The moment the figure landed, the street stilled.
He crouched low, one knee pressed against the cracked stone, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of one of the twin blades at his side. The fog parted around him like an obedient dog, revealing fiery orange hair that ran wild in every direction, untamed and wind-swept, barely held back by a fraying strip of leather that looked more symbolic than functional.
His skin was the soft golden-brown of scorched sand and his jacket was stitched with the crests of noble houses—all torn, scorched, and pinned back with glinting buttons like war trophies. Every muscle in his lean body thrummed with precision, a quiet readiness that pulsed through the night like a drawn bow.
I felt my heart skip a beat.
"Salem?" I whispered, voice cracking with disbelief.
He snapped up before I could even blink, movements fluid and feline. His eyes locked onto mine, fierce and burning, and then he shouted—not to greet me, not to catch up or comment on the disaster my face had become—but one sharp command:
"Duck!"
I dropped instantly, my body obeying faster than my mind as an arrow cleaved through the air right where my throat had been, its steel head whistling past with a whisper of death. It buried itself into the cobblestones with a vicious crack, quivering slightly from the force.
"What the hell—"
"Not now!" Salem shouted, spinning toward the rooftop with both blades drawn. "They're here!"
I barely had time to process the warning before shadows began peeling from the fog—one, two, a dozen of them—crawling from the alleyways and crumbling ruins like ink spilled across parchment. Each figure was cloaked in heavy robes, their faces hidden beneath dark hoods. They moved with the silence of trained assassins and the fluidity of something… not quite human.
I heard Aria gasp behind me.
"No time for introductions!" I barked as I dismounted, my boots hitting the street hard. "Defensive positions! Now!"
Chaos cracked like thunder.
Salem surged forward with a blur of motion, twin blades glinting in the sickly glow of the streetlamps. He was beautiful in violence—each strike honed to a razor edge, his swords dancing in perfect tandem, arcs of silver slicing through shadows with the grace of a composer mid-crescendo. He didn't hesitate, didn't hold back. His body flowed from strike to strike like he was born to kill—like this was just another form of breathing.
Miko dropped beside me, conjuring a dagger from the smoke around his fingertips. It shimmered black as midnight, wreathed in a gentle pulse of shadow that flickered with every heartbeat. Leo stood protectively in front of Syrene, fists clenched and raised, his stance low and ready—like a boxer poised to take on a hurricane with nothing but knuckles and grit.
Aria knelt in the middle of it all, murmuring in tongues, his voice distant and trembling with starlight. "Give me ten seconds," he said.
"Make it five," I snapped.
The horses panicked. One reared up and kicked, another bolted down the alley with a shriek. The rest scattered, hooves clattering against the stone, vanishing into the night.
The first cloaked figure lunged.
I met them mid-sprint, pen flashing into my hand like a drawn weapon. I ducked low, twirled under their wide swing, then jabbed the tip of my pen across their thigh. One mark. They jerked, staggered. I moved fast, hit them again across the ribs—two. A final jab to the neck—three. The divine script sizzled against their flesh. And then…
Nothing.
No shift. No scream. No transformation.
Just stillness.
I frowned, grabbing the edge of their cloak and ripping it down.
What I found underneath was no man.
The figure was hollow—nothing but joints and springs wrapped in cloth. A puppet. Gears clicked where veins should've been. Its porcelain face was featureless, and its glass eyes glinted with lifelessness.
"Well that's cheating," I growled.
Another figure lunged from behind. I twisted, belting my pen back and drove my heel straight into their face. They crumpled backward with a clatter of wood.
Around me, the street was a war zone. Salem danced through his enemies like a crimson flame, his blades ringing out like wind chimes. One attacker leapt from a second-floor window to ambush him from above, but he twisted mid-spin, blades crossed above his head, catching the attacker mid-air. He pivoted, swung his leg upward, and launched the puppet over his shoulder, impaling it against a broken lamppost.
"Why do those things always look cooler when he does it?" I muttered.
"They're not real!" Salem called out. "Puppets! Some kind of enchanted husks!"
"Noted!" I shouted back, slicing open another one's chest cavity to find a tangle of runes burned into a steel frame.
"Sever the head!" Salem shouted. "That's the only thing that drops them for good!"
"Well that's a bit excessive—!"
"Just do it!"
Miko summoned forth several new shadows—faceless silhouettes that slipped from his coat like living ink. They raced forward like hunting hounds, their claws tearing through puppet joints, dragging them down.
Aria's spell snapped into existence with a thunderclap so loud it rattled my teeth. And then—gods. From the sky, bolts of starlight rained down like falling swords, impossibly sharp and unnervingly precise, lancing through the cloaked figures with bursts of silver brilliance that painted the night in ethereal fire.
The cobblestones cracked and smoked. Puppet bodies hurled backward like marionettes with their strings cut, limbs blackened, metal warping and hissing from the sheer celestial heat. I had never seen Aria cast anything like this before—not even close. It wasn't beautiful. It was biblical.
We pressed forward.
One of them grabbed Leo by the wrist. He twisted, spun, and drove a fist into its neck. Another tried to flank him but Syrene—oh bless her—grabbed a chunk of fallen brick and clocked the bastard across the jaw with a righteous war-cry.
Eventually, we thinned the crowd.
Bodies—metal, thread, shattered porcelain—littered the street like discarded dolls. And the last one, the final bastard, stood across from Salem. It lunged—fast, unpredictable. But Salem was ready.
He planted one foot firmly into the cobblestone, the force cracking the stone beneath him, and then drove his blade forward with a cry that echoed down the alleys.
The sword hit dead center between the puppet's eyes. Not a swing. Not a jab. A perfect thrust. The head shattered into glittering shards.
Silence.
I let out a low whistle, brushing a smear of blood from my cheek with the back of my hand. "Well, well," I drawled, cocking a brow as I eyed the shattered puppet remains. "Someone's been putting in the hours. Trying to impress me?"
Salem pulled himself back with a sharp grunt, casting me a sidelong glance. "Someone's still as insufferable as ever."
I gave him a slow, teasing smile. "Admit it—you missed me."
He rolled his eyes so hard I half-expected them to launch from his skull. "The only thing I'm missing right now is silence."
"Ouch." I clutched my chest, staggering back dramatically. "Strike me down, why don't you?"
"Don't tempt me," he muttered—but the edge of his mouth twitched like he was biting back a smile.
The street was quiet now—too quiet. My heart was still hammering against my ribs. Syrene dropped to a seated position, gasping for breath. Leo bent over her, wiping blood from her brow. Miko dispersed the shadows with a wave. Aria was still glowing faintly, eyes cloudy with the remnants of divine magic.
Salem finally stepped toward me, dragging his sword behind him like it weighed nothing at all.
"I got your message," he said, breathless. "From Jazmin."
I grinned despite myself. "Glad you're looking out for me."
He raised a brow. "You didn't think I'd let you die without me present, did you?"
"I mean—" I shrugged. "Would've saved me the snark."
Then I narrowed my eyes, voice barely above a whisper but laced with sharp urgency. "What the hell were those things? Why were they trailing you like shadows in the dark?"
Salem's brow furrowed deeply, his expression tight with frustration. "No clue," he admitted, shaking his head slowly.
Then he frowned, genuine concern flashing in his eyes. "I was out shopping for food. The second I started heading back for the cathedral they attacked. No warning. No explanation."
That was the moment my heart stopped.
"There's no time," I said. "We have to get back. Now."
Salem glanced at the wreckage of puppet corpses, then back at me. "To the cathedral?"
I nodded once. He didn't ask more. He just moved.
We ran, gods did we run, feet pounding the stone, fog tearing in ripples around us. My lungs burned. My body screamed. But my heart only knew urgency. The name Japeth lingered in my mind like a ghost's hand pressed against my spine.
Whatever this was, whatever he was planning, it had already begun.
The Velvet Cathedral loomed ahead, a ghostly silhouette wreathed in mist, like a memory etched from smoke and bone—ancient, hollow, and utterly indifferent. Its towering spires stretched skyward, silent sentinels cloaked in tangled ivy and the faint glow of silver lanterns swaying in the cold breeze. The air was thick with an eerie stillness, as if the building itself held its breath, waiting.
I didn't hesitate. My fist struck the heavy wooden door once—sharp, decisive.
It creaked open.
We slipped inside, shadows folding around us like a cloak.
The cold stone floor pressed beneath my boots, each step swallowed by the cathedral's cavernous silence—until a sudden splash shattered it.
Ice-cold water slammed down over my head like a frozen wave.
"What the—?!"
I spun on instinct, drenched, water sluicing down my face, blurring my vision, heart pounding in frantic rhythm. My breath caught, sharp and ragged.
Then, cutting through the chaos, came laughter—dark, familiar, a cruel melody twisting through the damp air.
I forced my gaze upward.
There, perched on a rafter like a smug little goblin was Jules. Short blue hair tousled, eyes wide with mischief, a grin stretching so wide it could've split stone.
"Miss me?" he called out.
I felt my chest unclench. A smile—real and relieved—tugged at my mouth.
"Gods, you little gremlin," I breathed. "You almost gave me a heart attack."
Then—another crash. This time a body.
Elian barreled into me like a freight train, arms wrapping tight, burying his face against my chest. "Cecil! You're—gods, your face, you're bleeding!"
I laughed, wincing as he hugged me tight. "It's nothing. Just some light puppet-inflicted trauma."
Across the room, I caught sight of Rodrick.
He stood silent, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed. His hair, snow white and slightly curled, hung in tired strands around his pale face, eyes glinting red like dying embers. His armor gleamed faintly in the low light—silver, ceremonial, polished, but still practical enough to kill in. And yet… something in his expression had changed. A weariness, maybe. A flicker of softness that hadn't been there before. Relief, perhaps? Disgust mixed with gratitude? It was hard to tell. Rodrick's emotions had always been curated with the same care he gave to sword forms.
He didn't speak. But he didn't need to.
And that was enough.
The hug ended before I was ready, and yet I was the one who let go.
Elian's warmth faded behind me as I drifted further into the hall, boots soft against the marble floor, the weight of everything I'd seen and done trailing behind me like a wet cape. The scent of holy oil and incense hung faintly in the air, mingling with the velvet dust and old stone that defined this place. A cathedral not just of worship, but of power, artifice, and secrecy—my sanctuary and stage, all in one.
My home, if I could still call anything that.
I caught sight of Aruel sitting quietly on one of the side benches, head bowed, posture reverent, hands folded in his lap as if mid-prayer.
He looked smaller than I remembered him, still recovering from the train incident, perhaps, where the divine horror of Vincent's true strength had unraveled something in him. When his eyes flicked up and found mine, they widened with recognition, then shimmered. He stood, rushed, and embraced me with such sincerity I nearly forgot how to breathe.
Tears touched his cheeks, soft and glistening like melted pearls. "You made it," he whispered, voice trembling with joy. "You're alive."
Of all the reactions I'd anticipated, this one cut the deepest. For someone who had seen what Vincent could truly do—who had witnessed the casual annihilation of an entire convoy—it must have been agonizing to imagine what awaited me when I decided to face him head on. And yet here I was. Not broken. Not dead. Just… tired. So goddamn tired.
"It's good to see you too," I murmured back, arms tightening for a brief moment before pulling away. "You didn't faint this time. That's progress."
His laugh was wet and shaky, but it felt like a stitch in the tapestry of things I hadn't realized were torn. I gave his shoulder a pat and turned back toward the nave.
The room had devolved into a kind of beautiful chaos. Elian was already tossing hair over his shoulder and batting eyelashes at Aria, who seemed bemused by the flirtation but didn't protest it. Jules and Leo were quite literally wrestling on the cathedral floor like a pair of delinquent foxes, growling and giggling, the sound of their laughter echoing through the high rafters in a wild, feral harmony. Syrene watched it all with that amused priestess calm, like a mother who knew better than to interrupt good trouble.
It felt normal. For a single breath, it felt safe.
And then I turned to Rodrick.
He hadn't said a word this entire time, hadn't moved from his place in the back of the room, standing near the flickering torch sconces like a silent sentinel.
"Where are Lysaria and Hollow?" I asked, careful to keep my tone casual.
Rodrick glanced upward, toward the cathedral's vaulted ceiling and the floors above it. "Upstairs," he replied. "Studying. Something about sorting out a financial dispute from one of the church's secret accounts. No one's checked on them in a while, though."
Then came the silence. Not just quiet, but a suffocating, unnatural stillness that slammed down over us like a shroud. My senses reeled, something raw and electric tugging at the edge of my awareness—a cold, invisible wire pulling taut across the air.
Then—
Salem moved.
His hand snapped to his sword like a thunderclap splitting the world open.
"Someone's here," he said lowly, right as a heavy thud shook the ceiling above us like the stomp of a giant.
I didn't wait. Neither did Salem.
We bolted, charging through the main hall, boots clapping against the polished stone, hearts rising to our throats. The stairs loomed ahead and we took them two at a time, momentum and terror grinding through every step. The second floor hallway stretched before us in a blur of flickering lamplight and arched beams, but I barely saw it—I was already at the door to the main study, slamming it open with the full force of my shoulder.
And there he was.
Hollow.
Pinned in front of the fireplace, a wooden hand clamped over his mouth, his eyes wide with panic, white as frost. A sword hovered at his neck, long and gleaming, trembling slightly from the grip of the figure that held it. A figure dressed in heavy cloaks, face obscured in darkness, a silhouette carved from nightmare. The fire behind them crackled with demonic delight, casting long shadows that danced like demons.
I moved to lunge. My hand went for the pen.
But Salem was faster.
His swords sang free of their sheaths like twin stars bursting into the sky. He blurred forward in a motion that wasn't entirely human—too fast, too fluid, as if gravity had momentarily forgotten about him. The blade connected with the figure's torso—and passed through it.
The cloak collapsed.
The sword clattered to the floor.
Whatever had been holding Hollow vanished in an instant, nothing left but air and the echo of malice. Hollow collapsed, sobbing, body trembling like a string plucked too tight. I rushed to him, falling to my knees, wrapping him in my arms.
"They took him," Hollow cried, fingers digging into my coat. "They—they took Lysaria. I tried—I didn't see them coming—they were so fast—"
"It's okay," I lied. "You're okay."
But something twisted in my gut. This wasn't just another ambush.
This was a performance.
A setup.
I looked up to see Salem holding something at the tip of his blade—a card, thick and heavy, skewered cleanly through by the edge of steel. He pulled it off with a slow, deliberate hand, and when his eyes scanned the words on its face, they widened.
He passed it to me without a word.
The card was ivory parchment, thick as bone, with ink so black it seemed to drink the light around it. It read:
To Cecil Valen of the Velvet Catheral, You are formally invited to participate in the Solarian Crucible—a time-honored tournament of skill and spectacle, held in Port Fallas one week from today. This event is proudly sponsored by the Northern Cathedral of Graywatch.
Beneath it, in ink so faint it could have been written in ghost-blood, was the final line:
Lysaria is our honored guest. We trust you'll perform well.
My breath stilled. The world narrowed to the shape of that card.
They had taken him. Not just as leverage. Not even as bait. But as the prize for a show. A spectacle. And they knew me well enough to know I'd never refuse the curtain call.
Slowly, I stepped toward the hearth.
The fire spat and roared like it was laughing at me, drunk on its own heat, licking the stones with a hunger that felt almost human. I stared into it for a moment, letting the warmth bite into my skin, letting the madness settle like ash in my lungs. Then I took the card—neat, delicate, absurd in its civility—and tossed it in.
It flared, curled, blackened, then disappeared.
And then—I laughed.
It started as a cough of air, dry and bitter. The sound a man makes when there's nothing left to do but bleed or burn. But it didn't stop. It rolled out of me, deeper, louder, until it echoed off the stone walls like a sermon turned inside out. My ribs ached. My throat tore. It felt like vomiting grief through my teeth, like spitting bile into the face of the gods.
The others just stared. Wide-eyed. Wordless.
Except Salem. Salem didn't flinch. He just stood there, arms crossed, the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth—like he'd been waiting for this.
I could feel it now.
The mask, sliding back into place with practiced ease. A costume fitted not from cloth, but from legend, ego, and necessity. Because that's what they needed now. Not the person I used to be. Not the broken thing I knew I was. They needed the man who had brought the Southern Cathedral to its knees. Who had walked through the Tower of Sin and conquered it floor by floor. Who had gone toe-to-toe with a man who could bend time and still walked away breathing.
They needed the myth. So that's what I became.
The laughter died slowly. But the fire didn't. It kept raging, casting our shadows like puppets across the floor.
I turned, eyes gleaming with a quiet sense of resistance.
"They want a show?" My voice scraped out, low and rasping, the promise of a reckoning. "Fine. I'll give them one. They want theater? Then we'll give them tragedy wrapped in gold and velvet. They want blood in the sand and roses on the grave?"
I bared my teeth. "We'll give them an encore."
I glanced back at each of my companions—my voice like the calm before a landslide. They leaned in, drawn like moths to a pyre.
I fed them the words like prophecy.
"We don't hide anymore. We don't crawl. We'll walk straight into that tournament like it belongs to us. We'll take their cheers, their gasps, their horrified silence, and we'll make it ours."
My fists curled. My grin cut deeper.
"And when it's over—when the curtain falls and the lights die out—I'll take Lysaria back with a smile so sharp it'll echo through their nightmares."
I let the silence stretch until it trembled, until it wrapped around the room like a wire.
"Well then," I murmured, voice like velvet drawn over steel. "Let the show begin."