future."
Those last words were like a death sentence.
Elios's magical aura exploded in an instant, and its unrestrained force crashed into the room like an avalanche. The air around Lorenzo tightened, and he collapsed again to the floor, clutching at his chest, gasping for breath. Panic clouded his eyes.
Elios rose slowly, as though every movement carried its own weight. He stepped close to the duke, and within moments a blue magic circle flared on his hand. From it burst watery tendrils that, like living creatures, seized Lorenzo by the arms, legs, body, and throat, lifting him above the floor.
Lorenzo thrashed desperately, trying to break free, but it was useless. The water bound him like steel chains, leaving bruises and scratches.
His eyes met Elios's by accident. And in that instant, something broke inside the duke's soul.
Before him no longer stood an alchemist. Before him stood a monster—malicious, cold, dangerous. Elios's eyes blazed with murderous fire, his jaw clenched so tight it seemed his teeth would grind together.
Combined with his aura, it formed a single image: a being for whom erasing a human from existence was nothing. And right now, that being was staring straight into Lorenzo's soul.
"You should never have equated orphans with slaves," Elios hissed, his voice barely human.
And in the next instant, the watery tendrils yanked violently in opposite directions.
Lorenzo's body tore apart like a rag doll. Blood splattered across the walls in thick sprays, painting everything crimson. Limbs ripped from the torso with a crunch, ribs scattered in fragments, entrails slapped wetly onto the floor, soaking it in red. A kidney struck the leg of a table, leaving a bloody streak.
Elios stood there, breathing heavily. His chest rose and fell sharply, ragged, while thin strands of saliva trailed from the corners of his mouth. His eyes darted wildly around the laboratory, dilated, frenzied. He saw nothing else—no furniture, no walls. Only the echo of rage boiling inside him like overheated acid.
And then… his gaze froze. On the Jester.
A distorted, animalistic smile curled on the alchemist's lips.
"You…" the word tore from his throat, and in the next moment he lunged at the Jester barehanded, like a beast.
The Jester slipped aside from the first strike, then another—swift, almost graceful, as if dancing between the blows. His cloak flared through the air, leaving bloody streaks in its wake. But Elios's attacks didn't cease—one after another, relentless, mindless. Only fury and instinct.
The Jester leapt back several meters, and at once watery projectiles—sharp as spears—shot at him. But he raised his hand just in time—a luminous barrier flared before him, absorbing the attack with only a faint crackle of mana.
At the same moment, his other hand slid into his inventory, and a moment later he pulled out a syringe.
"Sorry, my friend," the Jester whispered, "but it's time to end this little dance."
Elios charged forward again, and the Jester rushed to meet him. He dodged a fist that grazed past his face, slipped under an arm, slid to the side, moved behind—and plunged the needle into Elios's neck.
The syringe clicked—the potion entered the blood.
Elios staggered a few more steps away. His arms jerked uncontrollably, his hands clutched at his head, his legs gave out. His vision blurred, his aura began to fade.
He froze, breathing heavily, but without that wild frenzy in his eyes anymore. He lifted his head and looked at the Jester.
This was no longer a raging beast. This was him again.
"Are you alright?" the Jester asked quietly, wiping a bead of sweat from his face.
Elios nodded. His eyes no longer glowed with madness, though a shadow of what had just escaped still lingered in them.
The Jester silently approached a chair that lay overturned and set it upright. Then, gently, as if tending to the wounded, he rolled it closer to his friend. Elios collapsed into it, leaning back, sitting with his eyes shut for several seconds as he tried to steady his breath.
Standing nearby, the Jester spoke calmly:
"Forgive me. I shouldn't have brought him here. I truly didn't think he would dare to say… what he said."
Elios only waved a hand wearily, as if brushing away needless words.
"It's fine. The important thing is that you stopped me. Nothing else matters."
His voice was still hoarse, but his gaze was steady again. He silently glanced toward what was left of Lorenzo—the blood, the scattered organs, the chunks of flesh covering the laboratory floor as though after a battle with a demon. Elios smiled bitterly.
"Although I must admit. In the moment I tore him apart… I was still partly in control. And it was actually pleasant."
"Then it seems I didn't bring him here in vain after all," the Jester smiled.
Elios let his eyes wander across the laboratory. On the walls and floor, among instruments, scrolls, reagents—bloodstains everywhere. Some were already drying into dark streaks, others still glistened wet.
"Well…" the alchemist sighed, "looks like I'll be scrubbing this mess for a long, boring time until morning."
" I can help," said the Jester with a slight smile. "Nothing soothes better after a crazy night than some boring monotonous work."
Elios lifted his gaze to him, and a faint smile also touched his lips.
"Gladly I'll take your help… But first…" He paused for a moment, thinking. "I want to see the orphans you saved."
"Then let's not waste time."
Elios rose from the chair, now standing steadily on his feet.
With a single smooth motion, the Jester conjured a magic circle that flared with light beneath both of them. In an instant, their figures vanished into the glow, leaving behind the bloody laboratory in silent disorder.
Alex lay in his room at the Academy, staring at the ceiling. Night had long since covered the sky, silence reigned outside the window, broken only by the rustling of leaves or the creak of branches. Nearby, in his own bed, Adam was snoring deeply, already lost in carefree sleep. Yet Alex's body, despite exhaustion, stubbornly refused to rest. His mind kept working, grinding over memories, words, doubts.
"What do you think about this whole situation with the Jester?" he asked Siren in thought.
The girl's voice, always calm and gentle, sounded in his mind:
"My opinion hasn't changed since the last time we spoke about it."
Alex sighed heavily.
"But… it doesn't feel like he's just pretending to be kind, does it? Everything he does, everything he says… This doesn't seem like the Jester I remember from the past. If it weren't for what I know… If it weren't for the knowledge of his role in starting the war… I think I'd already trust him completely."
His fingers nervously kneaded the edge of the blanket.
"And honestly, I'm not even sure our upcoming conversation will change anything."
Siren fell silent for a moment, then her voice once again softly flowed into his thoughts:
"You are programming yourself for failure, My Lord. If you expect the worst—you will get exactly that. You are right, without doubt—you mustn't forget who the Jester was in your past. But you also shouldn't dismiss who he is now. Perhaps your presence beside him, your influence…" She paused. "Perhaps that is what will change everything. Perhaps working with him is exactly the path through which you can protect the future. Prevent the war."
"Perhaps," whispered Alex.
"But that is only my assumption," Siren finished. "The final decision will always remain yours. And whatever you choose—I will always stand by your side."
Alex smiled faintly in the darkness.
"I already know that."
He turned onto his side, the blanket folding softly beneath him. One last thought flickered in his head before sleep: "Could it really be that an alliance with the Jester will become the thread that saves the future? That this is how I'll keep my promise to Lumenia?.."
His eyes gradually closed, his breathing steadied.
A moment later, Alex was already asleep.