Henry and Roderick strolled back toward the intersection, their boots crunching on the glass of shattered streetlights. The aftermath of the girls' fight was a testament to their raw potential—three titans lay in cooling heaps of ash and severed vines, the ground scorched by Wanda's spells and cleaved by Serena and Claire's blades.
Roderick sheathed his sabre, the blade shrinking back into a rapier with a sharp clink. "Well," he mused, looking over the trio. "It seems the 'Prophesied Heroes' aren't just a marketing ploy after all. Though, given they have Caspian and Lenore as babysitters, I suppose failure was never an option."
Caspian didn't rise to the bait. He was already scanning the surrounding rooftops. "The noise from that skirmish was loud. If Viroth is as connected to this city as we think, she knows exactly where we are. We need to go dark, now."
"Agreed," Henry said, his starlit eyes narrowing. "Let's find a hole to crawl into and map out the next mile."
They found a suburban home that looked disturbingly untouched. Inside, the air was stale, smelling of lavender detergent and cold coffee. The group gathered in the living room, the moonlight filtering through the blinds in thin, skeletal stripes.
Henry checked the seal on the front door. "You guys catch your breath. I'm going to go scout the situation ahead. I'll be back in a while."
"Wait, Henry—" Serena started, but he was already gone, his silhouette bleeding into the shadows of the porch as if he were made of smoke.
The Royal Distraction
The living room fell into an awkward silence. Serena, Wanda, and Claire collapsed onto a velvet couch, their armor humming as it entered standby mode. Lenore sat on the floor, her back against the wall, her horned helmet tilted down as she entered a state of meditative readiness.
The silence lasted exactly ten seconds before Roderick kicked a chair out and sat down, producing a crystal bottle of amber-colored whiskey and a set of glasses from his coat.
"Who wants a glass?" Roderick asked, the liquid swirling in the bottle. "I certainly do. Killing gods is thirsty work."
Claire frowned, her hand still resting on the hilt of the blade Henry gave her. "Aren't we on a mission? We're literally in the middle of a viral apocalypse."
"Which is exactly why we should drink," Roderick countered, uncorking the bottle with a satisfying pop. "We have to wait for the Colonel to finish playing scout anyway. Might as well be comfortable."
Caspian crossed his arms, looking like a tired older brother. "Roderick, they're nineteen. This is their first live-fire mission. And Lenore, despite being a walking disaster, is the same age. None of them are legal."
Roderick offered a wicked, lopsided smile. "The legal age used to be eighteen before the Council got boring and raised it. I'm a Prince; I'm pretty sure I can issue a temporary royal decree for a round of shots."
"I won't say no," Serena said suddenly, surprising everyone. She looked exhausted, the gold of her armor reflecting the dim light. "If we're going to be 'Heroes,' I'd like to feel a little less like a terrified student for five minutes."
Roderick beamed, pouring the amber liquid into four glasses. Wanda took hers, watching the way the light caught the surface of the whiskey. She didn't drink yet. Instead, she looked up at the Prince, her analytical eyes cutting through his playful facade.
"So," Wanda began, her voice quiet but pointed. "I was wondering. Why do you and Henry hate each other so much?"
Claire swirled the amber liquid in her glass. "The two of you are a walking contradiction," she noted. "One second you're at each other's throats, and the next you're fighting with a synergy that looks like it took decades to master. Why the mask?"
Roderick let out a dry, melodic chuckle, leaning back until the chair groaned. "Hate? I don't hate him. It's hard to hate a ghost. You three only know the man who smells like Alcohol and cynicism. You don't know him from five years ago."
Caspian shifted in his seat, his shadow lengthening against the wall. "Roderick, drop it. Talking behind a man's back while he's out scouting for our lives isn't the royal way."
"They're his students, Cass," Roderick countered, his eyes flashing. "They should know exactly what kind of foundation their 'Instructor' is built on."
Wanda leaned forward. "Then tell us. What was he like?"
Roderick took a slow sip, his gaze drifting to the flickering streetlights outside. "Henry Remington used to be the definition of a Hero. He was disciplined, noble, and—dare I say it—infuriatingly righteous. He was the 'White Knight' of the Empire. Every poster, every recruitment drive, every young soldier's dream... that was him."
Serena snorted, a brief laugh escaping her. "Henry? Righteous? In what world? The man we know would rather take a nap than lead a parade."
"That's exactly the point," Roderick said, his voice losing its playful edge. "He was everything you heroes are striving to be. He never backed down, never compromised. And because I was... well, me, we clashed constantly. He spent half his youth trying to 'correct' my morals. He was a man with a spine made of iron and a heart of gold."
Claire's brow furrowed. "Then what happened? What broke a man like that?"
The room grew noticeably colder. Even Lenore's obsidian armor seemed to pulse with a low, mournful vibration.
"Mnemos happened," Roderick said, the word hanging in the air like a death sentence. "Me, Caspian, Hayley... we were all there when the city was taken over. It wasn't a battle; it was a slaughterhouse. We were a group of eight there leading an army in Mnemos. The army was wiped out and only eight of us walked out of that continent."
Caspian cut in, his voice sharp with suppressed pain. "Mnemos changed everyone who survived it. You don't see that kind of horror and come back the same. Henry just... got hit harder than us."
"Don't be ignorant, Cass," Roderick snapped, his composure finally cracking. "We both saw it. We saw the moment the Guest in Yellow tried to claim him. Don't tell me that had nothing to do with this change."
"Don't you dare bring that thing up!" Caspian stood, his chair scraping violently against the floor. "Are you suggesting he's compromised? That he's under its control?"
"I'm saying you remember what the entity whispered to him," Roderick hissed, ignoring Caspian's anger. "It didn't say it would kill him. It said, 'Let me make you whole again.' That's what it told him before it took over the continent."
"Are you saying the current Henry is his 'true' self?" Caspian asked, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and fear. "That he'll never go back to being the man he was?"
Roderick stared into his glass, the amber liquid reflecting the red veins on the walls. "Think about it, Cass. Henry never actually had a personality of his own before Mnemos. In the Army, he was the Perfect Hero because that's what the Army needed. Before that, he was the Perfect Heir because that's what his family demanded. His entire life has been him wearing a mask that fits the room he's in."
He took a final, bitter sip. "The Henry we have now? He's not a man who changed. He's a man having an identity crisis because of the change he went through. He's trying to figure out who he is."
The front door creaked open.
Henry stepped into the living room, his black coat damp with the crimson mist. He paused, his gaze sweeping over the tense group, the whiskey bottle, and the heavy silence.
"You all look like you've seen a ghost," Henry said, his voice as dry and apathetic as ever.