Location: The Guild of Preservation, Bond Street Branch.
Date: January 1st, 2083 A.D. (After Dark).
The snow falling outside the Bond Street branch didn't look like the snow of the old world. It was grey, heavy, and tasted faintly of sulfur and burnt mana. The aftermath of the war still lingered in the air of Westminster, but inside the Guild, the fireplace was roaring with an intensity that defied the winter chill.
Grace Elizabeth Smith was standing on a stool, trying to hang a crooked banner that read HAPPY 2083 over the reception desk.
"Mr. Pendragon," she sighed, throwing a piece of tinsel at the couch. "If you don't wake up, I'm going to use your tab to buy the expensive champagne."
On the velvet sofa, a mountain of blankets shifted. A messy head of blonde hair emerged, followed by a groan that sounded like a shifting tectonic plate.
"Too loud..." Arthur Uther Pendragon muttered, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. "The year hasn't even started properly, and I'm already exhausted. Do you know how many calories it takes to celebrate? It's inefficient."
"It is a human tradition, Arthur," Old Man Uriel said from his armchair. The archivist was polishing his monocle, a glass of dark amber liquid resting on his knee. "Though, historically speaking, 2083 is a superstitious year. The star charts suggest a high probability of calamity. Or indigestion."
"I'll take the indigestion," Lucian said.
The host of the Sin of Pride was sitting by the window, watching the grey snow pile up against the glass. He wore his usual black coat, looking as stoic as ever. Because of his Constraint, he couldn't feel the 'joy' of the holiday, nor the 'sadness' of the passing year. He simply felt... present.
"Are we expecting anyone else?" Lucian asked, turning to face the room.
"Just the boss," Grace said, finally getting the banner to stick. She jumped down, smoothing her skirt. "He said he had to bring the 'special vintage'."
As if summoned by the mention of alcohol, the shadows in the corner of the room lengthened. The heavy oak door didn't open, but suddenly, a figure was standing by the coat rack.
Azrael Aziz removed his fedora, dusting off invisible snowflakes. He was dressed impeccably in a fresh tuxedo, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. In his hand, he held a bottle of wine that looked older than the building itself.
"Apologies for the delay," Azrael said, his voice smooth as velvet. "The queue at the River Styx was dreadful. Everyone wants to toast to the living these days."
"Is that...?" Arthur sat up, sniffing the air. His laziness vanished instantly. "Is that Dragon's Blood Wine?"
"Don't be greedy, Wyrm," Azrael smiled, uncorking the bottle with a snap of his fingers. He poured five glasses. The liquid was a deep, glowing ruby red.
Grace took a glass, her hands trembling slightly. "To... to those we lost in Victoria City," she whispered.
The room went quiet. Even Arthur looked solemn.
"To the lost," Uriel nodded.
"To the survivors," Lucian added, raising his glass.
Azrael held his glass up, but he didn't look at the other characters. Instead, he turned his head slowly, his crimson eyes looking past the fireplace, past the walls of the guild, and seemingly staring directly out of the page.
"And," Azrael said, a knowing smirk playing on his lips, "to the Observers."
Lucian frowned. "Observers? The Gods?"
"Higher than Gods," Azrael chuckled, swirling his wine. "To the ones reading our story. To the ones who have followed us through the bombing, the rituals, and the awakening of the Sins."
Arthur blinked, looking confusedly at the empty air. "Is he breaking the fourth wall again? I hate it when he does that. It gives me a headache."
"Let him have his moment," Uriel grumbled. "He likes the dramatic flair."
Azrael ignored them, stepping closer to the 'screen', raising his glass toward you.
"You've stuck with us through twenty-seven chapters of chaos," Azrael said softly. "You've seen Lucian rise from a beggar to a Lightseeker. You've seen the corruption of Kings and the madness of Angels."
"Tell them I'm going to do something cool next year!" Arthur shouted from the couch, finally taking a sip of his wine. "I'm going to punch a cloud! Or maybe sleep for a month. Haven't decided."
"And tell them I'll try not to die," Lucian added dryly.
Grace smiled, waving awkwardly at the invisible audience. "Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you for watching over us!"
Azrael tipped his glass.
"The year 2083 is going to be... messy," the Branch Master whispered, his eyes narrowing playfully. "The Seventh Prince is waking up. The Angels are hunting. And the King has broken his chains. I hope you're ready for what comes next."
"Happy New Year," Lucian said, his voice calm and authoritative, the King's Aura flaring just slightly—enough to command attention. "May your year be filled with... Pride."
"Cheers!" the group shouted in unison.
The fire crackled, the glasses clinked, and for a brief moment in the grim darkness of the After Dark era, there was warmth.
[End of Filler Chapter]