His breath came heavy. Tired.
Disorientation blurred the edges of his vision. His steps were almost steady. Almost composed.
Despite it all, something burned within his chest—cold and gnawing, patient as rot.
They had done something to his body.
He drew a deeper breath.
No. Several things.
And Athena—his Mantle Blade? Even the faintest reach toward her told him something was wrong there too. The thought sat uneasily. Could they do that as well?
No answer came.
His gaze drifted toward the courtyard in the distance. Still ominous. Still indifferent.
Behind him—
No. Above.
A crimson beam tore into the sky, lancing through the seven rings and staining the near-bright expanse in blood-red light. From its length, thousands of black crows spilled forth in a frenzy of feathers and shrill cries—crimson-eyed, chaotic, their wings beating against one another as they scattered outward across the keep.
The loose feathers they shed drifted on the wind.
Then dissolved into creeping dark fog.
Their purpose was singular. Spread the word. Spread it fast. To every corner, every inch, every ear in the Vale.
A heresy had been invoked.
All were invited to bear witness.
He glanced down once more at the scroll in his hand, eyes settling on the only lines that mattered:
[Blood Trial Decree — Approved]
[Time — Midnight, 25th of September, 1730 I.C.]
[Location — Plains of Barbel, Arena of Ash and Embers]
He folded it with a faint, reluctant sigh.
Ahead, the bridge stretched forward, flanked by the two statues.
Blade. Scales.
How ironic, he thought.
He passed between them and stepped into the busy courtyard. The people moved with practiced precision, indifference intact—but not entirely unmarked. Curiosity had settled in the edges of them. Just enough for glances. Just enough to notice.
Then they moved on, returning to whatever roles they played in this machine.
As he neared the threshold, he felt it again.
That gaze.
Foreign. Yet familiar.
His head tilted, barely. High above, in one of the galleries, a figure stood still against the stone—steel-polished helm, motionless, watching. Too precise to be coincidence.
That one again.
Unease coiled low in his chest.
He walked forward. Did not look again.
He had work to do. Preparations to make. A creeping watcher was the least of his concerns.
***********
Even as his steps carried him out of the Red Keep—his desired outcome secured, the weight of it folded neatly in his hand—his thoughts drifted, inevitably, to where this whole charade had begun.
That delusional, narcissistic bastard.
And that was saying something, considering how highly Chion regarded himself.
True. He had played a role in the massacre.
Not a role.
The role.
But still—
He had never intended for it to spiral this far. Never intended loose ends. Questions. He had planned it better than that. Cleaner. Quieter.
Until he appeared.
Until he ruined everything—forced him out of the shadows, out of the careful, calculated safety of the silent protégé, and shoved him into the boots of the Devil.
How irritating.
He exhaled faintly, already catching the whispers threading through the crowds now enlightened to what had transpired within the Red Keep. To what their favourite devil had done.
He ignored them. Completely.
He would repay that bastard's kindness in full. For the Chambers. For the considerable effort invested in burning him afterward.
The gates of the Inner Vale loomed ahead. Behind him, the whispers had swelled past a storm's worth of noise. Ahead—quieter. A silence enforced by law, one that would see a man beheaded for speaking too freely within its bounds.
Let them whisper.
It changed nothing.
Hopefully, Violet had followed instructions. Then maybe—maybe—his day might begin to improve. If only slightly.
He passed through the gates without pause, moving toward his chambers in silence.
Gazes followed him. Bewildered. Curious. Uncertain. Some outraged.
He ignored the poetry of it all.
***************
As Chion approached his door, he felt it.
A presence.
No—more than one.
Four.
His gaze narrowed. Not satisfaction. Not yet. Threat was still very possible.
One hand drifted toward Athena. The other pushed the door open with a soft click.
The familiar air greeted him—cool, yet warm. Faintly scented with something living.
His gaze found her first.
Violet. Seated on his bed, her head resting lightly against the hilt of a blade planted between her hands. Her eyes shifted toward him—briefly. An invitation, nothing more.
Then movement.
His gaze slid.
Hector.
Thirty-Ninth bearer of the Thirty-Ninth Generation. Black hair. Blue eyes. Scars etched across his face as though he held a personal feud with the god of knives. If loose cannon could be given human form, it would look exactly like this—slouched against the table, blade in hand. Sheathed, but still in hand.
Chion stepped inside. One step.
Agatha.
Twenty-Seventh Mantle bearer of the Thirty-Ninth. She seemed oddly absorbed in his shelves, leaning into them with quiet focus—one hand resting on her hilt, the other turning a page. A fairy tale. One he, unfortunately, had a fondness for. The book lowered slightly. Her silver gaze met his. She said nothing.
Then—the fourth.
Runan...?
No.
Wrong.
Just behind the door he had come through—
Leah Nyxvalis.
Sixth Mantle bearer of the Thirty-Ninth. One of the few Nyxvalis women who stood well past six and a half feet. His gaze found her and held there a moment, reading her posture with the quiet, honest calculation of someone who knew their own limits.
If she moved—if she struck—he wouldn't block it. Not fully.
A quiet exhale left him.
How frighteningly competent Violet truly was. And to think, he had gambled on the assumption the others would even cooperate.
He stepped fully inside. Breathed. Closed the door behind him.
His gaze found Violet—a brief, approving glance sideways.
She answered with an irritated sneer.
Good.
"Welcome," he intoned, a faint smile finding his lips.
The book in Agatha's hand shifted.