It's dark, but I can feel everything—the rough drag of my body across uneven ground, the hushed whispers of people around me, and the sharp jolt of my limbs as I bump along. Then, a sudden, loud thud brings it all to a halt. The world plunges into darkness once again, and it feels like time itself freezes. Seconds stretch into minutes, maybe even hours, as my consciousness slowly drifts back to me.
I feel the weight of my body first—the dull ache, the stiffness in my limbs—and then, slowly, I pry my eyes open. Everything is a blur at first, the world swimming around me in half-formed shapes and muted colors. But as the fog lifts, clarity returns. My vision sharpens, and I realize where I am.
Wooden bars. A cage.
"Where am I?"
The question spins in my mind, tangled with confusion and frustration. My head pounds as I try to recall, try to piece together the events that led me here.
"What happened?"
Flashes of the grassland surge into my memory, and with them, a hot surge of anger.
"Where is that silver assassin...?"
It all becomes clear, painfully clear. The grassland, the fight, that smug bastard who shattered my first steps toward discovering who I am. The thought makes my blood boil. I wanted nothing but answers, to take control of my life, and he—he took that from me. But then, a part of me, annoyingly calm, reminds me that I'm alive, that I'm still here, just... locked away in this wooden cell.
"Argh," I grunt, feeling the uncomfortable pressure against my back. Now that I'm fully awake, the rough, gritty texture of the wooden mattress grates against my skin, through the fabric of my white clothes. I glance down at them, the intricate patterns embroidered into the fabric catching the dim light. These clothes... they might be the only clue I have, the only link to wherever I came from.
I grit my teeth and force myself to sit up, every movement deliberate and slow, as if testing the limits of my body. My muscles groan in protest, but I push through. Sitting upright now, I take in my surroundings, my gaze locking on the wooden bars in front of me.
They're sturdy, thick, a barrier between me and freedom. The warm light illuminating the bars casts a faint, almost mocking glow on my confined space. I run my hands over the rough surface of the mattress beneath me, the textures scraping against my palms.
I stare at the bars, at the slim gap between them, and a bitter realization settles in my chest. This is my reality now. My body aches, my mind churns with questions, but one thing is certain: I have to get out of here.
I stretch my legs, extending my feet slowly, feeling the tension in my muscles as I raise my arms above my head. I close my eyes, focusing on my breathing, controlling each inhale and exhale with precision. My body is sore, still recovering from that battle, from the heightened state of awareness that drained every ounce of energy. I need to feel rested, to release the strain before it drags me down.
After several minutes of deep breaths and gentle stretching, I can feel the stiffness in my limbs start to ease. My body feels lighter, more fluid. Satisfied, I rise from the wooden mattress—if I can even call it that—and step toward the wooden bars that confine me. My hands curl around them, and immediately, I sense it. This wood—it's different. Stronger. There's a weight to it, a power that doesn't come from ordinary timber.
I frown, gripping the bars harder, testing them with a slight pull. They don't budge. I know instinctively that breaking these bars isn't going to be easy, maybe not possible at all. To confirm my suspicion, I take a step back, planting my right foot behind me, my left foot forward, preparing to kick with full force.
But then, a voice cuts through the silence, cold and emotionless.
"Don't even try. That kind of wood isn't something you can easily break."
The words stop me mid-motion, my leg frozen in place. The voice comes from the cell next to mine, low and devoid of any feeling. It sends an uneasy shiver down my spine. Whoever this person is, their tone alone confirms what I already suspected—this place, these bars, they aren't ordinary. Nothing about this is normal.
"You'll just attract the guards," he adds, his voice flat, as if he couldn't care less about the warning he's giving me.
I slowly lower my leg, fixing my stance from one ready to strike to one of curiosity. I walk toward the wooden wall separating us, my footsteps deliberately slow, calculating. When I reach the wall, I press my hand against it, feeling the grain beneath my fingers. I ask the only question that matters right now, the question burning in my mind.
"What is this place?"
There's a pause, and for a moment, I wonder if he'll even answer. But then, his voice returns, this time with a faint note of realization threading through the cold monotone.
"I see, so you're an outsider," he says, as if my situation suddenly makes sense to him. "Did you do any crimes to get yourself here?"
"He's dangerous." The thought pulses through my mind the moment I realize that he's figured me out with just one question. I don't even know where I'm from, but this guy—this cold, emotionless voice—he knew I wasn't from here the second I opened my mouth. I've already revealed too much, and I can feel the weight of that mistake sinking in. Being an open book in a place like this, where I know nothing and no one, is a recipe for disaster.
I swallow hard, forcing down the growing knot of tension in my throat. I need to buy time, to redirect the conversation before I give away anything else. After a few seconds of careful silence, I respond, deflecting with a question of my own. "What about you? Have you done any crimes?"
The words come out steady, controlled, but inside, my pulse is racing. I can't let him see that I'm vulnerable, that I'm grasping at straws in this dark, unfamiliar place. Silence stretches between us, an unsettling stillness that feels like it could swallow me whole. Seconds tick by like minutes until finally, his voice cuts through the quiet.
"The fact that we're here already says we both did something, so there's no need to answer that." His voice sends a chill down my spine—so cold, so devoid of emotion. "But here's the thing... knowing that you just woke up, a lady will come here, and when she does, just let everything she wants happen."
His words are laced with a warning, one that I can't afford to ignore. But the fact that he knows this, that he knows the routine and how things work here, it tells me that he's a native—someone who belongs here, someone dangerous. I narrow my eyes, thinking, calculating. He's already told me too much, which makes me wonder why he's even bothering.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself before I speak again, testing him. "Why should I listen to you?"
His response is immediate, sharp. "You're smart. You can figure it out."
The confidence in his voice sends a fresh wave of unease through me. He's right, of course. I didn't need to ask. His words only confirm what I already suspected—this man is an expert at reading people, at manipulating situations to his advantage. And he knows, just like I do, that if I don't go along with whatever this lady wants, I'll be in a world of trouble.
Still, I press him one last time, trying to get a clearer sense of who I'm dealing with. "Why are you telling me this? When you know I'm an outsider?"
The silence stretches again, his cold voice finally returning, calm as ever. "Who knows?" He pauses for a beat, then adds, "I just do what my intuition tells me."
I can't trust his words, but I can trust the way he says them. Cold, emotionless, calculated—this man is someone to avoid, someone whose attention I don't want lingering on me. My instincts scream to keep my distance, so I retreat to the uncomfortable mattress, the rough wood pressing into my back as I sit down. The silence wraps around me like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. But it doesn't last long.
Sharp footsteps echo down the corridor, growing louder as they approach. Each step reverberates in the quiet, drawing nearer. My muscles tense instinctively.
"Looks like this is the lady he was talking about…"
My thoughts shift to the dimly lit bars, my eyes narrowing as a figure materializes through the gloom. A woman, long silver hair cascading down her back, silver eyes gleaming in the flickering light. Her presence sends a jolt through me—a familiarity, an unsettling resemblance to him, that silver fox who ambushed me.
"Oh? You really do have strange eyes, just like he said~" Her voice is light, playful, but there's something behind it, a sharpness, a curiosity that cuts deeper than her teasing tone suggests. She studies me with those silver eyes, and I can feel her gaze lingering, like she's pulling pieces of me apart.
"They're related," I think. The thought is instant, clear. Her features, her aura—it's too similar to his. But even as the anger rises in my chest, I force it down. She's not him. She wasn't the one who attacked me when I was about to take the first step in my life. I can't afford to lash out now, not when I'm so vulnerable.
I exhale, my face calm, my body still, though inside I'm simmering.
"A yellow four-pointed star pupil—how amusing~" she continues with a smirk, her tone still playful, still studying me like I'm some sort of experiment.
"Come with me, little boy, we need to have a little chat~" she adds, and her words drip with a familiarity I don't welcome. But there's no choice here. I'm in their territory, in their cell, and my emotions have no place in this game.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small wooden fragment, shaped like a circle with the outline of a leafless tree etched into it. She presses it against the bars, and the room plunges into darkness.
"What...?" My mind races in confusion, but before I can react, a hole opens in the center of the wooden wall, splitting it into four sections that retract smoothly, letting light flood back into the cell.
Just like that, the bars separating me from freedom are gone. I stare at the open space where they once stood, the reminder sharp and clear—I'm in their world now. My emotions, my anger, they mean nothing here. I have to play by their rules. I have to act accordingly.
She gestures for me to follow, and with a steady breath and a stoic look masking the storm brewing inside me, I comply. I step out of my cell, feeling the strange freedom of movement, but it's a false freedom—I know that much. The moment I'm out, the wooden bars slide back into place with a solid thud, as if reminding me of the cage that still lingers around me.
"Follow me, little boy~" she says, her tone light and teasing, but there's an edge to it, a quiet demand.
Before I can take another step, that familiar voice—emotionless, flat—cuts through the air behind me.
"So, you're not just any outsider, huh?"
I freeze. Slowly, I turn to face him, the man who had spoken to me from the neighboring cell. His face is as unreadable as his voice, devoid of any expression or emotion. He stands there, a shadow in the dim light, watching me with cold detachment. Everything about him confirms what I already knew—this is a man I need to avoid. His words linger in the space between us, heavy, but I don't respond. I simply turn back to the silver-haired woman and begin to follow her, my back tense as I feel his gaze linger for a second too long.
I catch up to her quickly, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the narrow walls as we ascend a wooden staircase. "Where are we going?" I ask, my voice calm but filled with the cautious tension that's building inside me.
"You'll see soon enough~" she replies, her voice still playful, teasing as if she's enjoying some private joke I'm not in on. The steps groan beneath our weight, the wooden walls pressing in around us as we move further up, the light dim and flickering. It feels like the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for something to unfold.
Her next question comes lightly, almost casually, but the weight behind it is unmistakable. "More importantly, can you tell me more about yourself? Where did you come from?"
The question sets off alarm bells in my mind. They don't know much about me, and that means one thing—I'm going to be interrogated. I can't lie, not here, not now. A lie would only bury me deeper, and I can't afford to lose any ground. So, even if it sounds unbelievable, I'll stick to the truth.
"I just woke up in a grassland," I say, my words measured, careful. "And all I know is that my name is... Chiaro Crepuscule."
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, gauging her reaction as we continue upward. The playful lilt in her voice might be a front, but there's something in the way she's listening—intent, focused.
"Oh? That's all, Chiaro?" she replies, her tone dripping with both amusement and curiosity, as if she's savoring some private joke only she understands.
The narrow staircase stretches endlessly before us, each step a weighty reminder of how little I truly know—about this place, my captors, or why I'm even here. The air feels heavier with every step upward, the walls closing in. But even in the face of the unknown, I press forward, fueled by the burning need to find answers and, more importantly, to survive.
Suddenly, her footsteps stop, and I halt behind her. In front of us, a blank wooden wall stands, seemingly a dead end. But she doesn't hesitate. With a swift, fluid motion, she retrieves that same wooden circle from her pocket, pressing it against the wall. Just like before, the wood responds, splitting and retracting to reveal yet another set of stairs spiraling upward into the shadows.
I ready myself to move forward, but before I can take a step, I feel her hand on my shoulder, firm but playful.
"Since the little boy isn't in the clear yet," she says, her voice carrying that familiar teasing lilt, "I'll have to cover those eyes for a bit~"
My breath hitches, but I don't resist. There's no point. Clearly, they don't want me seeing more than I should, and if they're this cautious, it only confirms that whatever is waiting ahead is far more dangerous than I've realized.
I stand still as she pulls a soft handkerchief from her pocket, and without a word, she wraps it around my eyes, securing it tightly. The world around me plunges into darkness once again, the oppressive blackness seeping into my senses. My heart picks up pace as I realize how vulnerable this makes me. They don't want me knowing this place. Something's coming, something they're hiding. My instincts scream at me, but there's no choice now.
"There we go~" she murmurs, her breath warm against my skin as she lifts my chin with her fingers, tilting my face toward her. "You look quite intriguing now~"
I feel her hand grasp mine, soft and deceptively gentle, guiding me up the stairs. Her touch is warm, her voice like silk, but every instinct inside me screams not to fall for it. There's something dangerous beneath that charm. We keep climbing, her steps steady, as she leads me carefully upward.
Surprisingly, as my sight is taken from me, my other senses sharpen—every step on the stairs, every shift in the air. I hear a soft thud behind us as if the wall closed, sealing the path we've left behind. It's clear now—there's no turning back.
Her soft breaths mingle with the faint echoes of our ascent, and the tension coils tighter in my chest. We reach the top sooner than expected. I hear the soft click of a doorknob turning, and my heart skips a beat. This is it, I think, but freedom doesn't come. Instead, when the door opens, a flood of whispers hits my ears like a wave.
"Hey, isn't that the outsider? What's up with his white clothes?" A voice to my left murmurs, curiosity dripping from every word.
"I heard he has weird pupils..." Another whispers just behind me, the words slipping through the crowd, barely audible but unmistakable.
"I wonder what his Attribute is." That word—Attribute—hangs heavy in the air, laced with intrigue.
The cacophony of whispers swirls around me, and even though I can't see, I feel their eyes on me, like a thousand invisible hands pressing down. I'm an exhibit here, a curiosity, something foreign, and it only deepens the sense of isolation.
She keeps a firm grip on my hand, pulling me through the sea of murmurs. I stumble slightly, adjusting to the constant presence of eyes and voices. I can't see, but I can feel everything—the people shifting around me, their quiet chatter, their curiosity. The air is thick with intrigue and tension, and despite my blindness, I sense we are in a crowded place, bustling with bodies and energy.
The whispers tell me more than they realize. I'm not in my homeland anymore. My clothes mark me as different, foreign. My pupils are unusual enough to draw attention, and that word Attribute—that's the key.
I think back to the silver-haired man who ambushed me. He chanted something about "Silver Attribute" before his powers manifested. Is that what they're talking about? Do I have one? I don't even know. But if I don't. It'll be a problem. A big problem. Because if everyone here has one and I don't, then I'm vulnerable.
As she continues guiding me through the crowd, the murmur of whispers grows fainter, like a receding tide, until they become barely audible. It feels like we're moving into a more secluded area. Then, I hear it—a soft, swinging sound, like a door creaking open. A wave of warmth follows, bathing my skin in a light so soft, so strangely comforting that I almost freeze in place. It's odd—I don't remember anything but I know that there's no memory in my mind of ever experiencing this feeling, yet it stirs something deep within me, something unfamiliar but soothing.
I take another step, and the ground beneath my feet changes. No longer the cold, hard surface of the indoor floor, but something textured, something that tells me we're outside now. The warmth, the air—it all feels different, but even so, her hand remains firmly wrapped around mine. It's almost... comforting. But I can't let myself fall into that comfort, not with someone like her. My instincts scream that there's something lurking beneath her playful exterior, something hidden and dangerous.
"We're done walking now, little boy~" she says suddenly, her voice light but carrying that same teasing edge. She tightens her grip on my hand just as I'm about to take another step, halting me beside her.
That's when I hear it—a sound of something heavy, approaching us under the warm light that envelopes me. The noise grows closer, and then stops right in front of us. Without a word, she pulls me forward again, her grip guiding me with deliberate steps. I follow, and then my foot brushes against something—a raised platform.
I step onto it cautiously, feeling the smooth wood beneath my feet again. It feels sturdy but gives me the distinct impression that this isn't solid ground. We're on some kind of transport.
"Now, now, you can sit~" Her voice is playful, teasing, and it echoes in the space around us, tinged with amusement, like she's watching me fumble in the dark.
I feel her hand at my waist, guiding me down. I lower myself, expecting to land on a solid wooden seat or bench, something stable to support me. But instead, I'm met with something soft, warm, and entirely unexpected beneath me. My body freezes in confusion.
Then, just as the realization begins to dawn, she lets out a light, playful chuckle. "My, my~ not there~"
The teasing note in her voice is unmistakable, and embarrassment surges through me like a tidal wave. My face flushes hot, and I shoot up, my body stiffening as I realize where I've just sat. Heat prickles at my skin, even though I can't see her, but I can feel her eyes on me—amused, mocking. As I straighten, her fingers deftly untie the handkerchief around my eyes, and light floods my vision, momentarily blinding me as I blink to adjust.
Slowly, the room comes into focus. We're in an enclosed wooden space, not much larger than the cell I just left. A small window on my left lets in a sliver of dim light, casting soft shadows across the wooden walls. To my right, a wooden door stands closed, its surface weathered but sturdy. Directly in front of me, a row of wooden platforms serves as seating—where I should have been sitting.
I turn and glance at her, catching the smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes are lit with amusement, clearly enjoying the situation, enjoying my discomfort. She's seated right behind where I had been, lounging as if this is all some grand joke.
"What are you doing sitting on my lap~?" she teases, her voice dripping with playful mockery, echoing off the wooden walls of the small room.
I lock eyes with her, the disgust rising within me, coiling in my chest like something poisonous. I grit my teeth, refusing to let it show. With swift, controlled movements, I step away from her, crossing the small space to the wooden platform across from her and sitting down, putting distance between us.
"That's not in any way appropriate," I say, my voice steady, though my anger simmers just beneath the surface. "Even for inmates like me. If this is how you treat all of them here, then you know exactly what kind of person you are."
I don't break eye contact, letting the words hang in the air like a challenge. This woman—she disgusts me, and her presence only stokes the fire of my anger. She feels cut from the same cloth as that silver-haired fox who ambushed me, both of them oozing with the kind of arrogance that makes my skin crawl. I want nothing to do with either of them.
She leans back slightly, her smirk never fading, and chuckles, her voice light, teasing, but with that same edge of condescension. "Now, that's an interesting reaction~"
Her words hang in the air, almost daring me to respond, but I don't bite. I keep my gaze steady, refusing to be drawn into her games. We face each other now, a silent battle of wills, and though disgust surges within me like a rising tide, I hold it back, my expression carefully neutral.
I watch as she casually flicks the handkerchief that had once blinded me, draping it over the small window with an effortless motion. The room dims immediately, bathed in a muted glow, the outside world cut off once again. Isolated, trapped. The ease with which she drapes the cloth makes me uneasy. Something about it is too smooth, too intentional.
Before I can ask about the handkerchief—or anything else, for that matter—a masculine voice filters in from outside the enclosed wooden room.
"Where are we going, Lady Clandestina?" The voice is calm, professional.
"So, her name is Clandestina?" I think to myself, taking in every word, even as I maintain my blank expression, trying not to give away any thoughts.
"To the Inquisitorium~," she replies, her tone drenched in authority, yet playful.
"Inquisitorium?" I mentally repeat, my stomach tightening. It sounds like a place of interrogation—no doubt where they plan to pry information from me or information of me. I want to ask, to confirm what this Inquisitorium truly is, but before the question can form on my lips, the wooden room jolts slightly.
It begins moving forward, the sensation strange beneath my feet. Deprived of sight, thanks to the draped handkerchief blocking the window, I'm left with only the sound of the wood and the faint vibrations beneath me. The movement is smooth, almost unnaturally so—too smooth for a carriage. It feels like the room is gliding, floating through the air rather than rolling on the ground.
I turn my attention back to Clandestina, my patience wearing thin. It's time to probe her for answers. "What is the Inquisitorium?" I ask, keeping my expression as neutral as possible, though underneath the surface, disgust festers, barely contained.
Her eyes meet mine, her smirk widening, as if she knows exactly what I'm hiding. "You'll know soon enough, little boy~" she replies, her voice dripping with that same playful mystery.
Of course. What did I expect? She handkerchiefed the window, blinded me earlier—of course she's not going to explain anything, not with words. No, she wants to show me, to revel in my ignorance until the last possible moment. Her gaze remains locked on me, her smirk never faltering as she lounges in this eerie, floating transport. The way she looks at me, the subtle superiority in her eyes—I hate it. Every second of it.
"You said we need to have a little chat? Then dodging my questions doesn't really get you what you want," I snap, trying to keep my voice steady, even though frustration is gnawing at me from the inside.
She responds with a smirk, the kind of lady-like smirk that makes her elegance even more infuriating. Her gaze settles on me with amusement, and despite everything, despite the disgust roiling in my gut, I can't deny that she carries herself with an effortless charm, an elegance I wish didn't exist. And I hate that—I hate that she knows it.
"Seeing you blindfolded earlier already gave me what I want~," she says, her voice teasing, dripping with condescension.
That's it. I'm done. Her words are so drenched in mockery, so teasing, that it's clear she won't take me seriously, no matter what I say. It's pointless to push her any further, to expect any real answers from her. I clench my jaw, my fists tightening at my sides, and a wave of irritation pulses through me. She's playing her game, and I'm just the piece she's toying with.
I force myself to shut up, swallowing the retorts I want to throw back at her. If she won't answer me, then fine. I'll just have to let her show me whatever twisted game she's leading me into, because words won't get me anywhere with her. My body tenses, my frustration bubbling beneath the surface, but I keep my expression neutral. I've had enough of her taunts.
Let's just get this over with.
Then, without warning, the wooden caravan comes to a gentle halt. The shift in movement is subtle but unmistakable. A calm, professional voice from earlier pierces from the outside.
"We've arrived, Lady Clandestina."
Those words, finally—those words—are the ones I've been waiting to hear ever since this insufferable woman forced me into that humiliating encounter earlier. But that's behind me now. The Inquisitorium looms ahead, the place where I'll most likely be interrogated. I feel the weight of every step I will take, knowing I'm walking a razor-thin line. One wrong move, one misstep, and I'll plummet into whatever trap they've set for me.
"I wonder what you're planning to do h—" the voice from outside cuts off abruptly, the shift in tone unmistakable.
"Is that… the outsider?" The man's voice sharpens, realization snapping into place like the bite of a blade.
"Outsider?" The word hangs in my mind, pulling at something deep inside me, something I can't fully grasp but instinctively recoil from. It feels wrong, the way they say it. Cold. Distant.
"You're right on the money, Levkov~" Clandestina's voice oozes satisfaction, like she's proud to parade me around as their latest catch.
She stands up, her soft footsteps draw closer, each one deliberate, carrying an air of control that makes my skin crawl. I tense as she stops in front of me, expecting her to finally unveil the world beyond these walls, maybe give me a glimpse of what I'm up against. My pulse quickens in anticipation.
But no. Before I can even process it, her hands reach up and snatch the handkerchief from the window—not to open the view, but to bind it around my eyes once again. The darkness rushes back, enveloping me in its suffocating grip. I grind my teeth, frustration boiling over, threatening to crack through my otherwise calm facade.
"Why is it so strict here?" I manage to ask, barely keeping the irritation from coloring my tone. This constant blindness, the endless withholding of information—it's unbearable.
Her laugh is soft, mocking, like she's relishing my discomfort. "I won't say anything that might scare a little boy like you~" she coos, her tone as infuriating as ever.
"Scare me?" The phrase cuts through my frustration, chilling me. Whatever lies outside isn't something they want me to know until the last possible moment. It's bad. Really bad.
I swallow down the mounting dread, my senses heightened, forced to rely on everything but my sight. The world outside this transport suddenly feels more dangerous, more sinister, and the darkness around me feels less like a shroud and more like a prison closing in.
Then, I hear the door open, and warmth spills over me—the kind of warmth that I know I never experienced before. The contrast is almost overwhelming, the sudden flood of heat and fresh air making the tightness of the blindfold all the more suffocating.
Clandestina takes my hand, her grip firm, steady but almost unnervingly gentle, as if she's leading a child. She guides me out of the wooden transport, each step feeling heavier as the cool, solid ground replaces the wooden floor beneath my shoes. The texture is rough, uneven—definitely outside.
As we step forward, the distinct sound of approaching footsteps from behind draws my attention. The one she called Levkov. I can almost feel his eyes on me, sizing me up, his presence looming closer.
"Hmm, Levkov? Do you need anything else?" Clandestina's voice still carries that playful edge, light and unbothered, as the footsteps come to a stop.
Though Levkov's voice is barely a whisper, my senses, heightened by the blindfold, pick up every word with sharp clarity. "Is that outsider part of the rebels?"
His suspicion is tangible, and even though I'm trapped in this darkness, I feel the weight of his gaze, like a blade pressed against my skin, searching for weakness. So that's it. They think I'm part of the rebels. They've gone to such lengths to obscure everything from me because they're probing, testing, waiting for me to slip. I know I'm not involved with any rebellion, but the intensity of their suspicion twists something in my gut.
It makes me wonder—was that emotionless man in the cell earlier one of them? Part of this twisted game? But then again, it's not my place to know, and frankly, I don't care.
"We'll know soon enough, Levkov~" Clandestina responds with the same casual indifference, her tone flippant, as if his question is nothing more than background noise to her. She's a master of evasion, dodging questions with the grace of someone who's played this game far too long. And I don't mean that as a compliment.
I hear Levkov's footsteps retreating, moving back toward the wooden transport, and soon after, the sound of it pulling away. The air shifts as it leaves, leaving me alone with this insufferable woman under this warm glow that I am not at all familiar with. And then, Clandestina's touch—a soft, strange warmth—envelops my hand. It's comforting but not in the way it should be. It feels like something I should shake off, but I'm trapped in this game, and her hold is firm.
"Let's go, little boy~" she murmurs, her words dripping with condescension. She pulls me forward, not quite dragging but making it clear that I have no choice. My feet move automatically, guided by her grip, though every instinct tells me to resist.
Each step we take deepens the tension in the air. I strain my hearing, relying on the echo of our footsteps to map the space around me. After just a few steps, I hear her swing a door open. The swinging of wood is soft but unmistakable, and the atmosphere shifts. The air on the other side feels heavier, more suffocating.
This is it—the Inquisitorium. I can feel it in the way the world seems to slow, in the way my pulse quickens with every inch closer we get. The interrogation is near. My mind braces for the storm of questions, the probing into secrets I don't even have the answers to. And yet, beneath the weight of what's coming, there's an eerie stillness inside me. I can't see what's ahead, but I'm ready for whatever comes next.
Blindfolded, my senses heighten as Clandestina pulls me closer, her grip tightening around my hand. Each step we take echoes in the still air, our footsteps the only sound as we move forward. The distant murmur of voices grows louder, a soft hum of conversation that abruptly dies the moment she opens another door. Silence crashes over me, suffocating, like the hush of a room when something ominous enters. It's as if the very air has been pulled tight.
I can feel it—the weight of dozens of eyes, sharp and piercing, tracking our every move as we pass through the room. These stares are different from the whispers in the cell earlier. These people are silent, disciplined, as if they know better than to reveal anything, to even breathe too loudly. Their gaze burns into my back, intense and unyielding, making the hairs on my neck prickle with unease.
The silence stretches until, with another creak of hinges, Clandestina opens yet another door. She guides me through, her hand firm but with an unsettling ease, and then the door closes behind us with a heavy, final-
Thud
The weight of the silence deepens, thickening the air as the room we've entered seems to pull me in.
With a swift, practiced motion, Clandestina unties the handkerchief from around my eyes. Light floods my vision, forcing me to blink against the sudden brightness. When my sight clears, I take in the room—sparse, bare, illuminated by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Its warm, flickering glow casts long shadows over a small wooden table with two chairs positioned across from each other.
"It's exactly what I expected—an interrogation room," I think, my jaw tightening as I assess the setup. Clandestina finally releases my hand, her playful smirk never wavering.
"Little boy, sit~" she purrs, her tone coaxing, but with an edge of mockery. She gestures to the chair opposite the table, and I comply, stepping forward and lowering myself into the seat. The wooden chair is hard and uncomfortable, a reminder of the situation I'm in.
As soon as I sit, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes from beyond the door, growing louder with each passing second. My muscles tense in response, instinctively bracing for whatever—or whoever—is about to enter. The door swings open with a loud bang, and a man in purple formal attire strides in, his expression sharp, eyes narrowed in focused intensity. His presence fills the room with a sudden, electric energy, his every move charged with purpose.
Clandestina stands in the corner, that infuriating smirk still plastered on her face, watching like this is all just a game to her. The tension tightens around me like a vice as I stare across the room at the man who just stormed in. His eyes meet mine for a brief second before shifting to Clandestina, his irritation palpable.
He slams the door shut with a force that makes the walls tremble, the sound reverberating through the small room like a warning shot. The air vibrates with the intensity of his frustration as he strides forward and drops into the chair opposite me. His movements are sharp, each action dripping with impatience. His gaze snaps to Clandestina, completely ignoring me—the supposed subject of this interrogation.
"Listen, I'm in a rush," he snaps, his voice clipped and heavy with urgency. "Saxon will be here soon with news about Princess Luciel." The way he says it, like the words themselves carry weight, makes my pulse quicken. Something big is happening.
His attention stays locked on Clandestina, his voice tight and demanding. "In all the times you could disturb me, why choose now, of all times?"
It's almost like I'm invisible. The interrogation is supposed to be about me, but it's clear I'm not the one he's concerned with. Instead, it's Clandestina who seems to be under his scrutiny.
She, of course, shrugs casually, unbothered by his anger, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of her lips. Her amusement only heightens the tension, like she's enjoying every second of this.
"My, my, what can I say, Xavier~" she teases, her tone dripping with mock innocence. "I want this little boy interrogated as soon as possible~" She chuckles, light and careless, as if this entire situation is nothing more than an amusing distraction for her.
Her evasion is infuriating. She's playing with him—with both of us. And though Xavier's focus is entirely on her, I can feel the pressure mounting in the room, like a storm ready to break. The question hangs in my head: "Who's really in control here? Or is this just an act?"
"Tsk, you always do as you please just because you're a Head Courtier." Xavier grumbles, his frustration tightening his jaw, his words barely restrained. Clandestina, as expected, just chuckles, a knowing smirk creeping across her face. She's unfazed, thoroughly enjoying his irritation like it's her favorite game.
"Head Courtier? Princess Luciel?" The titles echo in my mind, locking into place as pieces of a larger puzzle. I can sense their importance, feel the weight they carry, even if I don't fully understand the world I've been thrust into. Navigating this place will rely on knowing these names, these roles.
Suddenly, Xavier's gaze snaps to me, sharp and piercing, like he's trying to read my very soul. His attention is finally on me. Not that it makes me feel any better—I can see the impatience simmering beneath his expression, the frustration that still lingers from his exchange with Clandestina, which I fully understand.
"Now, outsider," he says, his voice steady but hard, each word clipped with urgency. "I don't want to waste any more time on you, so tell me—where did you come from?"
His tone carries authority, no room for games. I can feel the weight of his command pressing against me, but I keep my composure. I could lie, spin a story to try and protect myself, but my instincts warn against it. Something about this man tells me I can be honest with him, at least with what little I actually know. That woman, though? No. Her charm is a mask, and I don't trust what lies beneath it.
I steady my voice, keeping it calm as I meet his gaze. "I don't know," I begin, the words simple but heavy. "I just opened my eyes, and the next thing I knew, I was on a grassland."
The truth. Plain and honest. It sounds unbelievable even to me, but it's all I have.
Xavier's expression remains unreadable, his face a mask of stoic concentration. Not a flicker of emotion crosses his features as he processes my words. He doesn't give anything away, not even a slight shift in his posture. The silence is unnerving, and just when I think he might react, he moves on to the next question.
"Are you part of them?" The words slice through the air, cold and sharp.
I blink, momentarily thrown off. Part of what? My mind races, trying to piece together what he means. My first thought is the rebels, but the weight of his tone suggests there could be more than just them at play here.
"Part of what?" I ask, genuinely confused but trying to keep my voice steady. The silence that follows is suffocating, dragging on for what feels like an eternity. I can feel his eyes boring into me, measuring my every breath, every twitch of expression. Four long, agonizing seconds pass before he moves on.
"What are your motives?" His tone sharpens, unyielding, cutting through any hesitation I might have. He's demanding the truth, nothing less.
A flicker of defiance burns inside me, sparking from somewhere deep, fueled by the uncertainty and frustration of everything I've endured. I meet his gaze head-on, refusing to break eye contact. My voice is firm, unwavering, as I speak the only truth I know.
"I want to survive and know who I am." The weight of the words hangs in the air, filling the space between us. It's the first question I answer with a seriousness that even surprises me, my resolve solidifying in that moment. It's not just about survival anymore—it's about reclaiming whatever life was taken from me.
The room plunges into tense silence, thick with unspoken thoughts. Xavier doesn't respond right away. The weight of his gaze feels heavier, more calculating now, as if he's trying to see through the layers of my intentions.
Time drags on, the quiet stretching unbearably, until finally, with a curt nod, he shifts. "Alright then, I'm done here," he says, his voice suddenly flat as he rises from his chair.
The movement is abrupt, like he's already moving on to something else, the interrogation nothing more than a formality. As he stands, the tension in the room shifts, and I can feel the weight of the moment passing, but it's not over yet. Not by a long shot.
"That's it? You didn't even check if he's lying~" Clandestina's voice cuts through the air, light and playful as ever, though her posture is anything but casual. One hand rests under her chest, the other lightly touching her cheek, her eyes sharper than her tone suggests. For once, I find myself agreeing with her, even if it's reluctantly. This interrogation—if I can even call it that—felt like a formality, a performance. No real digging, no pressure. There's a catch here, I'm sure of it.
Xavier doesn't flinch. He's unmoved, still as stone. "I already know everything I need to know from those three questions," he says, his voice calm but edged with certainty. His gaze shifts back to me, cold and calculating, as if he's already stripped me down to my very core and found whatever he needed.
I hold his stare, trying to read something in the silence, trying to piece together the undercurrents between him and Clandestina. But their exchange is quick, efficient.
"Clandestina," Xavier says, his attention snapping back to her, his tone steady and deliberate, "When Saxon arrives, tell him this outsider will join their unit."
"Join their unit?" The thought hits me hard, but I keep my expression neutral. "What unit?"
"Oh my, the Nightstalkers? But why?" Clandestina's voice holds genuine curiosity this time, though her teasing lilt remains. She's toying with him, with all of us, but there's something beneath the surface—something I can't quite grasp yet.
"Nightstalkers?" The name alone sends a chill down my spine. I don't even need to know the details to feel uneasy about it. "Great. Just the kind of group I want to be thrown into." But even as the thought forms, I know it doesn't matter. I don't have a choice. Not here, not now.
Xavier's retort is swift and final. "I don't have to explain anything to you." He brushes off her question like a nuisance, his words leaving no room for argument. He stands with a fluid motion, his movements filled with purpose, and strides toward the door.
His hand closes around the doorknob, but he pauses, turning back to face me, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that cuts through the space between us. His eyes are hard, unyielding, filled with something close to a challenge.
"If you want a place to live, fight for us. If you're not an enemy, join us. If you want to survive, get the experience. Chiaro, I will continue to test you from now on."
Xavier's words hit me like a cold gust of wind—direct, unflinching. And despite everything, I don't find him annoying. Out of all the people I've crossed paths with so far—the one who ambushed me, the emotionless man in the cell, this insufferable woman in the corner—my instincts scream at me not to trust them. But Xavier, the one in formal purple attire, the man whose irritation seems to come from a place of responsibility, not cruelty, feels different. I trust him. Maybe not fully, but enough to know I'd like to be on his side.
He twists the doorknob and pulls the wooden door open. And just beyond the threshold, standing in the hallway, is him. The man who threw those daggers at me. The man who knocked me out cold in the grasslands. My body stiffens instantly, a visceral reaction that surges through me like wildfire.
"Ya hoo, Xavvy~" the man sings, his voice mockingly cheerful, dripping with amusement. His grin is wide, predatory, as if this is all a joke to him. He leans casually in the doorway, casting a glance into the room—and then, his eyes lock onto mine.
Clandestina chuckles softly from her corner, clearly entertained by the tension crackling in the air. I stay seated, gripping the edge of the wooden table, my knuckles white. My heart races, but I keep my expression controlled, my gaze locked onto the newcomer's silver eyes. They gleam with that same predatory amusement, the same dangerous glint I remember from that night.
"Oh?" he exclaims, surprise flickering across his face, quickly replaced by intrigue. His eyes flash with recognition, and I can feel the heat rising in my chest, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
It's him. The one who blindsided me, the one who left me lying in that field. My blood boils, a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. My eyes widen, heart pounding in my chest. Instinctively, my muscles tense, ready to spring, but I force myself to remain still.
He tilts his head, that grin never faltering, and I see the faintest twitch of satisfaction in his expression—he knows. He can see the anger flashing in my eyes, the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.