The rain fell heavily, drenching the landscape as eight horse-drawn carriages raced across the open field. Lanterns hung at the front and back of each carriage, their flames flickering and casting ghostly light through the darkness. The horses galloped tirelessly, their hooves pounding the soaked earth, and their breaths visible in the chill of the storm. Above them, the dark sky glittered with stars, striving to fill the void left by the absent moon.

Inside the fourth carriage, the air was thick with tension. On one side sat a man in elaborate, finely tailored clothing. His polished boots reflected the dim lantern light, and an elegant rapier rested at his side. A single glass lens perched over one eye gave him an air of sophistication, but his gaze was sharp, assessing.

Opposite him sat another man, his presence a stark contrast. He wore dark clothes, worn and torn, his cloak frayed at the edges from countless battles. The rain had soaked the fabric, making it cling to his form. His long sword leaned against his knee, and his hood shadowed a face hardened by time and loss.

The fancy man adjusted his monocle and broke the silence.

"So, Mr. Aeron... about time I finally ask you."

The man in dark clothes met his gaze steadily, his voice calm yet laden with a hint of bitterness.

"Yes... You want to know my connection with the Stray Moonlight Cult?"

"You don't disappoint, do you? Always straight to the point," said the fancy man, adjusting his monocle with a faint smirk. "Yes, I want to know about your connections to the Stray Moonlight Cult."

He leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, his polished boots catching the faint light of the lantern swaying with the carriage's motion. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he gave a curt bow of the head.

"Pardon me—I forget my manners. My name is George Vincent Charles, you see," he said smoothly, his lips curling into a light grin.

Aeron tilted his head slightly, his hood shifting just enough to reveal the sharp glint of his eyes beneath. A faint smile, barely more than a twitch, played across his lips.

"Greetings, then, George Vincent Charles," he replied, his tone measured, neither warm nor cold.

"Well then..." Aeron began slowly, his voice low, as if dredging up memories long buried. He paused, his gaze drifting to the swaying lanternlight in the carriage, his tone tinged with hesitation. " I was just a weak boy... hmmm... ten years old."

He shifted in his seat, leaning slightly forward, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. The motion seemed unintentional, as though seeking comfort from the blade as he unraveled his past.

"If I remember correctly, I lived in a small village near London," Aeron continued, his voice taking on a distant, haunted quality. "It was quiet, peaceful—until they came. Those corrupted beasts."

He fell silent for a moment, the sound of the rain against the carriage punctuating the weight of his words. "They attacked my village, tearing through everything in their path. My father..." His voice wavered slightly, though his expression remained stoic. "My father shielded me. He fought to keep me safe, but it wasn't enough. They all died... Father, Mother, and my dear little sister."

Aeron's grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles whitening as he leaned back, his gaze now fixed on George Vincent Charles. "I still remember the moment it happened—the beast, covered in blood, its claws raised to finish me. But then..." His eyes glinted as he continued.

"An arrow," he said, his voice sharpening slightly. "It came piercing through the beast's head, dropping it instantly. That arrow..." He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line. "It saved my life. A stranger's hand turned the tide, but my world had already fallen apart."

"And then?" George Vincent Charles leaned forward, his monocle catching the lanternlight, his interest undeniable.

"The man rescued me from that desolated place," Aeron continued, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. "A place that was now in flames, consumed by destruction and death."

He leaned back slightly, his gaze momentarily distant as if reliving the moment.

"He was from the Cult of Stray Moonlight," Aeron said, his tone darkening, leaving the words hanging in the tense air between them.