Darinval forgot how to bleed.
For one night only, the city shed its scars and dressed itself in silver.
The sky deepened into a rich, velvet blue as the moon climbed higher—full, flawless, watching from above like an unblinking eye. Lanterns bloomed along the main streets, their warm glow chasing away the memories of rusted blades and dried blood. Soft drums echoed from distant squares, slow and rhythmic, blending with laughter, footsteps, and the clink of cups.
The Soul King Festival had begun.
People poured from their homes as if drawn by instinct. Children ran between stalls hung with silver ribbons. Vendors shouted cheerfully, selling sweet cakes shaped like crescent moons, their sugary scent floating through the air. For the first time in a long while, Darinval did not feel like a city ruled by fear.
It felt… human.
And that was what made the night dangerous.
High above the streets, behind thick stone walls where secrets slept comfortably, the Third Head stood alone in his chamber.
The door opened quietly.
A maid stepped in, carrying a silver tray. Steam curled upward from the cup of coffee resting at its center, bitter and rich.
"The coffee you asked for, Master Blevin."
His gaze lifted slowly to her. A sideways smile touched his lips—gentle, almost kind. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and unhurried.
"I told you… just Blevin. I don't like formalities in my room."
Her cheeks flushed faintly. She nodded, fingers tightening around the tray.
He rose from his chair, adjusting the cuffs of his elegant shirt with deliberate care. He wore a vest, then a coat. Everything about him was controlled, refined—yet his eyes remained cold, sharp enough to cut.
"The night will be long," he said lightly. "The whole world celebrates tonight."
She hesitated, then spoke softly, curiosity slipping through her respect.
"The Soul King Festival… it's the birthday of the God, isn't it?"
"Yes." Blevin fastened the final button and stepped closer. "The old men worship him, and we respect that—even if nowadays many don't believe in his existence."
He took the cup from the tray, drank slowly, then placed it back with a quiet clink.
"Refill it later," he added, passing her without looking back. "We'll have a very long night."
The door closed softly behind him.
Elsewhere, in a modest room far removed from luxury, Veron stared at his reflection.
White shirt. Simple. Clean. He buttoned it carefully, fingers steady. Beneath the fabric, a thin blade rested hidden against his side. Behind his back, tucked where no one would casually search, a small pistol waited—silent insurance.
Dren stood nearby, wrapping fresh bandages around his hands. His bare arms flexed with each movement, muscle carved by years of battle. No weapons. No armor. Just flesh, discipline, and confidence.
Mira adjusted her outfit in the mirror.
Elegant. Provocative—without excess. The fabric hugged her figure perfectly, revealing just enough to draw eyes, concealing just enough to remain dangerous. Her movements were fluid, practiced. This was not vanity. This was strategy.
For a moment, outside the inn, Dren and Mira stood together in silence. The city's distant music drifted up to them, soft and deceptive.
Then Veron stepped out.
"Ready?"
Dren's lips curved into a calm, unwavering smile.
Mira looked at Veron—and the world stilled.
For the first time, she truly saw him. The quiet confidence. The sharp line of his jaw. The eyes—focused, thoughtful, carrying something deeper than ambition. Her breath caught before she realized it.
She looked away quickly, annoyed at herself.
"Yes," she said. "Let's go."
Moments after they disappeared into the streets, the doors of the inn opened again.
A carriage waited outside, horses stamping impatiently against the cobblestones.
Asha descended the steps quickly—then stopped.
Lucen was nowhere to be seen.
Minutes passed.
In a narrow alley nearby, Lucen leaned against a damp stone wall, lighting a cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated his face—hard, tired, dangerous.
A figure stepped out of the darkness.
His brother.
"I found her," the man said quietly. "There's still time. We'll get her out. I promise."
Lucen exhaled smoke slowly. "Good."
"Are you finished here?"
"Almost."
Lucen handed him a small pack of money. The weight spoke louder than words.
His brother chuckled softly. "That boy you work with… more righteous than I expected."
Lucen crushed the cigarette beneath his boot. His eyes hardened.
"I have one last thing to finish," he said. "Be ready to leave tonight."
He turned away, footsteps soundless as he vanished into the alley.
Back on the main streets, Veron, Dren, and Mira moved with the flow of the festival. Lights reflected in Veron's eyes as he opened the sealed paper, revealing the palace map inside. He asked a passerby for directions, receiving them with a polite nod.
Dren watched the crowd, amused. Mira tried not to look at Veron—but failed.
The palace gates rose before them, massive and ancient, carved with symbols older than Darinval itself. Guards stood everywhere. Masked. Armed. Watching.
"Seal," one demanded.
Veron handed it over.
"Any weapons?"
Veron surrendered the pistol without protest.
The guard's eyes lingered on Dren.
"And him?"
"He fights without weapons," Veron replied evenly.
A search followed. Quick. Professional.
When the guard reached for Mira, she frowned sharply.
"I doubt Lord Haisik would appreciate his guests being handled," Veron said calmly.
A pause.
The guard stepped aside.
They entered.
Light. Music. Perfume. Silk. Laughter.
A different world.
Outside the inn, the carriage was still waiting.
Lucen arrived at last, his face colder than ever.
"Where were you?" Asha asked.
He didn't answer.
He lifted the luggage, placed it inside, and opened the door for her.
"Send my regards to Veron," he said quietly. "And Dren."
"Aren't you coming?" she asked. "We're leaving tonight."
He shook his head.
"I have another path."
The door closed.
The carriage rolled away.
Lucen remained standing before the inn, eyes sharp, lethal.
Inside the palace, three figures emerged from different corridors.
Fouja moved first—slow, deliberate—he was the king of the city.
Haisik followed, cigar between his fingers, eyes scanning the crowd with suspicion, smoke curling like a warning.
Then Blevin.
He paused beside a pillar, smiled warmly at a passing child… then the smile vanished, replaced by steel.
The three heads of Darinval moved toward the central courtyard.
Toward destiny.
Toward collision.
The moon watched silently as tension coiled tighter, moments away from snapping—
And the night held its breath.