For the first time in a long while, Cirino woke up in a proper bed.
He blinked against the light filtering through the window, the morning sun cutting across his face. A groan escaped him as he sat up—
Then, instinctively, his hand went to his chest.
He glanced down. A simple white shirt replaced his usual uniform.
Huh... oh, right.
The surgery. His clothes had been ruined in the process, soaked with blood. Rita had them changed for something clean and plain. Her handiwork deserved praise—he couldn't even tell his chest had been opened. No stitches. No pain. Not even a scar.
If anything, he felt better than before.
Did she fix all the soot and smog I inhaled on the battlefield too? he half-joked, then immediately wondered if that was actually possible.
"Ah, you're awake, criminal!"
The chipper voice broke through his thoughts. Cirino turned his head, brow twitching.
Standing proudly beside his bed was Agnes. She wore a white uniform with a small cape draped over her shoulders. A dove emblem gleamed on her insignia—clutching a gavel in its talons. Her violet eyes sparkled with an energy that defied all reason.
Where does she get that much energy? What time even is it?
"Uh… Agnes," Cirino began slowly, unsure of what tone to take. He could barely handle talking to normal children—how was he supposed to handle a Scion-in-training? "You're awake."
"Indeed I am, Criminal!" she declared with a beaming smile. "In fact, I have not slept at all!"
What.
"Lady Baudouin ordered someone to keep watch, and I volunteered!"
"And Lady Baudouin let you?" Cirino asked.
At that, Agnes froze. She scratched her cheek, eyes darting away as a faint flush crept across her face.
"W–Well, no… but!" she straightened her back, puffing her chest with righteous pride. "As a Justiciar Scion-in-training, it only felt right to uphold my duty! Worry not, Criminal. I have spent many a night without sleep to pass the rigorous examinations Lord Serathiel requires of us!"
She said it so proudly—as if that wasn't the most concerning sentence Cirino had heard all week.
What?
Cirino was starting to think that word would become his favorite. A single, concise reaction to all the nonsense life threw at him lately.
Who in the High-Crown's balls was putting a twelve-year-old through that kind of pressure? The worst part was that she seemed to think it was normal. When he was her age, he was told to get to bed before curfew—not to pull all-nighters studying under divine authority.
"Kid…" he began, "you should sleep."
"Huh?" Agnes blinked at him as if he'd just suggested something heretical. "I cannot! Justice never sleeps!"
"You're not justice, you're a little girl. Go. To. Bed." Cirino said flatly, spacing out each word for emphasis.
"Your words will not sway me, Criminal!" she declared, crossing her arms with the defiance only a twelve-year-old could muster. "I will uphold my duties as Scion-in-training, even if it kills me!"
Cirino clicked his tongue.
How could a child say something like that so casually? Did she even understand the weight of those words—or was she just parroting what the adults around her said?
He sighed. Dealing with stubborn kids wasn't exactly his expertise. Even Sister Marietta could never quite tame that kind of spirit back at the orphanage.
"You should listen to him, brat."
The voice came from behind the rows of beds—dry, sharp, and unmistakably familiar.
A familiar elf strolled in, hands occupied: one clutching a half-eaten slice of buttered toast, the other buried deep in his coat pocket. The coat itself hung loose on him, almost comically oversized. Slung across his back was a massive rifle, runes along the barrel faintly glowing.
"I'm supposed to be the one keeping watch," Sio said, his gaze flicking toward the girl.
"You?" Agnes glared accusingly, chin high. "Hmph! Your irascible exterior hardly makes you a credible witness! Diligence seems to escape you, elf!"
Sio bit into his bread with a deadpan stare. "Using big words doesn't make you sound smarter, kid. Besides, you talk too much for someone who looks like she might crumble any second."
"Irrelevant!" Agnes said, her face brightening with a flustered flush. "That's… irrelevant to the current conversation!"
Sio just looked at her flatly.
"Yep. Sure it is."
He turned to Cirino. "Was she this much of a pain during interrogation?"
"More or less," Cirino said with a shrug. "For someone who hasn't slept, I'm surprised she's still got energy."
"Justice never sleeps!" Agnes declared, hands on hips.
"Justice is going to fall face-first into the floor if she keeps this up," Sio muttered.
Agnes puffed her cheeks and stomped her foot. "I will not! I'm perfectly fine! I can still stand!"
The dark circles under her eyes told a different story.
"Barely," Sio said.
Cirino leaned back against the pillow, watching the exchange with the weary amusement of a man who'd seen this exact argument a hundred times between soldiers and recruits. "You two always like this?"
"For the one day I've known her? Pretty much," Sio replied. "She's been trying to arrest me since yesterday. Didn't think we'd have a bigger headache here than you, but here she is. Remind me to never have kids."
"That's because you're suspicious!" Agnes snapped. "Report after report of behavior unfit for the Choir! Tardiness. Disrespect. Not to mention that foul mouth! And you call yourself a respectable member of the Choir."
"Hey," he said, smirking. "Respectable and Choir don't belong in the same sentence."
Agnes made a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a squeak. Cirino had to bite back a laugh.
Sio flicked a crumb off his coat and glanced at Cirino again. "Anyway, you feeling better? Heard Rita patched you up with her fancy tricks."
"She didn't even need stitches," Cirino said. "Didn't feel a thing, either."
"Lucky bastard," Sio muttered. "Last time she worked on me, I could feel every nerve screaming for a week."
"That's because you moved mid-operation," Agnes said smugly.
Sio arched a brow. "Oh? And how would you know that?"
"I read the report!"
Cirino sighed softly. He had a feeling mornings here were going to be… loud.
"Do you just read random strangers' files for fun?" Sio asked dryly.
"Justice must be diligent!" Agnes declared proudly.
"Justice needs to learn privacy," Sio muttered, brushing crumbs from his coat. His gaze slid toward Cirino.
"Alright, where to?"
"Huh?" Cirino blinked, caught off-guard.
What did he mean by that?
Sio's brows furrowed, the faintest crease forming between them.
"You've got that look in your eye," he said flatly. "You're not planning to stay here, are you?"
Cirino offered no answer—just a small exhale as he swung his legs off the bed. The floor was cold against his bare feet.
"Do you have a coat I can borrow?" he finally asked.
Sio's deadpan stare could've flattened a man. Without a word, he gripped his coat tighter—like a dragon guarding treasure.
Cirino met his glare with a tired one of his own.
"I don't mean yours," he said. "Just something to keep the cold off. I'm still in a shirt here."
"Mm." Sio relented with a shrug. "There are spares you can request. But they've all got the insignia, so expect stares."
Cirino sighed through his nose. "I was already getting those before," he muttered. "Might as well keep the streak going."
He rose, stretching his shoulders with a quiet pop. For the first time in a long while, he felt… functional. Alive, even.
"Fine," he said at last.
Sio watched him, waiting. Cirino hesitated, then glanced up. There was only one place—one person—he had in mind.
"Do you know where I can find William Wycliffe?"
The question lingered in the air. His voice was calm, but there was a quiet weight beneath it.
He wanted to check on the kid. After everything that happened… he needed to.
[...]
Agnes completely ignored both Sio and Cirino's protests. The girl marched behind them with a pep in her step, her boots clicking against the cobblestones in bright defiance of the gloom.
The morning sun spilled across the cool stone streets, cutting through a haze of smoke and dust. Citizens paused to watch them pass—faces painted with fear, apprehension, awe, hatred—or some uneasy blend of all four.
This feels awfully familiar.
Cirino wasn't unused to the stares. He'd seen them after Karvethal. The campaign had been a victory on paper, but there was nothing clean about it. Every glare now felt like an echo of that aftermath.
Not that I don't understand.
"Should be around here," Sio said, lifting a folded document from his coat.
It was a copy of the transfer report—William Wycliffe's admittance into his new, hopefully temporary, home. An orphanage near the city's neglected quarter, where the streets grew narrower and the air heavier with soot and decay.
The buildings sagged the deeper they went. Windows were boarded, stone cracked and blackened. The people here didn't bother hiding their scorn. Some glared openly. Others spat on the ground as they passed.
"Told you wearing that coat was a bad idea," Sio muttered, not looking at him. His voice carried irritation more than judgment.
"They're staring at you too," Cirino replied.
"…I'm well aware." Sio's jaw tensed, a small tic betraying the calm facade. "But you wearing that coat made it worse."
Cirino exhaled quietly through his nose. "Guess we're sharing the spotlight then."
"Worry not! A bit of negative attention does little against the hammer of justice!" Agnes declared, her voice bright and clear against the cold murmur of the streets.
Her words did little to cut the tension. If anything, they made the elf beside her visibly twitch. In the barracks, Sio's dry humor had always carried a lazy charm. Out here, under the eyes of a hostile crowd, something sharper stirred in him.
"Agnes, can you shut up for a moment."
The edge in his tone sliced through her enthusiasm like a blade. The girl froze mid-step, her boots scraping softly against the stone before slowing to a hesitant walk.
"S–Sorry…" she murmured, eyes cast down.
Cirino shot Sio a glare. "That's uncalled for."
"Wearing that coat's uncalled for," Sio countered without missing a beat. "We could've done this quieter…"
The words hung for a moment—heavy, defensive, frustrated. Then Sio stopped walking. His shoulders tensed, then slumped as he drew in a slow breath.
"...Sorry, Agnes."
She flinched slightly, but her expression softened.
"I–It's okay…" she said, her voice small. The spark from earlier was gone, replaced by something quieter—fragile, almost human.
Cirino watched him with quiet curiosity. What had happened to make Sio this on edge? Nothing bad had really occurred—they were simply walking through the streets.
He hesitated, eyes drifting toward the elf. The memory of Sio's words returned to him: "I'm the only one of my kind here." He wasn't sure how elf years translated to human ones, but Sio looked roughly his age. The stares, the whispers, the weight of being the only one—it must have been eating at him for a long time.
Still, to affect him this much…
What made you like this?
Their walk continued in relative silence, the earlier energy drained. When they finally arrived, Cirino looked up to see the orphanage looming before them—a manor in ill repair. Moss clung to the wood like rot, the stone foundations sagged with age, and the faded sign above the doorway was missing a letter.
"Lori...n Heights?" Cirino murmured, squinting up at it.
"Lorian Heights," Sio corrected. His tone softened, almost reverent. "Established nearly a century ago by Alaster Xion, before…"
He coughed into his hand, glancing away. "...Classified."
Cirino stared up at the orphanage doors, a pang of nostalgia tugging at him. His earliest memories were of a place just like this—wooden halls that smelled faintly of bread and soap, laughter echoing through the walls. He wondered if the city's orphanages were any different. He hadn't left his own until three years ago, when the draft pulled him into the army.
With a quiet huff, he climbed the steps and stopped before the door.
He glanced back. Sio lingered at the bottom of the steps, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the building as if it might bite him.
"You—uh, coming in?" Cirino asked.
"No," Sio said flatly. "I hate children."
Cirino blinked. Way too honest there, buddy.
"I shall accompany you, then!" Agnes announced, marching past Sio. "I told you the elf was unqualified!"
The words left her mouth before her brain caught up. She froze mid-step, glancing back at him with wide, fearful eyes.
Sio exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple. His jaw tightened as if he were physically restraining his temper. He looked away, ashamed.
"...Yeah," he muttered. "Working on that."
"Just don't try to traumatize the next child you see." Cirino said, though there was an edge in his voice.
Sio furrowed his brow, then held up both his middle finger and pointer. Cirino blinked, what the hell was that gesture? Noting his confusion, Sio answered.
"It's Salvaeri for fuck you."
Oh... that was nice to know.
Cirino held up both his middle and pointer up to Sio before turning his head and entering the orphanage. Sio stared and let out a sigh.
"Jackass..."
He looked around, his gaze turning to a small shop. Sio checked his pockets and sighed, he supposed he should do a little shopping.
[...]
Cirino could feel it all—the chaos of children running about, the faint smell of poorly preserved food, the subtle tremor of hurried footsteps shaking the floorboards. It hit him with a wave of nostalgia.
"Just like home," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Agnes, who had insisted on accompanying him, looked entirely out of place. For once, she wasn't the zealous defender of justice she always claimed to be—just a nervous girl surrounded by noise and laughter. Her eyes darted from one corner to another, shoulders tensing each time a child ran too close.
Is she… not used to being around kids her age?
Cirino's expression softened. What did they do to her? Had her whole life really been consumed by this relentless pursuit of becoming a Scion?
He'd dreamed of that title once too. But to reach it this way—to lose so much of yourself in the process...
It felt wrong.
"You alright?" Cirino asked.
Agnes turned to him, her expression tight. She forced a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, followed by a jerky nod—more obligation than reassurance.
"Of course... Justice never falls to anxiety," she said, voice trembling just enough to betray her.
Kid, you're not Justice.
He exhaled softly. Some part of him felt responsible for dragging her into this, even if she'd volunteered herself. Searching for something—anything—that might help, he held out his hand.
She blinked, staring at it as though he'd just offered her a live grenade.
"Why are you offering your hand to me, Criminal?"
Don't make me regret this, brat, he thought dryly.
"Just hold it. Might help. That's what Sister Marietta used to do whenever I got scared."
"Me?! Scared?!" Agnes sputtered, scandalized by the suggestion.
But the silence that followed said everything. Her defiance wilted into a quiet uncertainty as she hesitated, then finally reached out. Her hand was cold—awkward and hesitant in his.
It wasn't the grip of someone raised with care. It was the touch of someone molded, forged, and told to be unyielding long before she learned how to be gentle.
Cirino gave her hand a gentle squeeze, letting the girl tense before easing his grip—loose enough that she could pull away if she wanted. Judging by how tightly she held on, though, she was terrified to let go.
How are you supposed to make a Scion out of this?
She was just a kid.
They were still in the reception hall, the air faintly smelling of dust and ink. The elderly woman behind the counter hadn't even noticed their arrival yet. Cirino approached, Agnes still glued to his side. When the old woman finally peeked over the rim of her book, she blinked.
"Oh my, welcome to Lorian Heights." She adjusted her spectacles, her wrinkled face softening into a kind smile. Her gaze shifted to Agnes. "Oh, hello there, dear."
Agnes immediately ducked behind Cirino's arm. He sighed.
Again—how are you supposed to make a Scion out of this? It just felt cruel.
"Sorry," he said. "She's a little nervous. Hasn't really been around other kids her age."
The old woman smiled gently. "Ah, I see. It's always a bit heartbreaking, cases like hers. But don't you worry—we'll make sure she feels at home here."
She reached for a stack of papers, but Cirino quickly lifted a hand.
"Wait—she's not here for adoption."
That earned him a pause. The woman peered over her glasses, brows knitting together. "Oh? Then is she your little sister? Perhaps you brought her here to... socialize?"
Cirino scratched the back of his neck. Explaining this was going to sound ridiculous no matter how he phrased it.
"Uh... no. She's my... observer."
The old woman blinked once. Then twice. Her gaze darted from Agnes to Cirino, suspicion slowly dawning.
"A girl who doesn't look a day over twelve is your observer?"
Cirino opened his mouth to reply—then closed it.
Well. When she puts it like that...
She scrutinized him for a long moment before her gaze drifted to the insignia on his borrowed coat. Her expression soured; she clicked her tongue in disapproval.
"Have you learned nothing from Antigonus? Using children as weapons is cruel, Sir."
Antigonus...
The name stirred something in him. He'd heard it before—an old Imperial legend, passed down through grim retellings in the barracks.
Centuries ago, the Choir found a child gifted beyond measure in the mystic arts. His prodigious skill rivaled even the Scions before his voice had finished changing. The boy of moonlit blue, they called him—taken from his home, molded into a weapon by the Choir of that era.
His family was murdered, their deaths pinned on the creatures of Chthonis to harden his heart. Under endless study and unrelenting discipline, the boy was stripped of childhood. By eleven, he no longer resembled a child at all—he was an instrument. A perfect creation of obedience and will. His inventions, like the Antigonian Wards, endured for centuries.
But that pressure never faded. That fear never left.
When he learned the truth of what the Choir had done, he shattered. The city he was meant to protect was erased from the world, swallowed whole—along with him.
A cautionary tale. One that should have been heeded. But it never was.
"I agree," Cirino said quietly. He turned to the elderly woman, his tone firm but calm. "Children shouldn't be anywhere near warzones. This isn't their fight—it's ours. They shouldn't have to bear the weight of being the empire's bulwark."
The elderly woman nodded slowly.
"But she isn't part of the Choir, and neither am I," Cirino said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm being, uh... investigated. I just wanted to visit one of the kids who I think's here. I sort of owe him."
Her brow lifted slightly. "And his name?"
"William Wycliffe. He should be here. Can I see him?"
The woman regarded him in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that measured a man. Then she exhaled softly and gave a small nod.
"Very well. Forgive me for assuming, Mr...?"
"Cirino."
"Mr. Cirino," she repeated with a faint smile.
"You may call me Ms. Leila, or Ms. Receptionist, if you prefer." She rose from her seat, her joints cracking slightly as she straightened. "Come, I'll lead you to him."
Cirino blinked. "You already know where he is?"
In a place this large, he half expected her to have to search for him.
As if sensing his thoughts, Leila's expression dimmed.
"William... he only ever stays in one spot. Ever since he arrived, he's been withdrawn. Apprehensive. Downright antisocial, if I'm being honest."
Cirino's expression softened. "Considering what he's been through, that makes sense."
Leila nodded. "Hopefully you'll have better luck getting through to him than we did."