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Elsewhere…
The two impostors; once "Lya" and "Duran" in their Scout disguises; pushed their stolen horses to the brink as the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of sunset. Wall Sina loomed ahead, its immense, unyielding stone face a beacon of sanctuary amid the chaos they had fled. The ride had been a nightmare of meticulous evasion: ducking into ravines to avoid Garrison patrols, circling wide around villages where curious eyes might linger too long, and pushing through dense thickets that tore at their cloaks and left bloody scratches on their mounts' flanks.
Vance, who had worn the face of 'Duran', gripped the reins with white-knuckled hands, his real features; sharp and angular, with a scar running from his left eyebrow to his cheek; now exposed to the cooling evening air. He had shed the ID Mask miles back, ripping it off with a disgusted snarl as soon as they were clear of the Survey Corps' immediate pursuit. Beneath the green Scout cloak, his true attire emerged: a simple, dark tunic reinforced with hidden leather plates, practical breeches, and boots worn from years of covert marches. No insignia, no flair; just the unassuming garb of a Forever Knight operative.
Beside him rode Anya, formerly disguised as 'Lya', her slender face now bare, framed by a mop of braided brown hair matted with sweat and dirt. She too had discarded her mask, revealing eyes that burned with a mix of fury and fear. Her clothing mirrored Vance's: functional, shadow-hued, designed to blend into the night rather than stand out in the day. The Scout uniforms they had worn were buried in a shallow grave off the trail, a hasty but necessary erasure of their false identities.
The horses were faltering now, their breaths coming in labored gasps, foam flecking their bits. Vance glanced back for the hundredth time, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. The chaos at headquarters; the unmasking, the brawl in the stables, Sir Edric's desperate flight, replayed in his mind like a fever dream. They had slipped away in the melee, melting into the shadows as Levi and the others focused on the captured brothers. But exposure... that was a wound that festered. The Scouts knew now. They knew about the masks, the infiltration. And if Harlan and Phil had broken under torture...
"We can't stop," Anya muttered through gritted teeth, as if reading his thoughts. Her voice was hoarse from hours of silence, broken only by the occasional hissed warning about patrols. "Not until we're behind the walls. The Scouts... they move fast. If they pieced it together..."
"They haven't," Vance snapped, though doubt gnawed at him. "We were ghosts. No one saw us leave. Edric drew the heat." But even as he said it, the memory of Mike Zacharias's unnerving stare; the way the man had sniffed the air like a hound; sent a chill down his spine. That one... he was always a problem.
The gates of Wall Sina finally came into full view, their immense iron portcullis guarded by a contingent of Military Police. But the impostors didn't head for the main entrance. Instead, they veered off the road into a concealed path hidden by overgrown brambles; a secret ingress known only to the Order, carved into the wall's base during one of their many "renovations" to the royal infrastructure granted to them. The horses, sensing the end of their ordeal, found a last burst of speed.
They dismounted in a small, shadowed alcove, tethering the exhausted animals to a rusted ring embedded in the stone. Vance pressed a hidden lever, and a section of the wall ground open with a low rumble, revealing a narrow tunnel lit by faint, glowing stones; remnants of the Order's arcane fortifications gifted to them by previous founding titan holders. They slipped inside, then the door sealed behind them.
The tunnel led upward, a steep, winding stair that burned in their legs after the long ride. Anya's breath came in ragged gasps, but neither complained. The air grew cooler, laced with the faint scent of incense and polished stone; the smells of the royal headquarters, their sanctuary.
They emerged into a dimly lit antechamber, where two Forever Knights stood guard, their dark armor gleaming under torchlight. The guards' eyes widened in surprise as Vance and Anya stepped into the light, cloaks thrown back, faces bare.
"Brothers?" one guard stammered, his hand instinctively going to his sword hilt. "You're... back already? The rotation wasn't due for another—"
"Where are the others?" the second interrupted, his gaze darting behind them as if expecting Sir Edric and the rest to follow. "Sir Edric? Harlan? Phil—wait, what happened to the mission?"
Vance held up a hand, his voice sharp with urgency. "The situation changed. We must speak with Lord Aldric. Immediately."
"He is in the inner chamber," the first knight knight said, her tone wary. "But he is not to be disturbed for a routine—"
"This is not routine," Anya cut in, her voice sharper than she intended. The guards exchanged uneasy glances. The early return, the absence of the team leader, the haggard looks; it reeked of disaster. But the Order's hierarchy was ironclad; urgency from field operatives wasn't to be questioned lightly.
"This way," the first guard said finally, leading them through a series of arched corridors lined with tapestries depicting ancient purges; stylized scenes of knights wielding flaming swords against shadowy, monstrous forms and beings eerily similar to the shape of titans. The air grew heavier with the scent of old stone and ritual incense as they approached the central chamber.
The inner chamber was smaller, lit by a single, massive torch lamp that burned with a smokeless, unwavering flame. Beside a high-backed chair carved from obsidian-like stood Sir Aldric.
He stood before a massive map of Paradis etched into the stone wall, his broad back to them, golden eyes reflected faintly in the polished surface. His cruciform sword hung at his side, a constant, silent threat.
The knight escort bowed deeply. "My Lord. Brothers Vance and Anya have returned from the southern operation. They insist on an urgent audience."
Aldric turned slowly, his golden eyes sweeping over them like a predator assessing wounded prey. His face was unreadable, a mask of stoic authority carved from years of purges and holy wars. He said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch, a tool as sharp as his blade.
"Leave us." Aldric said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that filled the stone room.
The knight bowed again and withdrew, the heavy door shutting with a soft, definitive click. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the torch lamp.
The two impostors dropped to one knee in unison, heads bowed. "My Lord," they intoned in unison.
"Rise," Aldric commanded. They obeyed, standing at rigid attention, but unable to meet his eyes for long. "You have broken cover. You have abandoned your posts. You are here, when you should be there. Explain this deviation."
Vance was the senior operative. He swallowed, his throat dry. "My Lord, the operation was compromised. At the Scout headquarters. Sir Edric's intentions were… exposed."
He launched into the report, his voice gaining a measure of stability as he fell into the clinical rhythm of a debriefing. He recounted the events since Sir Edric had recruited them to replace the slain Scouts. The infiltration of headquarters. The careful sabotage of investigations. The demon dog's trail leading to the 103rd. And then... the unraveling.
The exposure in the stables. The brawl. Sir Edric's desperate pursuit of Hange's team. Harlan and Phil's capture. Their own narrow escape through the chaos.
As Vance spoke, Aldric's expression remained impassive, but his golden eyes darkened with each revelation.
"Sir Edric engaged to delay the Scout squad leader's departure, to protect the primary purge site," Vance continued. "He ordered us to exfiltrate separately to preserve operational security and report. He pursued the Scout called Mike Zacharias to eliminate him as a tracker. We do not know the outcome of that engagement."
When the account ended, the silence returned, heavier now, laced with unspoken judgment.
"So," Aldric said at last, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the stone walls. "You got exposed. Sir Edric chased down the Scouts to halt their advancement. Harlan and Phil captured. And now you two are the only ones accounted for?"
Vance opened his mouth to explain, to justify; the chaos had been unforeseen, the Scouts' response too swift—but Aldric's sword was out in a blur of steel. The cold edge pressed against Vance's throat, silencing him mid-breath. The blade was unyielding, a hair's breadth from drawing blood.
Anya, still standing beside him, froze, her eyes wide with terror.
Aldric leaned in, face inches from Vance's. He did not radiate anger. He radiated a profound, disappointing certainty, which was infinitely worse.
"Your tactic was flawed from the inception," he said, his tone as sharp as the sword. "You relied on the masks' infallibility without contingencies for exposure. You allowed the Scouts' beast-hunter to sniff out your deception…literally. And in your haste to escape, you left brothers behind to be broken. You have not just failed; you have jeopardized the sanctity of the Order itself. The Scouts now know of our presence, our methods. They will hunt us with renewed vigor."
Vance tried to speak, his voice a choked whisper around the blade. "My lord, we—we had no choice. The midget captain—Levi—he was—"
The sword pressed harder, drawing a thin line of blood. "Excuses," Aldric hissed. "I entrusted Edric with a precision strike, and he recruited fools who turned it into a farce. You have gotten us exposed to those Scouts."
Anya, unable to stay silent, stammered, "B-but my lord, we weren't caught! We escaped undetected! The others... they bought us time. The purge at the 103rd—it must have succeeded by now. The abomination contained, the witnesses—"
Aldric's gaze shifted to the female forever knight, the sword not wavering from Vance's throat. "Time?" he echoed, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You speak of time as if it is a commodity we possess in abundance. Those Scouts in pursuit of our men, do you think they will simply give up? They are tenacious vermin. Always have been, just like 50 years ago. If they reach the 103rd before the purge is complete, if they uncover even a fragment of our operation... the consequences will be catastrophic. The royal court will demand answers. Our influence will be questioned. And the divine work... delayed."
The two knights bowed their heads lower, sweat beading on their brows despite the chill in the chamber. The weight of Aldric's disappointment was heavier than any blade.
"I should kill you for this," Aldric continued, the sword's edge biting deeper into Vance's skin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck, warm and sticky. "Here and now. As an example to the Order of the price of incompetence."
Vance's breath hitched, his eyes wide with terror. Anya trembled beside him, waiting for the inevitable swing.
"But," Aldric said, withdrawing the blade with deliberate slowness, "that would not be the case. Not yet." He sheathed the sword with a soft rasp. "You will live. For now. You'd better hope that those Scouts in pursuit of our men don't jeopardize the mission. If the purge fails because of your blunders... your deaths will be a mercy compared to what awaits."
The two knights sagged in relief, though the fear lingered like a shadow. "Thank you, my lord," Vance whispered, touching his bleeding neck. "We... we will not fail again."
Aldric turned back to the map, dismissing them with a wave. "Pray to the Eternal Forge that you don't have to. Leave me. I must contemplate our next move."
The two rose unsteadily and backed out of the chamber, the guards outside eyeing them with a mix of pity and suspicion. As the heavy door closed behind them, Vance leaned against the wall, his legs threatening to give way.
"That was too close," Anya muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "If the Scouts reach the 103rd..."
"They won't," Vance said, though doubt colored his voice. "Sir Edric... he bought us time. And the purge... it has to be done by now."
But as they walked the shadowed corridors, the tremor hung over them like a guillotine blade. The Order's divine work was a delicate web, and one snapped thread could unravel it all. They had escaped the Scouts, but the true judgment; of Lord Aldric, of the mission's success…still loomed. And in the silence of Wall Sina's depths, they could only wait, hearts pounding, for word from the blood-soaked fields of the 103rd. Or their captured brethren.
_____________________
Meanwhile…
Inside the interrogation room had long lost since turned to a tomb of flickering shadows and lingering agony. The single oil lamp swayed gently on its chain, casting erratic pools of light that danced across the blood-streaked floor like mocking spirits. Everywhere was thick, rancid with the metallic tang of blood, the acrid bite of sweat-soaked fear, and the faint, underlying rot of despair that seeped from the stone walls.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound of their own blood pooling beneath the iron chairs was a metronome of torment, each drop a reminder that they were still alive…for now.
"Ray"; or rather, Knight-Brother Harlan; slumped in his restraints, his body evidence of Levi's meticulous brutality. His left eye was a swollen, purple-black mass, sealed shut while his jaw throbbed with every shallow breath, the shattered molars grinding against raw nerves, sending jolts of fire up his skull. Blood crusted his split lips, and when he tried to swallow, it tasted like rusted iron. His companion, "Foss"; Knight-Brother Phil; fared no better. His dislocated shoulder screamed with every involuntary twitch, the joint a grinding mess of bone and torn ligament, while his broken fingers pulsed like living coals, the exposed nerves exposed to the damp air.
The door that had slammed shut behind them felt like an eternity ago, but the echo still reverberated in their minds. They were alone now, bound to the unyielding chairs, the silence pressing in like a physical weight. Harlan shifted slightly, wincing as fresh pain lanced through his jaw. He spat a glob of blood-tinged saliva onto the floor, where it joined the growing puddle.
"Those... those filthy Scouts," Harlan rasped, his voice a wet, slurred gurgle through the wreckage of his mouth. "They'll meet their end soon enough. Arrogant bastards... thinking they can meddle in the divine order and walk away unscathed." He let out a low, pained chuckle that dissolved into a cough, blood flecking his chin. "The midget... Levi... should have seen his face when we told him. That flicker of doubt, of fear. His comrades, riding straight into the purge... ha... they'll be ash by now."
Phil managed a weak, broken laugh of his own, his chest heaving with the effort. His good eye watered from the agony in his arm, but the shared defiance was a balm. "Y-yeah... that look. Like we'd gutted him right there. 'Y-your precious S-Squad Leader Z-Zoë... and h-her little t-team... th-they're r-riding straight into h-hell.' Priceless. The fool deployed them anyway. Straight to their deaths. Chasing shadows that don't concern them. The Order will cleanse them all."
They leaned back as much as their bonds allowed, the laughter bubbling up despite the pain, a twisted catharsis in the face of their suffering. It was a shield against the despair, a reminder that their sacrifice was part of something greater. The Scouts were blind insects buzzing around a flame, and soon, they would burn.
"We'll be out of here soon," Harlan muttered, his voice gaining a sliver of strength. "Ana and Hanzel escaped. They'll alert Sir Aldric, or the nearest knights. The Order doesn't abandon its own. They'll come for us. These walls won't hold forever."
Phil nodded weakly, his breath rattling. "Aye. The purge at the 103rd... it's done by now. The abomination contained, the witnesses silenced. Our brothers will—"
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing down the stone corridor outside. The two knights stiffened, their brief moment of solace shattering like glass. Harlan's good eye darted to the door, his body tensing against the restraints. Phil swallowed hard, fresh sweat beading on his brow.
"More torture," Phil whispered, his voice cracking. "The midget's back for round two."
Harlan clenched his jaw, ignoring the fresh wave of pain. "Hold fast, brother. The divine light guides us. They can break our bodies, but not our—"
The footsteps stopped just outside the door. A low murmur of voices filtered through the thick wood; two scouts, the guards posted to watch them.
"What—how did you get down here?" one guard demanded, his voice laced with confusion and alarm.
"Identify yourself! This is a restricted—NNGH!" the second began, but his words cut off in a sharp grunt.
THUD. THUD.
The sounds were heavy, meaty impacts; like bodies being hurled against stone. Groans followed, low and pained, then silence. The knights exchanged a glance, hope flickering in their eyes. Rescue? Already?
The jangle of keys in the lock. The door creaked open, spilling a wedge of firelight into the dim cell. A figure stepped through, cloaked in shadow, the light haloing them from behind.
"Took you long enough," Harlan rasped, relief flooding his voice. "Get these bonds off. We need to—"
The figure stepped fully into the lamplight, and the words died in his throat.
It wasn't a comrade. It wasn't anyone from the Order. The intruder was a young woman; perhaps in her mid teens. She was slight, shrouded in a heavy, travel-stained cloak of Paradisian make, but cut with a subtle, foreign elegance—the hood was pointed, the seams were too precise, the dull grey fabric seemed to drink the torchlight rather than reflect it. The hood was drawn up, casting her face in deep shadow, but the lower half was visible: a sharp, pale chin, and lips set in a small, unreadable line.
She stepped into the cell, and the door swung shut behind her with a soft, definitive click. The air, already cold, grew colder still, carrying a new scent—dust, old parchment, and a faint, ozonic tang of outworldliness.
The Knights' relief curdled into bewilderment, then into a slow, dawning horror as their eyes adjusted.
She wasn't just not a Knight they knew. She was…
"You," Harlan breathed, his voice a whisper of pure, venomous recognition, not by name, but by the aura of foul sorcery that clung to her like smoke. "You... you're no Forever Knight," he snarled, his voice thick with revulsion. The witch. The one who slipped the net if it wasn't for that old man."
Phil's one good eye bulged. The memory surfaced through the pain-fog: the blinding flash of light in the royal dungeon, the old wizard's desperate spell, and this girl—this thing—vanishing into the chaos as the Knights stormed in. She was supposed to be lost in the wilderness, a loose end to be tidied up later.
The girl didn't answer immediately. She surveyed them, her gaze moving from Harlan's shattered face to Phil's mangled limb with a clinical detachment that was more unsettling than any glare. Finally, she spoke. Her voice was young, but it carried a weight, a resonance that didn't belong in a dungeon. It was the sound of pages turning in a forbidden book, of stones grinding deep underground.
"No," she said, the single word flat and final.
She raised a hand from the folds of her cloak. It looked petite and delicate. But as she stretched it towards them, purple energy began to crackle to life around her fingers, glowing with an ethereal light that cast eerie shadows across the cell walls.
The two knights cried out as unseen force gripped them. It wasn't gentle. It was a violent, telekinetic yank that tore them from their iron chairs with the sound of straining leather straps and groaning bones. They hung in the air, suspended like grotesque puppets, their wounds screaming in fresh protest.
The girl took a step closer, her face still shadowed. The purple glow from her hand illuminated her lips, now turned down in a faint frown of distaste.
"You took my uncle," she stated, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "In the stone city, with the pretty gates. You had him in a cage much like this one. He is not here. So, you must know where he is." She tilted her head. "Now… tell me."
The demand hung in the air. The Knights, dangling and helpless, felt a surge of their old, fanatical defiance. They were prisoners of the Scouts, yes. But they would not be interrogated by this… this stray spell-slinger.
The girl let out a small smirk looking up at them to reveal vibrant violet eyes. "No? Too scared I see."
Phil, dangling like a puppet, managed a sneer through his pain. "Uncle? That old wizard fool? Probably screaming in the depths right now, witch. We broke him days ago. He begged for death before the end." He hawked and spat a bloody glob directly at her face, the spittle landing with a wet smack on her cheek.
Her small smirk died instantly. She wiped the spit away with one hand, her violet eyes narrowing to slits of pure, unbridled fury. The air in the cell grew heavy, charged, like the moments before a storm unleashes its wrath.
"You are very foul-mouthed," she said softly, her voice a deadly calm that sent chills down their spines. "And you won't tell me what I need to know."
"Over our dead bodies," Harlan spat back, defiance blazing even as he hung suspended. "We'd rather die than betray the Order."
She regarded them for a long, tense moment, the purple glow around her hand intensifying. Then, with a swift, violent gesture, she flung them both backward. They slammed into the far wall with bone-jarring force, the impact rattling their already broken bodies. Harlan felt fresh blood trickle from his mouth, his vision blurring. Vance groaned, his dislocated shoulder screaming anew.
One of them; Harlan; looked up through the haze of pain, his voice a ragged whisper. "You love this, don't you? Torturing the faithful. So what are you going to do, witch? Kill us? End it quick?"
Her lips curved into a grim smile, devoid of any warmth. "No," she said simply. She reached into a hidden pocket of her cloak revealing a strange pouch designed with teeth for what appeared to be the opening and withdrew two small rocks, etched with glowing purple lines that pulsed like veins of dark energy. She tossed them casually to the floor between the knights.
The rocks hit the stone with a faint clink, rolling to a stop. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, the lines on their surfaces flared brighter, the rocks beginning to expand, cracking and reshaping with unnatural speed. Chunks of stone and shadow coalesced, forming hulking, humanoid shapes; rock golems, their bodies jagged and immense, glowing purple eyes igniting in crude, near faceless heads. They growled low, a sound like grinding boulders, as they rose to their full, towering height, looming over the two knights.
The knights' eyes widened in terror, their earlier defiance crumbling like dry earth. "What... what are those things?!" Phil stammered, scrambling back against the wall.
She turned her heel, walking toward the door without a backward glance. "They will," she said coolly. As she reached the threshold, she paused, casting one last look over her shoulder.
"Boys," she addressed the golems, her voice laced with wicked satisfaction, "take care of them for me, will you?"
The golems' growls deepened, echoing through the cell like an avalanche in miniature. They lumbered forward, massive stone fists rising as the knights' screams began; high, desperate wails that begged for mercy that would never come.
Outside the cell, in the dim corridor, she walked away, the heavy door swinging shut behind her with a resounding clang. The screams filtered through the wood, muffled but unmistakable, growing more frantic, more animalistic with each passing second. A small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she melted into the shadows. She pulled her hood lower, the purple glow of her magic fading like a whisper in the night…She had learned nothing of Uncle Hex's location. But she will,
Soon.
Chapter 28-31 are already available on Patreon.com/Weeb Fanthom.