Claude walked through the streets of Elysium, a small wooden box tucked beneath his arm. His black robe, frayed and torn, fluttered lightly in the wind. Dried blood clung stubbornly to the fabric, leaving dark, crusted patches across his attire.
As he moved, he was accompanied by sidelong glances from the passerby. Some looked on with open curiosity; others quickly averted their eyes upon seeing his pathetic appearance.
Claude ignored them all.
Before long, he stopped before a familiar structure. Above its arched doorway, a faded inscription read: Administrative Hall.
With a heave, Claude pushed the heavy doors open.
Creak!
The sound echoed through the hall, drawing the attention of its sole occupant at this hour. Behind a desk stacked with ledgers and documents, Chang Wei looked up from his work.
"Oh?" Chang Wei's sharp eyes widened slightly. "Claude? Back already? As expected of someone vouched for by Arbiter Zal—" His words faltered as his gaze settled on Claude's figure.
"You're battered," Chang Wei finally muttered, though the word barely seemed adequate.
Claude's face was pale, almost like ivory. His tousled hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his knuckles were stained with blood—his own or someone else's, Chang Wei couldn't tell.
But what struck him most wasn't the injuries or the grim state of his clothing. It was something else.
Claude was alone.
"I've completed the mission," Claude said flatly, his face blank of all expressions. "I'm here to report."
Chang Wei pressed his lips together, gesturing for Claude to continue.
"Charles and I arrived at the village where the missing persons were reported. Upon our arrival, the village head claimed there had been a mistake—that all the missing children had been found."
Claude paused briefly as if sorting through his thoughts.
"We investigated further, speaking to families who had reported the disappearances. They all corroborated the same story: the children had returned. But something felt... off. Unsatisfied, we expanded our search to the surrounding forest. It was there that we encountered the Maskworn."
Chang Wei's palm tightly gripped against his desk as Claude pressed on.
"We fought it, killed it, and returned to the village. That's when we were ambushed by several Plague Bearers. I... managed to take them down. Barely. But during the chaos, I realised Charles had been replaced—by the Maskworn. It had taken his form earlier, and I hadn't noticed."
For the first time, Claude's face flickered with emotion—shock, guilt, or perhaps neither? Chang Wei was unable to discern the truth.
"We then fought. And, once it died, it reverted to its true form, I found Charles. The real Charles. He'd been gravely injured... and he didn't make it."
Silence poured into the hall, filling every corner, every crevice and pressed down like water in a sealed chamber
Chang Wei swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I'm sorry, Claude," he murmured.
Claude blinked, briefly caught off guard by the sentiment. But before he could respond, Chang Wei shook his head and straightened his posture, forcing composure back into his voice. "You should rest. I'll forward the mission details to the council."
Claude nodded, exhaustion engraved into every inch of his body. Placing the wooden box onto the desk, he turned to leave.
"Goodbye..." A soft farewell floated to his ears as he held the doors. With his back still turned, he raised a hand in silent acknowledgement before slipping out of the hall. "And... good luck."
Unfortunately, the latter half of his words were not able to reach the intended.
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Chang Wei moved through the hallways of Qasr-e-Vehem. His stride an uneasy compromise between urgency and normalcy. The corridors, dimly lit by flickering gas lamps—recent marvels of the School of Energetics—twisted and turned like veins through a beating heart.
At last, he stopped before an unassuming door—identical to the dozens he had passed.
Knock! Knock!
"Come in." A deep, weathered voice called from within. Hearing the words, Chang Wei opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was modest. Shelves filled with books lined the walls, their spines marked with symbols from a dozen forgotten languages. A single window at the rear offered a view of the central fields of Qasr-e-Vehem, where apprentices currently practised their spells under the watchful eyes of instructors.
At the centre of the room sat a large wooden desk, its surface cluttered with scrolls, and ink-stained notes. Behind the desk sat an aged man, his silver hair falling in thin strands over his shoulders.
"Arbiter Zal," Chang Wei said, bowing his head respectfully.
"Rise," Zal replied, waving a hand dismissively. "No need for formalities. I'm just an old man teetering on the edge of the grave."
Chang Wei chuckled lightly, though he knew better than to take the Arbiter's self-deprecation at face value. The man before him was no ordinary mage. He was a Mage Grandmaster, one of the few who stood at the apex of magic—a figure both revered and feared.
"Now," Zal continued, his eyes never leaving the parchment before him, "what brings you here, Chang Wei?"
Chang Wei cleared his throat, stepping forward. "This concerns Claude," he began. "The one you brought from Francia?"
At the mention of the name, Zal's hands trembled. "Of course, I remember." Slowly, he raised his gaze. "Speak. What has happened?"
Chang Wei recounted every detail of Claude's mission. "I will submit an official report to the council soon," he concluded, "but I thought it best to inform you first."
Zal leaned back in his chair, his expression darkening. "Plague Bearers…" he muttered. "They've never had an abundance of Sentinels. For them to deploy another... Have they gone mad?"
He reached for a scroll on his desk, one that stood out among the rest. Unlike the others, its seal was broken. The title read: Presence of The Brotherhood in Assur.
"I thought this mission, though dangerous, would not be life-threatening," Zal continued, his voice heavy with frustration. "Voidspawn are bound by the restrictions of the material plane. Their strength is greatly diminished. A Maskworn should have been manageable for even an apprentice mage..."
He trailed off, his gaze falling to the desk as his thoughts turned inward. "Yet, a Sentinel…" Zal's lips pressed into a thin line. He searched for words, finally settling on an expression more suited to their world. "Why loosen a ballista to swat a fly."
Unnecessary and wasteful.
He exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. 'At least Claude is alive,' Zal mused silently, relief tempered by the weight of guilt. 'Otherwise, I would never have been able to answer to Raymond in the afterlife…'
As for Charles?
Zal's expression hardened. The boy's death did not trouble him in the slightest. Charles had merely been a spy, planted to watch over Claude. Sparing him had already demanded the last vestiges of compassion Zal possessed—compassion eroded by years spent as both a mage and an inquisitor.
"Thank you for informing me, Chang Wei," Zal finally said, his voice curt. "I will handle this matter personally. You may go."
Chang Wei hesitated for a moment but ultimately bowed and left the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
Left alone, Zal leaned forward as he stared at the cluttered desk. The Brotherhood in Assur and the sudden surge of activity among the Plague Bearers—it all pointed to something far more sinister brewing beneath the surface.
"The future seems as uncertain as it does ominous..."