Killington leapt backward, carving a wide gap between himself and the swift-moving jester. He leveled his sword, his stance firm and unyielding, determined that what had occurred before would not repeat itself.
"He's so fast," Tristan muttered, his voice edged with tension as he watched through Killington's eyes.
The jester halted mid-step and turned, a glint of amusement flashing in his gaze as a two of spades card twirled effortlessly between his fingers.
"Who are you?" Killington demanded, his voice cold and steady.
The jester chuckled softly, scratching his head with exaggerated nonchalance before beginning to circle the shadow-born warrior, his focus unwavering.
"I should be the one asking that question," he replied. "You're no beast, yet something tells me you're not entirely human." A grin crept across his lips as he summoned a dagger from his Celestial Forge, its edge gleaming like moonlight. "But I suppose chivalry and all that, when engaged in combat, must be upheld—you may call me Nouă."
Tristan's eyes flew open, realization striking him like a bolt of lightning. That name—Nouă—he was part of the same clandestine organization Eleanor served. His pulse quickened, but he steadied his breath and closed his eyes again, reestablishing the psychic link with Killington.
Through their bond, Tristan's thoughts stirred uneasily. Killington had described the jester's energy as vile and unsettling. Now, feeling it for himself, Tristan understood. He recalled Eleanor's aura—calm, composed, even graceful—but Nouă's presence was a storm of malice, suffocating and unnatural. Perhaps Tristan had been too ignorant to recognize the truth back then… or perhaps the darkness within Nouă was far more profound.
Nouă lunged forward, reversing his grip on the dagger, its sharp edge slicing the air with lethal precision. Killington's eyes strained to follow the motion, but the jester was a blur. Only when the dagger neared his throat did Killington glimpse the flicker of steel and jerk his head back, narrowly evading the strike. The blade grazed his neck—but no blood fell.
The jester stepped back, brow furrowed in curiosity as he regarded the wound. "No blood? Then you're not fully human… what are you?"
He rushed towards Killington again, sweeping Killington's legs from beneath him and driving him to the ground. With the dagger poised above Killington's chest, Nouă prepared to strike—but his movements suddenly slowed, as though the very air resisted him. In that instant, Killington swung his sword upward, parrying the incoming blow before sweeping Nouă's legs in return and forcing him down. Seizing the opening, Killington rose to his feet.
He lifted his blade high, intent on cleaving the jester's head from his shoulders—but Nouă sprang into a kick-up, his body twisting midair as the sword slammed uselessly into the earth.
Taking several graceful steps backward, the jester dismissed his dagger into his Celestial Forge and began to clap. "That was a close one," he said lightly, producing a deck of cards from his sleeve. He shuffled once, then drew a card. "Ah… splendid. The Ace of Clover."
A longsword materialized in his grasp. Killington wrenched his own blade from the ground, their eyes locking with wordless intent. They rushed forward, and the moment their swords met, the collision ignited a cascade of sparks that illuminated the darkened streets of the Lower District.
Nouă brought his blade down in a vicious arc, but Killington raised his own, turning it flat to block. The impact rang out, followed by Killington's powerful kick to the jester's stomach, sending him crashing through the wall of a decrepit building. The structure groaned and collapsed, burying him beneath a storm of rubble and dust.
"Is he finished?" Tristan asked cautiously.
"No," Killington replied flatly.
The debris began to shift. Slowly, Nouă rose, brushing fragments of stone from his black coat as though nothing had happened, his smirk returning unfazed.
Believing him dazed, Killington charged. His sword drove straight through Nouă's chest—or so it seemed. His eyes widened as the blade passed harmlessly through the man's form, striking only air.
"What—how is this possible? I was certain I—" His words faltered, disbelief gripping him.
Nouă's grin widened. In a flash, he thrust his sword into Killington's side, the steel piercing where a human lung would be.
"Damn it—Killington!" Tristan cried telepathically, his heart pounding.
Killington staggered, dropping to his knees, his hand clutching the blade embedded in his body.
"I don't usually reveal my tricks," Nouă said coolly, twisting the sword with sadistic pleasure. "But since you're about to die, I'll make an exception. The clover grants me luck—for a brief time. And that time…" He tilted his head. "…ends right about now. Pity you didn't last."
Killington's breathing grew shallow. Tristan felt his warrior's essence weakening, slipping further away.
Nouă withdrew his blade with a wet sound, his tone mocking. "It's unfortunate, truly. But humans will always be fragile beings. Even I, as one myself, understand that much."
Killington collapsed, his body dissolving into a fine mist of black dust that scattered into the night.
"Killington! Killington, answer me! Are you there?!" Tristan's voice broke with panic.
A searing pain shot through his chest; he gasped, clutching at his heart. His eyes snapped open—then his body gave way, falling heavily to the floor. The dull thud echoed through the quiet rooms.
Amelia, startled awake, rushed from her room. "Mr. Kenway!" she shouted, panic threading her voice. Garfield stumbled out, alarmed by the commotion.
Tristan's breathing grew ragged as consciousness began to fade. Even with his life hanging by a thread, his thoughts clung only to his fallen warrior.
His eyelids fluttered shut—and the darkness took him.
In that void, two figures appeared: himself, and… his mother.
A woman with flowing black hair and a voice like a lullaby. The younger Tristan lay with his head on her lap as she gently stroked his hair.
"I will always be with you," she whispered softly.
The older Tristan, standing nearby, trembled as anguish overtook him.
"You're lying!" he cried out. "You said you'd always be with me—so why… why did you leave?!"
The woman began to cough, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. When she lowered it, crimson stained her palm.
"I wish I could keep my promise, son," she said weakly, her eyes glistening. "But even when I am gone, I will always watch over you."
A deep, aching sorrow swelled within him—an old pain he had never overcome. Reaching out, he tried to touch her, desperate to feel her warmth, even if she was only an illusion. But no matter how far he reached, she drifted farther and farther away.
"Please… please come back. I can't live without you," he sobbed, his voice breaking.
Suddenly silence took over. The darkness swallowed everything whole once more.