Hrodgar said nothing more.
He simply stepped to the edge of the battlement—then, without warning, gathered all three children into arms the size of carved stone pillars and leapt.
Elior managed only a strangled scream.
Wind howled. The gold-white wall shot upward like lightning turned inside-out.
Someone—Alice or Lucen, he could not tell—loosed a silent, hopeless cry.
And then—
Thump.
They landed softer than a feather drifting onto velvet. No dust rose. No stone cracked. Only the faintest tremor, as if the ground itself realized history had just touched it.
Lucen stared down at the earth, begging it for an explanation.
"...I apologise for every sin I have ever committed,"
he whispered, like a confession to the universe.
Hrodgar set them down, brushed his armour, and drew a heavy black cloak over his shoulders. He tossed three more cloaks to the children.
"Wear these. Down here, the colour of your cloak… protects your life better than any spell."
Elior pulled the hood low, rough fabric scratching his cheek, smelling of sea-salt and cold ash.
Alice asked softly,
"And if we don't wear them?"
Hrodgar's answer came like a history lesson:
"Down here, the rule is simple.
Anyone not cloaked in black is an outsider.
And outsiders are… prey."
Lucen swallowed hard.
"Bit extreme, isn't it?"
"Compared to this place," Hrodgar murmured,
"hell is a tourist resort."
And they walked on.
The City Below — InfernalisThe streets were narrow as a monster's throat.
Houses rose like horned skulls, rooftops curled like talons clutching the sky.
The ground glimmered a faint ember-red, like coals beneath dying breath.
The air was thick—whispering at the back of Elior's neck, as though someone breathed just behind him.
A door creaked open. A creature stepped out—grey skin, long face, eyes like burning coal. It nodded, smiled—far too wide to be kind.
Lucen muttered,
"That smile… how many people does it eat a day?"
"Fewer than I have," Hrodgar replied, voice grinding like steel on granite.
Lucen shut up immediately.
They entered a narrow alley.
At its end sat a house shaped like a giant pumpkin, carved with hollow, glowing violet eyes. Thin smoke seeped from its jack-o'-lantern mouth like ghost breath.
Hrodgar knocked—two heavy taps like iron bolts slamming a coffin.
The door creaked open.
A hunched dwarf-thing, ugly and snaggle-toothed, grumbled,
"Who— oh. It's that odd Hrodgar fellow."
Silence froze the air.
Hrodgar's gaze fell upon him—cold as winter forged into steel.
The dwarf paled.
"I mean—most esteemed Hrodgar of the Northern Guard!"
"Better," Hrodgar said, stepping inside.
The Shadowed TavernIt was darker than the bottom of time's well.
Lanterns held sickly green flame.
Drinks glimmered in colours of ash, wilted purple, corpse-ice blue.
Demons sat with demons.
Red eyes. Carved horns. Nails tapping glasses like claws on bone.
Elior tightened his hood.
Alice watched, silent and sharp.
Lucen tried not to retch.
They took a corner beneath a cracked obsidian pillar, struck long ago by what felt like divine thunder.
"Four," Hrodgar called.
Elior jumped.
"We don't drink!"
Hrodgar blinked.
"…I forget you are… little."
To the barkeeper, he said,
"Three Night-Imp Brews. Quiblings love them."
"Ten silver-glow," hissed the demon barman, voice like a serpent thinking.
"A discount. For the one who held the wall."
Hrodgar nodded and paid.
The drinks hissed violet vapor.
Demon-pastry arrived, warm as if baked in the belly of a beast.
Lucen whispered,
"If I grow horns tomorrow, tell my mum I died bravely."
The door creaked again.
A group cloaked in black entered—bearing a split six-pointed star embroidered on their chests.
The room thickened.
Darkness leaned in to listen.
Elior's heart stuttered.
He had seen that mark—somewhere.
Hrodgar muttered, each word dragged like steel from stone,
"Do not stare. They bear Beliar's sign."
Lucen blanched.
"Who is Beliar?"
"The one who turned angels into demons,"
Hrodgar replied, eyes fixed on the newcomers.
"Gone for ages. Yet his followers crawl back. Scattered. Like the first breath before a storm."
Elior remembered Professor Solomon's stern eyes, gazing north.
Remembered a hush in his voice that felt like prophecy.
"Beliar… and Master Solomon…"
"…Surely not—"
A shrill laugh cut the air.
A clawed foot tapped the floor like a war drum calling doom.
Hrodgar's hand slid to the hilt beneath his cloak.
"Do not fear," he murmured.
"If they smell fear, I shall have to—dispose of a few. And I would rather finish my drink."
Lucen groaned,
"How do your reassurances always make things worse?"
Elior gripped his cup, heart chiming like sacred metal struck.
Something was coming.
Not only from the shadows—but from history itself.
From Beliar's name.
From Solomon's gaze.
From the wind beyond the walls.
And in that moment, Elior knew—
The world's quiet was nearly over.