"How long have you been like this?" Anhur's voice echoed through the empty apartment, the question hanging heavy in the air.
"About two days," Melody replied, his gaze distant, as though he was trying to remember something lost in the folds of time. "Why?"
"Because people moved into your apartment," Melody said, frowning deeply. "It had to have been months. Where was your soul during those missing months?"
Anhur paused, his expression unreadable. He looked around the room, eyes scanning the space like he was searching for answers. After a long moment, he sighed, a hint of frustration crossing his features. "I don't know. But it's one more thing I don't understand. Just another piece to figure out." His voice was laced with a quiet urgency, as if the missing time gnawed at him.
Melody stepped back, feeling the strange energy that had settled in the apartment. It didn't feel like Anhur anymore—it was... something else. "Sorry, but I can't find him," he said. "There's a meeting I need to attend with the order. If I'm still in here, I'll figure it out later."
Anhur turned toward Miranda, his expression suddenly sharp. He pulled her close, his voice low and intense. "Don't do anything dangerous, my love."
Miranda, never one to be overpowered, raised an eyebrow. "I should be telling you that," she said with a smirk, before he kissed her—deeply, passionately.
Melody cleared his throat, though he was a mere spirit, still awkwardly aware of his presence in the room. "I'll help you find your body when I get back," he said, his voice serious, "but it might take a while. There are rumors of a demon ronin wandering the city."
Miranda pulled away just slightly, her curiosity piqued. "What's a ronin?"
Melody glanced at her, then turned his attention to Anhur. "It's a samurai," he said, his voice thick with an ancient weight.
Melody, standing nearby, leaned toward Miranda, eager to offer more. "I saw a guy with Malik. He had two swords, and they glowed crimson."
Anhur's face grew darker as he turned to face her. "Sounds like the Bloodmoon Ronin," he murmured, his voice edged with concern. "But someone of that magnitude isn't wandering the streets of Chiran. And if he's a ghost... there's no way you'd see him in broad daylight." His eyes darted toward the door as though already planning his next move.
Melody shrugged, unbothered. "Maybe I'm just making up a guy. But that's what I saw."
Anhur didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on her, weighing her words carefully. "If it's true, you're in more trouble than you think," he said, his tone heavy. "Who was with him?"
Melody's face darkened, and her voice dropped. "Just him... and a guy with a skull mask."
Anhur's mind worked quickly. "That's too vague to go on," he muttered, pacing slightly. "But I'll look into it." His eyes moved toward Miranda. "Talk to her. Maybe she remembers something else that could help."
Miranda's gaze hardened. "Don't leave me with this shitstorm."
Anhur kissed her cheek—swift but full of unspoken longing—and in a flash of light, he was gone.
"Son of a bitch," Miranda muttered under her breath, though there was a trace of a smile on her lips. She'd grown used to his sudden departures.
As the light faded, Anhur found himself in a penthouse, a long, dark table stretched before him, twelve seats, each linked to a color. Swords lined the walls like grim trophies. Five members of the order sat at the table, laughing and celebrating his arrival.
"Gawain!" they called, greeting him with exuberance as he walked toward them.
Each member of the order greeted him warmly. The casual tone and easy camaraderie were a stark contrast to the dark matters that loomed ahead. "Brother!" they said in exaggerated, wrestler-like voices, shaking hands and embracing.
One of the members grinned, clearly teasing. "This isn't a formal meeting, Gawain. I thought you only showed up for the big annual ones."
Anhur's smile faltered, and he sat at the table, motioning for the others to settle. "I've got a nuisance I need help with," he said, his voice lowering with gravity. "Mordred, can I speak with you for a minute?"
Mordred, seated at the far end of the table, rose without hesitation. His eyes scanned the room, alert and calculating. "What's up, brother?" he asked, his voice smooth and easy, though there was always an edge to him.
"I've found a banshee—one searching for her physical form," Anhur began, lowering his voice even more. "I know you've got a handle on the undead. Could you help?"
Mordred scratched his head thoughtfully, his expression blank for a moment. "That's complicated. If she's searching for her body... Without it, there's not much I can do."
Anhur's eyes darkened. "Anything you can offer would help."
Mordred met his gaze, then sighed. "I'll see what I can do. Keep me informed." His voice was steady, though there was something in his eyes—something hidden—hinting at deeper thoughts.
Anhur hesitated before asking, "Have you learned anything from your memories about the hole in the veil? Any fragments, anything unusual?"
Mordred's gaze shifted, a subtle flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He quickly masked it, though. "I've been digging into my past lives. It's all a blur. Just fragments. But..." He paused, the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. "There's something else. I haven't felt any bokor calling to me, but it would make sense that another necromancer is trying to tear apart the veil. We need to be careful."
Anhur nodded gravely. "That's exactly what I'm worried about." He studied Mordred, then asked quietly, "Have you heard from Tristian? I can't shake the feeling that he's somehow involved in this."
Mordred's lips twitched in something almost like a smirk, but it was brief. "Tristian? He's quiet. But if you think he's linked to this, it's probably not what you think. He's always hated monsters. He's the one who suggested burning the witches, after all. Maybe someone's using his name."
Anhur's gaze grew sharper. "Yeah, I know how some of our brothers—You, Lancelot, and Bors—felt about that. But something doesn't sit right."
Mordred smiled—almost too knowingly. "Thanks, brother. I'll keep an ear to the ground. You know I can't sit still."
The two shared a brief but solid embrace before parting ways, both aware that the path ahead would only get darker and more dangerous.
As Anhur turned to leave, a shadow lingered in the corner of the room. Lancelot, the quietest among them, leaned against the wall, his dark eyes watching Mordred as he left. There was a tension between them—something unsaid—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Lancelot straightened and walked toward the door, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
As he passed Anhur, his voice dropped to a whisper, just loud enough to be heard. "We all have secrets, brother. Some of them run deeper than you think."
Anhur didn't respond, but the weight of those words pressed on him like a chill wind. He had always known Lancelot was quiet, reserved. But this... this was different. The subtle shift in his gaze, the way he followed Mordred's every move, was enough to make Anhur question everything he thought he knew about the order.
In this version, I've worked to smooth the transitions between scenes, allowing for more natural character development. Mordred is now more enigmatic, his deeper knowledge and connections to the past subtly hinted at. Lancelot's role also shifts from simply being quiet to becoming more of an observer, adding layers to the idea that there are secrets lurking within the order—secrets that Anhur may not fully understand yet. The dialogue flows more naturally, and the overall pacing should feel smoother and more immersive.