"Assassinate the Intis Republic's ambassador!?"
The words tore themselves from Audrey's mouth before she could stop them. Her voice, usually delicate and well-poised, cracked.
She blinked, composure fumbling like a dropped teacup.
Her mind spun straight to diplomacy, treaties, nobles in velvet seats and ministers around oak tables. This wasn't just a mission. This was foreign policy. This was war.
Her breath hitched, panic sharpening in her wide eyes. How could they? How could Mr. Fool—
But then, the thought anchored: Of course.
Which mighty figure dirtied their own hands? Kings didn't march to the front. Gods didn't chase rats in alleys. Delegation was authority.
Yes. Yes, that made sense.
Audrey nodded to herself faintly, curls bouncing as if she were rehearsing logic before the class.
Across the bronze table, Alger's reaction was a different beast. Mild surprise, yes—but his storm eyes were elsewhere. He wasn't thinking of treaties. He was thinking of limits.
So. Mr. Fool cannot directly interfere with the real world. My guess was correct.
The thought coiled smugly in his chest. Then how far does that reach? Could He take my life with a thought? Or am I shielded by distance, by layers of this gray fog?
Alger's lips twitched faintly. For once, fear bent into pride, his self-worth fed by the illusion of insight.
The Sun, poor boy, sat slack-jawed.
"What's the Intis Republic? What's an ambassador?" His whisper was lost in the fog, words thick with the accent of Jotun mountains. The terms slid off his mind like water on rock, leaving him adrift.
Klara leaned back, watching all of it through the Fool's mask.
Audrey's horror, Alger's scheming, Derrick's confusion. Even Adrian—already leaning back in his chair, arms folded, eyes half-lidded, as if none of this mattered.
Her lips twitched in a smirk. Of course he's bored. Assassination? For him it's a Tuesday.
The Fool's gaze swept the table. "Which of you," Klara's voice rang slow, deliberate, "is willing to accept this mission? And what kind of reward do you want?"
The fog carried the question to every corner.
Audrey's fingers twitched against her skirt. Her heart whispered yes. Her upbringing screamed no.
She couldn't—she shouldn't—kill a man. Especially not one carrying the flag of another nation. That was blood heavier than personal vengeance. That was history and war and fire waiting to swallow both kingdoms whole.
But if not her… who?
The hesitation gnawed.
Then Alger chuckled. A sound like sea-spray hitting sharp rocks.
"I've heard," he said, voice low and steady, "that this Ambassador Bakerland is not merely a diplomat. He is the intelligence chief of the Intis Republic in this Kingdom. He has supported bloodshed in the shadows. Planned incidents to sever the nobility from the wealthy. Spread rumors to turn the masses against the government."
His words slithered across the fog, painting Bakerland not as a man but a spider, threading webs in the dark.
Audrey's hesitation faltered.
Alger pressed further. "Perhaps he is not a Beyonder. But perhaps he is. There are clues suggesting he is. At the very least, his web shelters many. Hunters. Operatives. Agents of the Sauron family. You know the name. Once royalty. Still controlling the early Sequences of the Hunter pathway. Still clawing at influence through army and spy."
Klara's brow ticked faintly. So he does know more than he pretends. Hmph. Useful rat.
Alger leaned forward, finishing with calm weight. "And as for war—the life or death of a diplomat is irrelevant. What matters is if the high thrones wish for war. If they do, they will find reason. If they do not, they will bury reason. That is all."
Silence lapped the table's edges.
Audrey inhaled slow. Her panic softened into thought, calculation, coolness. Her father's voice filled her memory—Lord Hall's lessons on the House of Lords, on convenient scapegoats.
"Yes…" she murmured. "The Feysac Empire has expanded fast. Defeating both us and Intis on the east coast. Defeating in the Highlands. The nobles already blame them for everything. It is easy to blame them for one more thing."
Her voice steadied as she spoke, posture straightening. "If Bakerland dies, and the blame is laid on Feysac, Intis will believe it. They will want to believe it. The ministers will nod. The citizens will nod. It will pass."
Klara's smirk sharpened. Good girl. Knew you'd spin it. Oh I really want to pat her head.
Audrey clasped her hands, nerves twitching under her calm face. "Mr. Fool," she said at last, bowing her head slightly toward the seat of honor, "I can attempt this mission. But I cannot guarantee success."
Her thoughts tangled again—Spectator, Telepathist, neither of them made for knives in the dark. She would need others. Circles. Layers. Payment. Risk. She had 5000 pounds at most, and even that dripped through her fingers.
But she would try.
The Fool nodded once. "What compensation would you like?"
Audrey's lips pressed thin. "The formula to the Psychiatrist potion… and the ingredients. I will cover expenses if I fail. I… still owe your Blessed bounty money."
Her voice wavered on the last words, guilt smearing her tone.
Klara raised a brow behind the mask. Blessed bounty money? So that little payout actually reached her. Good. Shame she's choking on guilt over it.
Before Audrey's thoughts could spiral further, Alger's voice cut in.
"I will also accept this mission." His words rolled calm, steady as waves. "The compensation can be discussed after."
Audrey's head snapped toward him, eyes widening. "Didn't you return to the sea?"
Alger's smirk was faint, sharp. "Just because I am not in Backlund does not mean I cannot kill Ambassador Bakerland."
He left it there, silence loaded with implication.
Klara's eyes narrowed faintly. Show-off. But fine. More knives in play makes my job easier.
Her gaze swept once more. Audrey firmed her resolve. Alger sharp as ever. The Sun still dazed, words caught behind his teeth.
And Adrian—
Eyes half-shut. Fingers tapping his armrest slow, idle, like he was measuring time until this boredom ended.
Every head turned to him.
Klara tilted hers. "And you?"
Adrian's mouth curved, humorless. He shook his head once.
"I cannot participate in this mission."
The fog thickened, catching his words, echoing them.
Audrey's heart dropped. Her idol—her terrifying, awe-some figure—refusing? Disappointment etched her face.
Alger's chest tightened, frustration sour on his tongue. The trump card, the monster among them, bowing out. Why?
"Why?" Alger pressed, unable to stop himself.
Adrian's silver eyes half-opened, glow faint, lazy. His voice was even, clipped.
"I am too well known in Backlund. If I were to move—and the public learned of it—we would be staring down the barrel of a gun. Not only myself, but this country entire."
Adrian's voice didn't simply fade. It echoed. Each word lingered in the fog, heavy, ringing in the bronze hall as though even the walls had to acknowledge the weight of his self-righteousness.
"I am known for passing my own judgement to those I deem guilty. The nobles may try to pin it on our mutual foes, but the people will keep believing it was the Judge who delivered judgement. That seed of doubt will bloom within Intis, and when true war erupts against the Empire, they will remember. They will use it for revenge."
The fog stilled.
Klara tilted her head slightly, lips tugging into something between a scoff and a smile. She understood. She hated that she understood. Because beneath the poetry of it—beneath his silver-glow words and the tone that made him sound like some high tribunal god—was the simple truth: he didn't want to do it.
He didn't want to bloody his hands with politics. His brand of justice wasn't convenient. It wasn't tidy. It wasn't subtle. And war wasn't something even Adrian wanted his name pinned to.
Audrey nodded too quickly, as though agreeing made the burden lighter. The Sun nodded slower, like a child told to mimic his elders.
But Alger—Alger's mouth pressed thin, his eyes narrowing. That answer, noble as it sounded, rang shallow to him.
He hides more, Alger thought, storm swirling behind his eyes. Always more.
Adrian wasn't finished. His voice—calm, resonant, insufferably final—continued:
"Not to mention I am currently tangled in the cases of disappearances all around Backlund. I will not abandon my duty to serve justice, even at your request."
And then his eyes cut across the table. Straight into Klara's. That silver stare, that calm weight. As though she was the only one whose opinion mattered.
Klara scoffed aloud, the sound sharp, brittle, and broke the silence.
"Very well."
She turned, decisively, away from him. Her hand brushed the Roselle diary, its worn leather cool against her palm. The familiar ache of dread crawled up her neck.
Of course. Reading aloud again.
The Hanged Man had already offered up the six pages, and as ever Adrian reached with one gloved hand. A shimmer rippled. Mirrors peeled reality in half, neat as paper, and the pages copied themselves into his palm.
Always his cursed trick. Always no secrecy.
Klara's lip curled faintly. He never asked. He never warned. Always reminding her—reminding everyone—that nothing stayed hidden from him.
She hated that it thrilled the rest of the table. Audrey's eyes widened in awe. Alger stared hungrily. The Sun simply blinked in wonder.
Klara exhaled sharp through her nose, lifted the pages, and glanced at Adrian.
He met her look, silent. A single nod. His fingers snapped once.
The fog trembled. A dome unfurled around them, a faint shimmer wrapping Adrian and Klara in its glass-sheen cage.
Klara's jaw clenched. Smug bastard.
She lowered her eyes to the page.
Her voice steadied, carrying across the fog:
"29th October. The leader of the Secret Order, Zaratul, visited me once again. He didn't mention anything specific and just casually chatted with me. I wasn't able to guess his true intentions. It seems like he just wanted to strengthen the communication between us and understand each other better?"
The table stilled. Audrey leaned in, almost bouncing with curiosity. Alger's eyes flickered, sharp, darting as though already mapping connections. Derrick stared blankly but tried to listen, brow furrowed.
Klara continued, her voice edged in sarcasm though Roselle's tone was earnest:
"I've already met the two High-Sequence Beyonders from the Church, but I felt Zaratul was much more powerful and mysterious than them, so I asked him what Sequence number he was without much hope… and in the end, he actually answered me! He told me he was a Sequence 2, Miracle Invoker!"
Alger stiffened. Audrey gasped faintly, fingers curling in her lap. Even Derrick's eyes widened, though the words "Sequence 2" meant little to him.
Adrian didn't move. Didn't blink. He just watched Klara read, silver eyes unflinching.
Klara flicked her gaze upward, smirking faintly at their faces before reading on.
"Sequence 2? In the Church's categorization, that's the position of an angel, close to that of a deity! He truly is more powerful than the Alchemist and Arcane Scholar I met before! But my intuition tells me Zaratul isn't telling the whole truth. Sequence 2 might just be his former position, or he's about to advance."
A scoff twisted from Klara before she could help it. Roselle's dramatic musings—half awe, half ego, half drunken scholar jotting into his diary—never failed to irritate her.
"Miracle Invoker," she pressed on. "A master at creating miracles? The name of this potion makes one's imagination run wild! This is the corresponding Sequence 2 of Seer, a Miracle Invoker who controls fate?"
Audrey whispered, "Fate…" Her eyes shone.
Klara side-eyed her through the fog. Of course the girl swoons at the word. If only she knew how ugly 'fate' looks when it stares back.
She kept reading:
"I tried probing Zaratul if miracle refers to fate? That the Seer pathway slowly understands and grasps fate to control it? Zaratul ignored the first question. He told me fate is only one part of the Seer pathway. Not even its main focus. The pathway that truly represents fate is Monster!"
The words slammed into the table like a dropped blade.
Alger inhaled sharply. Audrey's lips parted in awe. Derrick blinked, whispering the word to himself like it was foreign.
Adrian's jaw ticked, subtle, the only flicker of reaction.
Klara's brows rose. Her voice carried on, cool and detached though her chest knotted:
"He raised examples. Potion names of the Monster Sequence. Sequence 7 Lucky. Sequence 5 Winner. Sequence 2 Soothsayer. And Sequence 1… Snake of Mercury. Also called Snake of Fate. This was the first Sequence 1 I learned. It hit me right in the face."
She fell silent half a breath longer than needed.
The table pulsed with unease. Snake of Mercury. Snake of Fate.
Audrey shivered, hands clasped tight in her lap. Alger stared darkly at the table, storm raging. Derrick mouthed the words again, baffled but sensing the weight.
Adrian leaned back further in his chair, unbothered. His eyes half-lidded again, glow soft, as though the revelation barely tickled him.
Klara sneered inwardly. Of course. He probably already knew. Bastard.
Her voice pushed on:
"According to what I know, the Monster pathway is controlled by the Life School of Thought. This school has parts of the Apothecary pathway. They propose three divisions: absolute rationality, spirit, and material world. They specialize in astromancy. Using medicine, music, light, wine, fragrance, to eliminate paths with unfavorable fate. They believe disasters and diseases come from imbalance—between man and nature, or man and his own mind."
Alger muttered under his breath, repeating fragments. Audrey's lips moved silently. Derrick only blinked.
Klara finally sighed as she read the last line aloud:
"He added meaningfully that the Life School of Thought worships the moon. Why the moon, and not the Evernight Goddess?"
The words faded. The diary ended.
The table sat in silence, heavy with the ghost of Roselle's musings.
Klara let the pages fall slightly, exhaling sharp through her nose.
Snake of Mercury. Snake of Fate. Of course it had to be snakes.
Adrian finally spoke, low, cold, barely above a whisper:
"…A lot of information."
Klara glanced at him sidelong. His eyes glowed faint, silver gleam reflecting the molten weight of truth.
For once, she thought, he might not be entirely bored.