Another knight's scream cut through the fog, this one ending in a wet gurgle. Black smoke writhed through the alley like living ink, consuming knight after knight. Their screams became a symphony of terror, each one cut short more brutally than the last. A knight firing blindly into the mist suddenly jerked upward, suspended by an invisible force. His armor crumpled inward like paper, the metal shrieking as it compressed. Another had his blood spurting from every joint of his suit before he was torn in half, his bisected body falling with a wet slap.
One tried to run, making it three steps before the smoke coalesced around his head. His helmet imploded with a sound like a hammer striking a melon, brain matter and bone fragments spraying his companions. Two more disappeared simultaneously into the writhing darkness, their agonized howls ending in a cacophony of snapping bones and tearing flesh. What fell back to earth barely resembled human remains.
The scarred knight backed against the wall, his blade trembling in his grip as he watched his unit being systematically dismembered. A young knight beside him emptied his stomach, the acrid smell of vomit mixing with the metallic stench of blood and voided bowels. The smoke found him next, plunging down his throat as he screamed. His chest cavity exploded outward. Ribs splayed like broken fingers as something tore its way from inside.
"Stand and fight, you cowards!" The scarred knight roared. But his voice cracked with hysteria as another soldier was reduced to a fine red mist. There was no one left to hear his command. He stood alone in a sea of gore and viscera. The remains of his unit decorated the alley walls like some madman's art.
The temperature plummeted further, frost crystallizing on the pools of blood. Within the swirling black smoke, something moved. A presence of utter malevolence. The scarred knight's blade clattered against his armor as he pressed himself flat against the wall, his earlier bravado evaporating like morning dew. The black fog coalesced into a humanoid shape, slowly revealing Orlok's ghostly form. His skin was like polished bone, deathly white against the churning shadows. The yokai''s face hovering mere inches from the knight's.
Through split lips and broken teeth, Kento managed a sound—wet and raw, like a drowning man gasping for air. "Why... here?"
"Captain Sala," a voice slithered from the darkness, each syllable dripping with honeyed malice. The measured click of fine boots on cobblestone echoed through the alley, a steady rhythm that matched Daglan's thundering heartbeat. "Such a lovely evening, isn't it?"
Daglan felt an overwhelmingly evil aura crushing him into the ground, it was as if a mountain fell on his back. He felt like he was in a pit full of snakes. Each one coiling around his throat, every limb, threatening to squeeze the life from his body at any moment. A pair of red eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, while angular white teeth glinted against the little light that shined through.
Through the haze of pain, Daglan watched as Vega emerged fully from the shadows, his short, round form a stark contrast to the devastation surrounding him. Yet there was nothing comical about his presence. The air itself seemed to bend around him, reality distorting as if unable to fully contain the ancient power that radiated from his being.
"Now then," Vega's voice remained pleasant, almost jovial, though his beady red eyes never left Captain Sala's face. "I do believe these young men were simply enjoying their evening. Surely there's no crime in that?"
Sala's throat worked convulsively, adam's apple bobbing as he pressed himself flatter against the wall. "Headmaster Vega," he managed, voice barely more than a rasp. "I... we didn't know they were yours."
"Oh?" Vega's smile widened, revealing more of those sharp teeth. "And that would make their treatment acceptable?" He gestured at the broken forms of boys. "Tell me, Captain, do you often amuse yourself by torturing children?"
"They entered the city illegally—" Sala began, but his words died as Vega took another step forward.
"My dear Captain," Vega sighed, as if explaining something to a particularly dim child. "I'm trying very hard to be reasonable here. To maintain our... pleasant working relationship." His gaze flicked to the remains of Sala's men, scattered across the alley like broken dolls. "It would pain me greatly to see that relationship soured by any... unfortunate misunderstandings."
The frost spreading across the cobblestones reached Sala's boots, ice crystals crackling as they climbed the metal greaves. The captain's breath came in sharp, panicked bursts, visible in the frigid air.
"Of course," he stammered, "no misunderstanding. They're free to go. All of them."
"Wonderful!" Vega clapped his hands together, his demeanor shifting instantly to one of genuine delight. The air warming within moments. "I do so love when we can resolve things civilly." He turned to where Daglan and the others lay. "Come along, boys. And you too, Einar, Galen. I believe your parents are expecting you."
Daglan tried to rise but his legs wouldn't cooperate, every movement sending fresh waves of agony through his battered body. Before he could fall, he felt strong hands supporting him. Orlok had materialized at his side, helping him and Kento stand while Vega did the same for Einar, and Galen.
"One more thing," Vega called back to Sala, who had begun to edge away from the wall. "I trust we won't have any... official inquiries about tonight's events? After all, accidents do happen in your line of work. Machinery can be so... unpredictable."
Sala's face had gone chalk white, but he managed a jerky nod. "No inquiries. As you say... accidents happen."
"Splendid. Well then, good evening to you, Captain." Vega's tone was warm, almost friendly, but his eyes promised untold horrors. "Do try to be more careful with your men in the future. The mortality rate among knights is rather shocking."
As they limped away, Daglan heard Sala slide down the wall, armor scraping stone as his legs finally gave out. The captain's ragged breathing faded behind them, replaced by the eternal drone of Bolgue's machinery.
Once they were safely back at the circus, Vega's friendly demeanor flipped again. The temperature around them plummeted as he rounded on the boys, his beady red eyes blazing with barely contained fury.
"What were you thinking?" he hissed, voice carrying an edge that made Daglan's bones ache. "Sneaking into Bolgue? Did you think this was some kind of game?" He gestured at their broken bodies. "Look at what your recklessness has cost. Not just yourselves, but others who tried to help you."
"Headmaster, I—" Kento tried to speak through split lips, but Vega cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"No. Not another word." His face was a mask of cold fury. "You've brought unwanted attention to our people, risked ruining everything we've built here." He shook his head, disappointment radiating from him in palpable waves.
Daglan tried to respond but could only manage a weak nod, his head spinning as blood trickled down his chin. Questions burned in his mind—about Vega's power, about Orlok's brutal efficiency, about how they'd known to find them. But consciousness was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain, the world growing dim around the edges. I swore I'd never feel this powerless again. But now...
The last thing he registered before darkness claimed him was Vega's voice, cold and final. "Orlok, let everyone know we are leaving. Tonight."
Consciousness ebbed and flowed like waves against a distant shore. Daglan's awareness wavered, blurring between sensations. He felt himself being lifted with impossible gentleness, sensing Orlok's touch. The yokai's fingers—which had wreaked such havoc before—now moved with the delicate precision of a master artisan, cradling his broken body as if he were made of spun glass.
The world tilted and swayed as Daglan was lowered onto a bed. The sheets whispering against his torn clothes, cool and clean against his fever-hot skin. Through swollen eyes, he caught glimpses of Orlok's otherworldly form. The yokai's ethereal presence seemed to blur at the edges like ink bleeding into water.
As he lay in the darkness, pain and exhaustion pulled at him. Dragging his consciousness down into deeper waters. As he sank, memories bubbled up from the depths like air escaping a drowning man's lungs. He was back in Greybarrow. Everything seemed larger than life then. Even the town's modest buildings had towered over him like mountains.
Koshu's voice cut through the memory with crystal clarity. "Hey, are you two listening to me?" He loomed over Daglan and Rozeree, his shadow falling across them as they lounged in the training field.
The sun had been warm that day, turning the air thick and syrupy with heat. But something felt… off. The ground beneath Daglan had grown cold. The sun above was dimmed, as if viewed through smoke-stained glass.
"I need you guys to be strong enough to protect yourselves in case something were to happen to Silvas and I." The air grew heavy with the metallic taste of approaching storms. "This world is dangerous even for someone like me, you have a lot to learn."
Shadows lengthened around them, stretching like grasping fingers across the rapidly freezing field. When Koshu's eyes found Daglan's, they weren't the warm brown he remembered—they were hollow, endless pits that seemed to pull at his soul. The sky above had turned the color of old bruises, pulsing with sickly light.
"And you'll never avenge me as you are now."
Koshu's flesh started to ripple and crack like sun-baked clay. The world around them rotting away to reveal cobblestone slick with gore. The peaceful field transformed into Bolgue's blood-soaked alley.
Koshu's face split in a grotesque frown, his skin stretching so tightly that the corners of his mouth ripped and tore. His next words came in a voice that was layered with screams. "You couldn't save me then. You can't avenge me now!"
His body began to collapse inward, crumbling like wet sand as knights' armored hands burst from his chest, reaching for Daglan with fingers bent like talons—
Daglan's eyes split open. A scream was trapped in his raw throat. Sweat-soaked sheets tangled around his trembling body. The phantom taste of blood and bile coated his tongue as reality slowly reasserted itself, the echo of Koshu's twisted words lingering behind his eyes.
The first thing Daglan noticed was the silence—a stark contrast to the cacophony of breaking bones and terrified screams that had haunted his nightmares. Tentatively, he ran his fingers across his torso, surprised to find healed skin covered in new scars. The pain that had once consumed him now lingered only as a distant memory, like echoes of a storm long since passed.
The bed beneath Daglan was soft. Too soft, the tent too quiet. Every creak of the canvas sent his heart racing, his mind conjuring the crunch of boots on cobblestones. He tried to close his eyes, but the darkness only brought the alley back—Kento's screams, the wet crack of Einar's fingers.
Daglan sat up, running a trembling hand through his damp hair, breath coming in ragged gasps. You couldn't stop it, his mind whispered. You never can.
In a bed beside his, Kento lay motionless, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. Purple-black bruises mottled his swollen face, a grotesque canvas of the violence they'd endured.
"Daglan, you're awake!"
Ingrid's voice shattered the room's fragile quiet as she burst through the doorway. A tray balanced precariously in her hands. A water pitcher, clean rags, and fresh bandages danced with each hurried step.
"You've been unconscious for days," she continued, setting the tray down with a metallic clink. She sat a cup of water on the nightstand, condensation beading along its surface. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm okay..." The words emerged as a rasp, his attention fixed on Kento. Fragments of memory flickered behind his eyes—mechanized fists pulverizing flesh, black smoke coiling like hungry serpents. Each image sent a tremor through his recovering body.
Ingrid's hands moved with practiced gentleness, replacing Kento's bloodied bandages. "He'll be okay," she assured him, "your wounds weren't as bad. Plus you healed really fast, so that's good." Daglan watched her, noting the way her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as she worked.
A laugh sliced through the room sharp as glass, brittle and merciless. "Most Marisians do."Azrael materialized in the doorway, his dark cloak pooling around him like spilled ink, bandaged face twisted into a vicious smile that never softened.
"I see your technique is still lacking. We'll work on that in our next practice."
Daglan grimaced, muscles tensing involuntarily, a dull ache rippling through his body. The memory of Vega's cold fury still echoed in his bones, a winter storm compressed into human form. "How much trouble are we in?" he asked, catching Ingrid's sorrowful gaze.
Azrael's laugh gurgled from his throat. "Oh not to much. A few lashings and a couple days in the box is all."
"Azrael!" Ingrid shot him an icy glare. Despite her youth, she radiated an intensity that seemed to make the very air vibrate. "Don't tease him like that!"
"Alright alright!" Azrael's laughter continued, part mockery, part genuine amusement. "Vega is fuming. But it's not the first—or last—time someone has got in trouble."
Daglan fell back into the bed, wondering if he would even be allowed to stay. His uncertainty hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread. I'm weak. The thought carved itself into his mind like a blade etching bone, each letter burning with self-loathing. How could I ever defeat Vilrux when I can't even save my friends?
A molten rage kindled deep in his chest, burning like a blacksmith's forge, raw and untempered. Tears gathered at the edges of his eyes, but he clenched his jaw, forcing them back with a willpower as rigid as steel. Doing everything to fight against the tide of vulnerability that threatened to consume him.
Koshu's final words swept through his consciousness like an arctic wind, razor-sharp and merciless. They sliced through his defenses, each syllable a frigid blade that sent tremors cascading down his spine. I love you. Tell Rozeree I love her. Please protect her, stay strong, both of you.
A low groan broke the silence—Kento stirring beside him. Daglan turned, watching as his friend's eyelids trembled, struggling to part. Each blink was a battle, a painful negotiation between consciousness and the merciless memory of their recent ordeal. Bruises speckled Kento's skin like storm clouds, a testament to the knights' savage beating. "What... happened?" he mumbled, trying to move but wincing at the pain.
Ingrid helped him sit up, her hands gentle but firm. "You were caught by the knights in Bolgue. You're back at the circus now."
Kento gave a weak chuckle, "at least we're alive, huh? Guess it could've been worse."
Daglan whipped his head toward him, anger flashing in his eyes. "Worse? You almost died, Kento! You were hanging by a thread, and I—I was useless!" His voice broke, the words trembling as much as his hands.
Kento flinched but managed a crooked smile. "You did what you could," but suddenly his tone shifted, "we're in trouble," he said flatly. "Vega wants to see us."
As if summoned by his name, a cold presence seemed to fill the room before Vega actually appeared. The door opened, and the Ringmaster's short, round form entered, red eyes sweeping over the two injured boys with a mixture of fury and calculation.
"Up," Vega commanded, his voice brooking no argument. "With me. Now."
Supported by Ingrid, Kento struggled to his feet with Daglan moving quickly to help them. They followed Vega out of the tent, their unsteady gait a sharp contrast to the Ringmaster's deliberate, measured steps.
Vega's tent was a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the circus, meticulously arranged, with maps, ledgers, and strange artifacts carefully placed on shelves and tables. He motioned for Daglan and Kento to sit, his red eyes boring into them with an intensity that made the air feel thick and heavy.
"Do you understand the gravity of what you've done?" Vega's voice was calm, which somehow made it more terrifying than if he had shouted. "You not only endangered yourselves, but the entire circus when we had to rescue you."
Kento opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp glance from Vega silenced him.
"Breaking into Bolgue. Attracting the attention of the knights. Risking everything we've built." Each word was a precisely placed knife. "You're lucky Orlok followed you. A moment later, and you would have been nothing more than broken bodies in an alley."
Daglan felt the weight of Vega's disappointment pressing down on him. The Ringmaster continued, outlining their punishment with clinical precision. Days of grueling labor, rationed food, and absolute obedience.
"You boys are going to hate your lives, you can be sure of it. Maybe next time you'll do what I ask or at least be safer breaking my rules."
And true to his word, the punishment was exactly as terrible as he described. The next few days of travel became a relentless cycle of work and exhaustion.
Each one filled with endless chores. Cleaning equipment, scrubbing wagons, mending costumes, hauling supplies. Their muscles ached constantly, the circus grounds transforming into a landscape of never-ending work. Forced to help everyone, whether they wanted it or not.
Their only reprieve was practice, and for Daglan, even that was hardly a break.
What began as stage rehearsal quickly morphed into something far more intense. Azrael never allowed Daglan a moment's comfort, transforming each drill into a brutal training session.
"Your movements are predictable," Azrael would critique, his bandaged face a mask of cold assessment. A sudden strike, an unseen slice, forcing him to dodge or deflect. "A real opponent doesn't wait for you to catch your breath."
What should have been a simple practice was an unpredictable dance of attack and defense. Azrael would change tempo and position without warning, turning everything against him, constantly pushing Daglan beyond the boundaries of mere stage technique.
Other performers watched, a mix of fascination and concern crossing their faces. This wasn't anything like their practices. Daglan's movements became sharper, more reactive. Each unexpected slice from Azrael was a lesson carved into muscle memory.
"Again," Azrael would command, his voice cutting through Daglan's exhaustion. The stage became a crucible, and Daglan was being reforged with each relentless day.
Then one evening, through the haze of exhaustion, Daglan caught his first glimpse of Melstien. A smudge of darkness on the distant horizon. Even from leagues away, he could make out the perpetual halo of sickly gray clouds hovering above, a mirror of Bolgue's industrial crown.
Daglan stared at it, the ache in his muscles a faint whisper compared to the turmoil in his chest. I swore to never feel this helpless again. But here I am, no closer to being the protector I want to be. His gaze dropped to his hands, calloused and worn. He tightened them into fists, nails biting into skin. If I give up now, I'll never be strong enough. Not for Rozeree. Not for anyone.
The wind bit at his face as he exhaled, his breath curling in the cold air. No more. I'll be strong enough. Not just for me, but for them.
As the day came to a close, a campfire crackled between Daglan, Kento, and Ingrid. The flames casting dancing shadows across their faces as the circus made camp for the night. Ingrid poked at the embers with a stick, her shoulders hunched against more than the evening chill. She hadn't looked directly at Daglan all night, but he could see the firelight catching the wetness in her eyes.
"So this is it then?" The words seemed to catch in her throat. The stick in her hands trembled slightly as she traced aimless patterns in the ash. "You're leaving after Melstein?"
Daglan's chest tightened as he watched her struggle to maintain composure. Without thinking, he reached out, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She was so small against him, her frame tense before gradually melting into the embrace. The familiar scent of circus powder that always clung to her hair made his impending departure suddenly feel painfully real.
"I'll never forget you guys," he managed, his voice rougher than he'd intended. A forced smile pulled on his lips. "Besides, when I become an Ascendant, you'll probably hear my name shouted from every city you visit." The attempt at bravado felt hollow even to his own ears.
Kento suddenly lurched forward, his eyes blazing with the same wild enthusiasm that had gotten them into trouble. The firelight caught the still-fading bruises on his face, but they did nothing to dim his excitement. "We could come with you!" The words tumbled out in a rush. "Those knights may have beaten us bloody, but man—Deadroot, the Renegades..." His hands gestured wildly, nearly knocking over his cup. "There's so much more out there than what we hear about here!"
"Kento..." Ingrid's voice quivered. She pressed herself deeper into Daglan's side, her fingers clutching at the rough fabric of his shirt. "We're safe here." The tremor in her voice betrayed the fear beneath her words. "You saw what happened last time..." She swallowed hard. "Why can't you just stay with us?" The last words came out as barely more than a whisper.
The fire popped and hissed between them, sending sparks spiraling up into the darkening sky. Daglan leaned back, his gaze drawn to the vast expanse above where stars pierced the velvet night. If only I could…The star's ancient light offered no answers to the questions hanging heavy in the air, but they brought another face to mind. Somewhere out there, he wondered, is Rozeree looking up at these same stars?