Hargette's inn was much quieter than usual. The once-bustling establishment was now a hollow echo of its former self. Small, worn wooden stools sat barren beside jagged tables, with only a few loyal souls lingering at the open bar.
The place had always been shabby and misshapen, but along with its equally ragged clientele, it used to have a strange charm. Now it looked like an abandoned tavern, barely clinging to life on rotting pillars and warped floorboards.
An old woman swept at the dusty floor, her curly hair long since turned gray. It wasn't the gentle silver of age, but a stark white only stress could create.
The inn's rusted bell chimed at the arrival of new customers. The matron's eyes lifted in a flicker of hope. New faces, perhaps?
Her expression promptly died once more.
Two men entered, clad in heavy leather armor, with sharp weapons attached to their person. Mercenaries.
Lars, and a rugged young man beside him. It had been a few since she'd last seen Lars, and he'd never been anything but trouble. In all the years of running her tavern, no one had caused more fights, he'd even instigated quarrels he had no part in. Hargette sighed, she could feel the remaining blonde in her hair fizzle out.
"Swords, axes, spears, shields, and…"
Her eyes traveled to the younger man's weapon—a strange thing, more farm tool than battlefield steel..
"…whatever that is, must be left at the door. If you please."
Lars gave a hearty laugh. "Never change, do ya, Hargette?"
She simply stared in silence.
The graying mercenary wilted slightly. "Come on, lad," he muttered, nudging his companion to comply.
At the bar, three men were deep in rowdy conversation—laughing, gossiping, drinking—until one suddenly fell silent.
"You laugh, but this city's going to hell…"
They sobered as he spoke.
"Never thought I'd mourn those slimy nobles," another muttered.
"Aye," the third said. "The slums were bad, but with the Baron dead? It's worse than ever."
"Not just the slums," the first spat. "Counts and barons dropping like flies—soon there'll be no difference between gutters and palaces. Chaos everywhere."
He flicked his hand, irritated. "All because of some whore? Who'd have thought her son was—"
His friend clamped a hand on his arm, nodding toward the bartender.
The young man behind the counter glared, quiet fury in his blue eyes. Tall, broad-shouldered, raven hair brushing past his ears—Draven still had traces of boyish softness in his features, but otherwise he was unrecognizable.
The glass in his hand cracked under his grip. The trio flinched, went silent, and scattered to another table.
Draven exhaled slowly, gaze drifting out the window. Just weeks ago, everything had been fine. He'd even been sparring with his brother right outside…
Across the inn, Lars eyed the young man, then rose and approached the bar. His silent companion trailing behind.
Draven didn't meet his eyes. "What can I get you."
"Whatever's best," Lars said warmly. "Sir."
Draven flinched at the word, annoyance flickering before he forced it down. He poured two drinks quickly, eager to move them along. Lars reached to stop the second glass from being passed to the youth.
"None for him."
Draven set it down anyway. His voice was quiet, but edged like steel. "I poured two. You'll pay for two."
Lars blinked—then grinned. "Fair enough."
He studied the boy's hands—calloused, disciplined. The lad had kept up that ridiculous training, and grown as well. Tall, strong frame, toned muscles likely spread out under his garments.
Noticing the scrutiny, Draven scowled and slid farther down the counter. "I apologize," he said flatly. "But I prefer women."
Lars almost snorted. There was that electric personality to boot.
"Maybe he'll do," He muttered.
He nudged his silent companion. "Well?"
The youth just shrugged.
"Still nothing to say, huh?" Lars sighed.
Then he approached the young man once more, leaning on the counter with a scar-creased grin.
"Tell me something, son," he said quietly. "What do you have to lose?"
---
A large mansion sat deep within the noble district, its walls painted in a soft aqua blue. The crest of House Gymes glimmered beneath the moonlight upon its tall, arched gates.
Beyond the iron fence and the opulent gardens, two guards stood clad in polished blue steel. They held ornate spears that any real warrior would've deemed little more than papier-mâché. Their true weapons rested at their hips—the spears were for show. A display of Gymes' wealth, not strength.
One of the guards frowned at his decorative weapon.
"Are they sure this is a good idea? Isn't that… thing around? What if the Count's next? Shouldn't we be more on guard?"
The second guard scoffed. "Please. They say he's just a child. And none of the nobles he's killed had any Sigiled guarding them."
He pointed at himself as he said the word, a smug grin forming beneath his visor. "In any case, stay vigilant. He may still be mad enough to try for the Count's head."
He heard no reply—nothing unusual—but turned when he heard the faint sound of steel striking stone.
"What the—?!"
His companion lay dead on the ground, a dagger buried in his neck. Blood pooled beneath him as his helmet rolled away, revealing lifeless eyes that stared into nothing. The surviving guard froze for a heartbeat, then drew his sword, abandoning the useless spear. Ether surged through his veins as he willed it to empower him.
He opened his mouth to shout—but a small, pale hand clamped over his face and dragged him backward into the wall.
Despite his Sigiled might, he was helpless against the child-like appendage's herculean strength.
He expected to slam into solid stone, but instead he passed through it, plunging into a lightless void. Suspended in darkness, he tried to scream—but no sound came. There was no air, no ground, no escape.
Then something appeared beside him.
His fallen comrade's body drifted nearby. And next to it floated a pale boy.
The boy's hair was oak-brown, his eyes a deep forest green that seemed to swallow the void around them. His features were too perfect—symmetrical, still, almost painted. Even the redness beneath his eyes seemed deliberate, an echo of humanity placed there to deceive.
The guard's lungs burned. He thought suffocation was agony enough—until his body began to unravel. His skin dissolved in slow, searing patches. He screamed silently, activating his Stigma, his limbs elongating grotesquely as he reached for the boy, clawing at his face.
But Eldric didn't move. He simply watched.
The man's body withered to nothing. When his eyes rolled back, Eldric turned away and vanished from the void.
Ever since gaining his epithet, Eldric's connection to the void had deepened. His stigmata—Nihilic Veil—had evolved, allowing him to enter that place at will, though at he cost of far more Ether.
Reemerging into the physical world, his vision swam. He stumbled, catching himself with a hand against the wall.
"Who the hell assigns a Sigiled as a guard?"
Dragging another into the void drained him heavily, but his reserves had grown vast these past years, making it a problem of little consequence. Even so, pulling a Sigiled had cost him nearly two-thirds of his Ether.
He looked down at the blood pooling where the he had murdered the first of the guards and muttered, "Damn it…"
He was going to have to be a lot more frugal with his Ether now, making the whole process of assassinating one of the wealthiest counts in the city a lot more challenging.
With a sigh, he started toward the manor's grand doors.
"Here goes nothing."
---
Deep inside the mansion, an older man—Count Narlen Gymes—paced before a gaudy white-wooden desk. Portraits and paintings adorned the walls, each framed in gold, glimmering under candlelight.
In front of him knelt a figure encased head-to-toe in blue steel—another Sigiled, nothing visible beyond the armor's polished surface.
Worry creased the nobleman's handsome face as the armored figure spoke. "Do not fear, my lord. Your children remain unharmed. We've assigned the county's finest to their protection."
His voice was low and gravelly, yet calm and reassuring. Count Gymes exhaled, his shoulders easing slightly before he spoke again, grim once more.
"What of the boy? Has he been captured?"
The knight hesitated. "I'm afraid not. Our ordinary soldiers have vanished without a trace, and he's evaded every Sigiled we've sent. It's strange—he can't be more than an Acolyte, yet the potency and versatility of his Stigmata is… unprecedented. Even our Sybil can't glimpse his actions."
Count Gymes sank into his chair, staring up at the ceiling. "A single child has managed to besiege my house for three hours…"
"Rage breeds miracles, my lord," the knight murmured. "Especially in those who've nothing to lose."
The count gave a bitter laugh. "It wasn't me, you know? No matter how drunk I get, I'd never…"
His voice faltered. "She was a good whore. A good woman too."
A sigh escaped him. "A shame what happened."
The armored warrior nodded. "I never had the privilege of having the Blue Lily, but given her reputation among the nobles, I can only imagine—"
He cut himself off mid-sentence, his posture tightening. Hand moving to his sword.
"Kareth?" the Count asked, frowning.
The knight's gaze darted about. The air itself seemed to twist. He felt the Ether shift—erratic, unstable—the kind that flared when a Stigmata activated.
"Something's wrong," Kareth hissed.
Then his eyes widened. "Get down! He's—"
But the Count was already clutching his chest. His face drained of color as he collapsed, hand reaching weakly toward his knight.
Kareth rushed forward, sword drawn. "Where is he?!"
No one was there. Not a sound, not a trace.
He knelt beside the Count, searching frantically for a wound. "My lord! Tell me where you're hurt—I'll call for the medic!"
Narlen Gymes trembled, gasping. His voice came as a whisper.
"Heart…"
---
Eldric stood atop the tiled roof, moonlight silvering his hair. He looked down at his bloodied hand.
Between his fingers, a still moving heart beat rhythmically—its torn aorta swaying in the cold wind. He coldly tossed it aside.
From his coat, he drew a folded sheet of paper and a small quill. Fifteen names filled the page, each crossed out save for two.
He drew a slow, deliberate line through the second-to-last name, then lifted his gaze toward the distant palace. It looked much larger this close, it's majesty magnified tenfold. It was a shame really... that it's insides would soon turn crimson.
He glanced at the last name, uncrossed name.
"Furthen Sickle"
Eldric whispered to himself.
"One left."