Night had already taken the county.
Not like darkness.
But as presence.
The streets remained alive — lights on, distant voices, footsteps crossing stone and wood. Even so, something in them… did not follow the same rhythm.
As if not everything there existed on the surface.
Within a narrow alley, where the light failed before touching the ground, Éreon remained still.
The creatures moved through the shadows, slipping through the gaps of the houses, through alleys and narrow passages.
Their steps moved through the underground and the hidden structures of the county, crossing wood, stone, and earth, reaching places where light never reached.
They moved without crossing paths.
Without getting lost.
Like a single impulse… broken apart.
Éreon remained still for another moment.
But perception… didn't.
Fragments returned.
Hurried steps over old planks.
Muffled voices behind thin walls. The brief sound of metal being shifted.
Breaths — some calm… others not.
Nothing complete.
But enough.
The flow began to align.
Direction.
Pattern.
Convergence.
Éreon moved.
He left the shadow without haste, as if the body merely followed something that had already gone ahead.
The low steps did not compete with the sound of the street — they adjusted to it.
The county remained alive around him.
Lights on behind narrow windows.
Half-open doors.
Conversations that began loud… and ended far too low.
Nothing misplaced.
And even so—
nothing entirely right.
As he moved forward, the lighting changed.
The shadows withdrew.
The light was no longer flawed…it was deliberate.
Warmer.
More stable.
More inviting.
The streets opened.
Wood gave way to better-worked stone.
The buildings rose higher. The details… precise.
But the flow he followed did not hesitate.
It went straight.
Always in the same direction.
Until the environment changed again.
The sound came first.
Strings.
A soft melody, sustained by trained hands.
Contained laughter, too close to one another.
Low voices, shaped to please.
The air carried perfume.
Sweet.
Éreon stopped.
Ahead of him, the manor rose.
Three stories.
Light poured from the windows like liquid gold, staining the walls in warm tones that contrasted with the rest of the street.
Translucent curtains moved slowly on the balconies, reacting to the wind with calculated lightness.
At the door, figures waited.
Still — only on the surface.
Clothes fitted to the body, the shine of jewelry reflecting the light with precision.
Glances that lifted at just the right measure, offering presence before any word.
For a moment, Éreon did not advance.
His gaze passed over the sign carved above the entrance.
Golden.
Delicate.
Carefully visible.
Golden Breeze.
His eyes descended slowly to the entrance.
Then closed.
One by one, the shadow rats returned, dissolving into his shadow like fragments of the night itself, bringing with them the silent map of what existed beyond the facade: corridors, halls, hidden doors.
Only when the last shadow withdrew did Éreon begin to walk.
The attendants at the door, dressed in shimmering silks, noticed his approach.
The smiles came first — automatic, rehearsed.
Then they faltered.
Not from immediate fear.
But from something that did not fit.
One of them even opened her mouth, ready to speak.
Éreon did not look.
He passed by them as if he were already beyond that point — not ignoring… simply not recognizing enough presence to demand a reaction.
The doors yielded.
The instant the wood moved—
— World… inverted.
The voice came out low.
Even so—
the environment responded.
The lights flickered.
Not like failure.
Like rejection.
The glow of the lamps wavered in an irregular rhythm, casting misaligned shadows on the walls. For a moment too brief to be understood… the sound died.
Laughter ceased.
Conversations broke in the middle.
Strings went out of tune.
Then—
everything returned.
But not to the same place.
The air remained heavier.
As if something had been displaced… and not fully returned.
The hall opened before him, amber light reflected in mirrors that multiplied faces, gestures, movements — none of them fully registered him.
Éreon continued without diverting, crossing the hall and taking the stairs at the same pace. The noise stayed below him, dissolving with each step, until it no longer reached him.
On the third floor, the silence was not absence.
It was containment.
The corridor stretched narrow, the air denser, carrying a perfume too light to sustain the space on its own.
He stopped before the door.
Knocked.
The sound was dry.
On the other side, immediate movement.
"Nana!"
The door opened—
and the absence entered first.
The hesitation came before thought.
Enough for the body not to follow what the eyes were beginning to perceive.
She turned and found Éreon already inside, still beside the window.
The cloak hid part of his face, but the presence was total. It did not ask for attention.
It imposed.
His gaze passed over her once and stopped.
She stood out in the space: young, too sure for the place she was in, short dark hair, misaligned enough not to seem careless.
The direct gaze held attention, couldn't hold under pressure.
The fitted dress was not carelessness; it was a tool.
Éreon registered what was necessary.
"It's been a year… Selina."
She stepped back, the air failing for an instant.
"Who are you?"
The moment did not move forward.
"How do you know my name?"
Éreon did not answer immediately.
He took a step.
"A house that trades names… does not keep loyalty."
"Only records."
The silence hesitated.
"And you always wrote everything down."
Another pause.
"Even what you shouldn't."
Her gaze faltered.
Recognition came before courage.
"Ér… Éreon…?"
Her breath failed.
"I was told you had died…"
"They said many things."
Another step.
Unhurried.
"None of them changed what you did."
Her expression hardened, trying to regain control.
"You don't understand."
"I do."
A clean cut.
"You chose."
She laughed, short. Without humor.
"I chose to survive."
Éreon stopped.
"No."
An instant.
"You chose who would die in your place."
Selina stepped back, the movement failing before completing.
Éreon advanced.
Without haste.
Each movement dimming the light around him instead of contesting it.
When she reached the hall, everything continued — voices, laughter, mugs clashing, people passing by her as if nothing had changed.
"Hey…" her voice came out fast, still firm. "Hey!"
No one turned.
She took a step forward, trying to grab the arm of a man passing by.
She found no resistance.
The body passed through the gesture as if she were not there.
Selina froze.
"No…" lower now.
She turned to another table.
"Can you hear me?"
Not a glance.
Not a movement out of place.
The laughter continued.
Too close.
Too wrong.
Her breath failed for a moment.
She tried again.
Louder.
"Someone—!"
Her own voice seemed to die before reaching anywhere.
The sound existed.
But it didn't carry.
That was when her knees gave way to the floor.
Her body collapsed right after.
And, for the first time—
she understood.
Éreon descended a single step.
Without haste.
"You always choose the easiest path… when the cost isn't yours."
The silence weighed.
She laughed.
Low at first.
Then it broke in the middle.
"Easiest path…?"
She let the air out, almost a broken sigh.
"Like mother… like son…" a trace of laughter, lifeless. "you speak just like her…"
Her laugh came short. Without humor.
"I tried to survive."
Her gaze remained on him.
"You were there… you saw what he was."
Her breath faltered a little.
"When they decided to place an archduke in that war… it was already over."
Her knees gave a little more against the floor.
"I was ready to follow Nika's plan…"
The air did not come fully.
"But Phoebrus found me."
Her eyes hardened.
"He said it didn't matter… that there was nothing left to save."
Another pause, lighter.
"That all they wanted… was the priestess."
"Phoebrus."
A clean cut.
Éreon took a step forward.
"It was him… who brought this to the count."
Selina looked away for a moment.
Took a deep breath.
Returned.
"That… I don't know."
Her head lifted, holding what little remained.
"There's more there than you imagine."
Silence.
"The priestess stayed hidden for years…"
Her voice dropped, lower.
"If Nika had said what she knew…"
Pause.
"Maybe… she would still be alive."
Éreon stopped before reaching her.
His presence pressing the space.
Selina smiled.
Small.
Wrong.
"Tell me something…"
Her eyes fixed on him.
"How important are you…"
An instant.
"…for a demigod to intervene for you?"
Éreon did not answer.
He only took another step.
The space seemed to yield around him.
Selina held his gaze.
Barely.
Her breath turned irregular again.
"There's more…"
Her voice faltered before stabilizing.
"It wasn't just one."
Pause.
"Four pavilions betrayed Nika."
Her eyes wavered.
"And the woman who betrayed Diana…"
She swallowed hard.
"She's here."
An instant.
"The countess."
Silence.
Lower:
"Be careful with her…"
A trace of lucidity.
"She's not what she seems."
Selina held his gaze for one more moment, but the firmness no longer sustained itself.
The smile failed first.
Then came the air, irregular, trapped in her chest as if her own body refused to keep holding that.
"I…" her voice came out low, broken. "I had no choice…"
His step was almost imperceptible.
When she realized, he was already too close.
"I tried—"
Her body faltered, the leg stepping back before the arm could follow.
The movement stopped.
The blade crossed the space with absolute precision.
For an instant — too late — her eyes understood.
The cut came in the same movement.
The impact was not loud — it was final.
The head separated before the body could react—
but not before perception.
For a brief second, there still seemed to be intention to continue.
Then it fell.
Her body collapsed right after, heavy, empty, meeting the ground without resistance.
The silence that remained was not absence of sound.
It was presence.
Dense.
Irreversible.
The blood slid along the blade, marking the slow rhythm of what could no longer be undone.
Éreon remained still for a moment, looking not at the body… but at the space where the decision had been made long before that moment.
"Guilty."
The word did not echo.
It settled.
On the walls.
In the air.
In what still remained of that place.
The shadows around reacted.
First a subtle tremor.
Then a misalignment — as if the space itself refused to hold its form.
Éreon began to walk.
Each step moved forward without haste, while the environment around seemed to give way, layer by layer, as if it were being undone from the inside out.
As he raised the blade, the air tightened.
Something invisible snapped.
Like threads being cut beyond the reach of the eyes.
He held it suspended for a brief instant.
"Sudden death."
It was not an announcement.
It was final.
When he crossed the exit, his voice came again, low — but enough to reach everything around.
"Rupture."
The world yielded.
The structure that sustained the hall collapsed like an illusion that could no longer be maintained.
What revealed itself was not chaos.
It was the truth.
Bodies scattered.
Heads separated.
The remnants of what, seconds before, still moved.
At the door, the women did not react immediately.
Horror came before understanding.
When they tried to face him, they found no face.
The shadow consumed him completely.
Éreon did not slow down.
He passed by them.
Entered the darkness of the alleys as if he no longer belonged to that place.
And then, without looking back—
"When they ask what happened here…"
The pause came brief.
Heavy.
"Tell them the Red District… remembers."
On the other side of the territory, in the county's castle, darkness dominated everything.
Seated in his chair, only the red glow of a single eye gave away his presence.
Something moved around him.
It did not react.
It was already ahead.
"First, crows…"
The voice came low.
Controlled.
"Now, a rat walks beneath my walls."
The servant hesitated, lowering his head by reflex.
"Forgive me, my lord… I noticed no change in the districts."
The silence that followed was not empty — it was pressure.
"Exactly."
The word fell like a sentence.
"That is… what makes him a problem."
A short pause.
"At dawn, send guards to the lower district."
His gaze did not move.
But the pressure increased.
"Where the candidates wait."
Another instant.
Cold.
"Any deviation…"
Pause.
"is eliminated."
The air remained dense after the order.
The eye did not blink.
It did not need to.
It watched.
It waited.
Like something that already understood—
that this was no accident.