AXEL (through gritted teeth):
"So that's it? After everything—Murphy's death, this cursed page—you think I killed him?"
DAMION (voice cracking, torn between duty and loyalty):
"I don't want to believe it. God knows I don't. But the death note didn't bring us here for a drink. It brought us here to die."
The guards surrounded the table. The once-warm tavern now felt like a tomb.
Lena pressed her back against Axel's, whispering fiercely.
LENA:
"Say the word, and we'll cut our way out."
Axel's jaw clenched as he stared at Damion—their ally, their blood, their executioner
Scene: The Weight of Trial
Axel's chains rattled as he was dragged into the council chamber. His head was low, his eyes burning, though he said nothing. The hall was filled with murmurs, the weight of suspicion thick as smoke.
Damion walked behind him, whip coiled at his side, expression iron. His voice was flat when he spoke to the guards:
DAMION
"Bind him tight. He does not leave until the trial is done."
The heavy doors closed, sealing Axel's fate—for now.
Later that night, when the others had gone to rest, Damion returned alone to his quarters. The battle with Theodus still echoed in his bones, but the weight of Murphy's letter pulled at him harder. He set his whip down, reached for the folded paper on his desk, and read the words once more.
His hands trembled. His jaw tightened. He turned to the pistol beside the parchment—the same weapon Murphy had left behind.
DAMION (whispering, hoarse):
"Why… why leave me with this?"
He picked it up, spun the cylinder slowly—clack, clack, clack. Only one bullet left. He raised it to his head.
His finger pulled the trigger.
Click.
Silence.
Damion let out a shuddering breath. Then—
A whistle.
Soft, mocking, like someone calling from a distance.
His eyes snapped open.
The sound grew stranger. The whistle blended with the rustling of reeds, as though a vast field stretched around him, unseen. The whisper of stalks swaying in an invisible wind filled the room, pressing in from all sides.
Damion's grip on the pistol shook. His heart pounded. He looked around, but the room was empty.
The sound only grew louder. Closer.
The reed field had come for him.
The reed field stretched forever, silver and black under a sickly moon. The whistle thinned into silence as the cloaked figure stood before Damion, taller than any man, shadows clinging to him like a second skin.
REED REAPER
"Executioner… Damion Snow. You carry the weight of your Church, and now, the weight of a world. Listen well: the Duke must sign an executive order. Axel Spades… must be executed."
Damion's fist tightened around the pistol. His voice cracked with both fury and desperation.
DAMION
"Why? Why him? He's no monster."
The Reaper tilted his head, reeds snapping under his feet though he never moved. His tone carried no emotion, only inevitability.
REED REAPER
"Because killing him will save billions. He is the shadow in the prophecy, the prince who brings ruin. If he walks free… Xerion Black will rise unopposed."
Damion stumbled back a step, bile rising in his throat. His heart thundered as another thought broke through his fear.
DAMION (pleading, almost a whisper):
"If you are truly a Reaper… then tell me. Murphy. Is he safe? Can you bring him back?"
A long pause. Then, the Reaper laughed. Not cruel, not kind—just… amused.
REED REAPER
"Murphy? Who is that?"
Damion froze. His breath caught.
REED REAPER (soft, mocking):
"A name without weight. A ghost, perhaps. Why cling to the dead, Executioner?"
He turned, cloak rippling though no wind stirred.
REED REAPER
"Your choice is all that matters: Kill Axel Spades… or stop Xerion Black. Fail at both, and the world burns."
The reeds hissed like whispers as the Reaper dissolved into mist, leaving Damion standing alone, pistol trembling in his grip, doubt carved deep into his chest.
Scene: The Royal Capital
The Royal Capital of Veyreth did not sleep. At dawn, its marble spires pierced the fog, glistening gold under the first rays of sunlight. Bells tolled across the seven districts, each sound rolling like thunder through the cobbled streets. Merchants lifted shutters, children ran with loaves of bread in hand, and yet a strange hush clung to the city—an unease that not even the sun could burn away.
Word had spread.
Axel Spades, the cursed boy, had returned—and now stood accused of the murder of Murphy, the leader of the Infernal Order.
Outside the Iron Plaza, thousands gathered. Fishmongers abandoned their stalls, smiths left their forges cold, and noblewomen in silks pressed close to peasants in rags. All waited for a verdict that might shift the fate of nations.
At the heart of the capital stood the Duke's Palace, black stone and gold banners rippling in the breeze. Within, the council chamber stirred with voices.
Inside the Council Chamber
The hall was vast, pillars carved with ancient Infernal victories, the ceiling painted with celestial wars. At its center, on a throne of obsidian and ivory, sat Duke Alaric Veyreth, ruler of the capital and steward of the Infernal Order in Murphy's absence. His eyes were heavy, his beard streaked with white though he was not yet old.
Around him, three advisors clashed like wolves:
Marquess Elira Duskveil, slender and sharp-eyed, her voice cutting like steel. She argued for immediate execution, her jeweled fingers tapping the council table as if to drive her point like nails.
General Kael Thorne, broad as a wall, scarred from the border wars, insisted Axel be placed in chains and studied—"a weapon to be bent, not destroyed."
High Chancellor Oren Veylith, priest of the old faith, whispered of prophecies, of omens written in blood. His wrinkled hands clutched scrolls, eyes gleaming with dread as he muttered of the Shadow Prince.
Their voices clashed until the Duke raised his hand. Silence rippled, though tension thickened.
DUKE ALARIC (slow, weary):
"We judge a boy… yet the whole of Veyreth trembles. Is this justice, or fear masquerading as law?"
Elira's eyes narrowed.
ELIRA:
"My lord, justice is fear when wielded properly. Kill him now, and the whispers end."
Kael slammed his gauntleted fist on the table.
KAEL:
"Kill a soldier before the battle begins? Madness. He may be cursed, but cursed blades cut sharp."
Oren only muttered, voice like dry leaves.
OREN:
"He is the herald. The shadow that walks before Xerion Black. His blood is poison. His survival invites ruin."
The Duke closed his eyes, his brow furrowed. He felt the weight not only of their words, but of the city itself pressing against the palace walls.
Outside the Council
Damion Snow strode through the palace gates, his cloak torn, blood dried on his chest. Two guards recognized him and moved to salute, but he waved them off, his whip coiled at his side like a serpent.
As he entered the marble corridor, he caught fragments of conversation from servants and scribes:
"—Axel Spades—"
"—the cursed sword—"
"—the boy who vanished—"
Damion's jaw tightened. His hand brushed the codex at his side, the ink within still burning in his mind: The executioner will fall before the Shadow King rises.
When he reached the council chamber, he stopped at the threshold. The advisors were still at each other's throats, and Duke Alaric looked more a prisoner than a ruler.
Damion's heart pounded. The Reed Reaper's words haunted him: Kill Axel Spades… or stop Xerion Black.
But when his eyes fell on the throne, another thought stabbed through him.
Murphy. His absence was everywhere. The Duke sat where Murphy should have been. The Order felt hollow without him.
Damion clenched his fist, forcing his voice steady.
DAMION (to himself, low):
"If Murphy were here… he would never let them decide like this."
And as the bells tolled again across the city, Damion realized Veyreth was a powder keg. Nobles plotting, priests whispering, soldiers sharpening their blades. All waiting for the Duke's word.
One order—one execution—could set the whole land ablaze.
The city of Veyreth breathed unrest. The bells still rang, but their sound was drowned beneath the whispers of the people. Soldiers in black-gold armor marched at every corner, their boots clanging against cobblestone, their faces hard. Shops that once boomed with trade now shut their doors, while rumors ran swifter than any merchant's cart.
"—the cursed boy—"
"—the duke will have his head—"
"—Murphy would never have allowed this—"
Lena walked through the crowd, her hood drawn low. Beside her, Dylan's shoulders were tense, his hands buried in his cloak pockets, jaw clenched. Hakari trailed behind, quieter than usual, eyes scanning for threats.
They reached the edge of the Obsidian Square, where the black palace towered above the city. Banners rippled with the crest of Veyreth—twin serpents devouring one another. Thousands had gathered. Pikes glinted in the sun, and the murmur of voices was like the growl of a storm.
HAKARI (low, muttering):
"They want him dead. Even the air smells like a grave."
Dylan said nothing. His mind churned with the image of Axel bound in chains. For years, Axel had fought by his side, saved him, cursed him, even betrayed him. But dead? No. Dylan's fists tightened.
Lena felt the same fear, though hers was buried under a sharper instinct. She scanned the plaza, her eyes landing on the notice boards nailed to the pillars. Royal decrees fluttered in the wind. Most were scribbled with false news: "Axel Spades—murderer of Murphy." "Execution set for trial day."
Something glimmered in the cracks of the board. Lena slipped forward, prying loose a small wax-sealed envelope wedged behind the parchment. The seal stopped her cold.
A serpent coiled around a sword.
Murphy's sigil.
Her breath caught.
"Dylan," she whispered, tugging him aside into the shadow of the square. Hakari followed quickly, shielding them from passing soldiers.
Lena broke the envelope free, but the wax was unbroken. Untouched. The edges were pristine, meaning this letter had never reached its intended audience.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded the parchment. Murphy's handwriting sprawled across the page, steady and bold.
The Letter of Murphy
To those who gather after my passing,
If you read this, then my time has ended, and the Order must endure without me.
I name Damion Snow as my successor and steward of the Infernal Order. His judgment shall guide the Order through the storms ahead.
I name Axel Spades my Lieutenant. His fire will carry where mine fails.
I name Dylan Plane my General. His roots will anchor the army where my shadow cannot.
Know this above all: Axel Spades is not to be executed. His path is cursed, yes, but it is a curse that must walk alongside us, not against us. He is a shield meant for war, not a sacrifice to appease fear.
Free him. Protect him. Trust him.
Signed by my hand,
Murphy