The monastery loomed like a rotted cathedral pulled from the belly of a forgotten god—its stone dark with soot and age, its arches ribbed like bone and curling with thin, black ivy. Rain hadn't yet fallen, but the clouds above swirled low and brimming, thick with the taste of iron and thunder. Statues crowned the monastery's roof—twisted depictions of Ilrion, the old god of light and law. But these statues bore no serenity.
Their mouths were stitched shut with chains carved in stone, and their eyes, once carved with symbols of divine sight, had been scraped smooth, leaving hollow pits that stared forever skyward. Each one stood in some broken pose of mercy, arms outstretched or kneeling—prayers frozen in mockery against the decaying skyline.
Outside the great bronze-plated doors, chaos teetered into hysteria. Over a dozen nuns in soot-streaked habits clustered on the monastery steps, some on their knees, hands clasped and trembling as they recited lines of fractured scripture. Others were banging their fists against the doors, weeping or pleading, their voices cracked and hoarse.
One had broken her knuckles raw trying to pry open the rusted seams between the twin doors. Another kept screaming the High Mother's name, her sobs collapsing into dry coughs. A few citizens stood at the edge of the street, half-hidden beneath tilted hats and stained parasols, murmuring amongst themselves. Most looked up at the looming structure with wary curiosity—Drakehelm's kind of worship. The kind that watched from the shadows and whispered of blasphemy without offering help.
A few blocks away, Sella moved like a wraith along the sidewalk, her steps soundless beneath her boots. She kept to the side streets, her cloak curled tight around her, head low, yet her gaze never wavered from the unfolding scene. Through gaps in the buildings, she saw it all—the madness on the steps, the restless crowd, the towering silhouette of the monastery that had once promised hope and now stood like a sealed tomb. Her eyes narrowed. Her hand rested near the hilt beneath her coat. But she didn't move closer. Not yet.
Lucien pushed forward with a slow swagger, boots clipping the wet stone like he owned the street. He didn't bother sidestepping anyone. He nudged, shouldered, and slipped between the nuns with an easy carelessness, his hands tucked into the pockets of his long coat. One nun gasped and recoiled as he passed, clutching her rosary like it might burn him. Another backed away, whispering with trembling lips.
"Is that—? Is that him?! The cursed hunter?"
"He's supposed to be dead…"
"What's he doing here?"
Lucien scratched his ear, unfazed, his smirk half-formed and crooked. "You can calm down with all the yelling," he muttered, glancing lazily at the doors. "Some of your drunk friends downstairs sent me. Told me your boss locked herself in here and started talking to shadows. Figured it was worth a look."
Before he could step closer, a nun stepped in front of him. She was small, her veil disheveled and hands shaking as she held her ground. But there was fire in her fear, the kind taught in temples since childhood—the kind that believed standing tall might earn you salvation.
"You—You have no place here," she stammered. "This is the domain of Ilrion. A house of light and honesty! Guidance! Not for enemies like you!"
A few of the other nuns whispered frantically, trying to tug her back. "Sister Yvonne, please—don't—he's dangerous!"
Lucien's grin vanished. With a motion like snapping fingers, he drew his golden sidearm—a heavy revolver etched with blood-red runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. He planted the barrel against the center of her forehead. Silence dropped like a guillotine. Nuns froze. One shrieked. A few stumbled back down the stairs, pale as ghosts.
Lucien's voice came low, flat, and venom-slick. "I don't care what this place is. I don't care about your gods, your prayers, your ghosts, or whatever you think you're protecting. I'm here for coin. Nothing else. I just want my soul back."
The sister trembled, wide-eyed and breathless, her courage crumbling with every heartbeat. Slowly, she took a step back. Then another.
Lucien lowered the gun and holstered it in a lazy, one-handed spin. He turned back to the monastery doors, expression unreadable. "If your High Mother's playing with Tarot gods and doing some freaky ritual bullshit, I'm putting her down."
A collective cry rang out. "No!" one nun wailed. "Please—don't! She's not wicked! She's just… she's not herself!"
"She's being guided," another insisted, voice cracking. "Ilrion's light will protect her!"
Lucien sighed loudly. "Yeah, yeah, guiding light, holy flame, all that doctrine crap." He looked over his shoulder with a shrug. "Tell you what. If you want her alive, pay me more."
"We will!" they cried in unison. "Please! Don't hurt her!"
"She's not evil, she's not! Something's wrong!" Another nun chimed in.
Lucien held out his hand like a street vendor counting invisible coins. "That's more like it. Now—scram."
They hesitated.
Lucien turned, gun already drawn again, aimed without blinking. "You wanna die to whatever's behind that door? Be my guest. I get paid either way."
The nuns screamed and scrambled down the steps, clutching their robes, dragging each other in their haste to escape. A few stayed near the edge of the square, watching with tear-glazed eyes and trembling prayers, but none dared approach again.
Lucien faced the doors alone now. He cracked his neck.
"Alright, Mother Arnalla. Let's see what you've become."
He grabbed one handle. The rusted metal groaned under his grip—and then, with a sharp growl of force, he tore it free from its hinges. The door shrieked and slammed backward into the monastery's dark, hollow throat, echoing like a war drum.
The interior of the monastery reeked of old incense and death. It was dim, not with the gentleness of candlelight but with the faded glow of gas lamps left to flicker unattended for days—smoke staining the stone vaults and copper-ribbed ceilings. Tall windows of colored glass filtered the overcast light outside into shades of blue and blood, casting shattered saintly figures across the floor. The scent of rot curled behind the altar smoke, beneath the dust and dried wine, deeper than time—like the scent of memory, twisted and locked in bone.
Lucien's boots clicked softly as he walked across the marble nave, each step echoing against columns carved with half-smooth prayers and forgotten names. The air felt too still. Too dense. Yet the word clung to the stone like a whisper dragged from the past:
'Monster.'
It rang inside him, unspoken, like church bells no one else could hear.
'Monster.'
He scoffed aloud, his voice bouncing off the cracked mosaics above.
"Shit," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck.
'I wanted to be a hero as a kid, to beat monsters up for everyone to see.'
He chuckled, but the sound came out dry. From the corner of his eye, he caught it—movement. A boy running down the side aisle, arms out like wings, cape made from an old curtain, laughter bouncing between the pews like windchimes. His clothes were patched, ragged, but his grin was full of fire. The boy zipped through the monastery, leaping over rubble, stabbing imaginary beasts with a broken candle stick like it was a holy sword. It was him, when he was a child.
Lucien stopped walking. Just watched.
That was him. Or what might've been.
'Never had a real childhood,' he thought. 'Never had friends. One day I came home to find blood on the wallpaper, and then the Exarch found me. Said I had "potential."' His lip curled in slight anger.
He remembered tying sheets around his neck like a cape, pretending he was an Inquisition officer like his parents. "Justice has arrived!" he'd yell, stomping around the abandoned rail yards, interrogating cats and fighting ghosts with a mop. He used to call himself "Sir Lightbrand," because it sounded noble, and he thought it made people safe. He even prayed back then. Every night. For the monsters to stay away, for the city to get better, for his parents to stay alive.
Lucien exhaled hard through his nose, scoffing. "What a joke."
'Monster.'
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. His breath hitched when he heard it—distant screaming. Real. Human. Wet.
It rattled something deep inside him.
He'd fought Tarot gods. Beasts. Witches strung with runes that melted steel. But something about this monastery's silence made the screams louder. Wrong. Something was deeply wrong.
The boy was still running ahead, his back turned, disappearing into the side corridor like he knew the way. Lucien followed slowly, eyes scanning the walls. They were covered in scripture panels and decayed oil paintings—Ilrion, eyes blindfolded, walking through fire. Ilrion with hands extended to save the damned. Ilrion weeping black tears. One statue lay broken at the base of a cracked pillar, its face chipped to resemble a screaming child.
Lucien's throat tightened.
'Wish I had a normal life. A real one. One where I got to scrape my knees and play pretend and be told not to stay out too late.'
He exhaled shakily. Children are the only thing beautiful left in this fucked-up world. Not because they were pure. But because they were innocent. Unaware of what was coming. Still able to dream. That's why he always made sure they lived—he'd kill a whole town for a single child to get another year of laughter.
To distract himself, he muttered, "I used to stay up all night hunting for a Tarot god who could manipulate time. Thought if I could find them, I could go back and save myself." His voice wavered at the end.
But the screams came again—closer.
Lucien pushed open the sanctuary doors slowly.
It was carnage.
Blood smeared the walls like ritual paint. The altar was shattered, its gold scattered in shards. Stained glass had burst inward, slicing into flesh. The floor was layered with nun bodies, some kneeling as if mid-prayer, others twisted in agony, arms torn out of sockets, throats opened to silence. Holy symbols cracked under his boots as he stepped forward, breath tight.
Crawling in the center of the sanctuary was High Mother Arnalla. Her robes were drenched in blood, trailing behind her like a martyr's gown. Her limbs trembled violently, skin pale, eyes wide with grief.
"I just…" she rasped, mouth bubbling red, "I just wanted to bring him back… the High Father… He didn't deserve to die…"
Lucien said nothing.
She reached for him with a trembling hand.
"I… I heard his voice… He called me back…"
She was already half-dead. The trail of blood behind her was enough to drown in. Her organs pulsed through the slits in her habit. Lucien stared, jaw clenched.
Then—he looked up.
Judex.
Seated atop a throne made of mangled nun corpses, Judex towered like the embodiment of silence and judgment. Eighteen feet tall, his form was skeletal, ancient bones strung together with eldritch sinew that shimmered like smoke. His face was nothing but a skull, yet two curling horns of blood-red light twisted out from his empty sockets, pulsing like fire in the dark. A tattered black sackcloth cloak draped his form, torn and dragging like a funeral shroud, and behind his head floated a rusted halo made of coiled black barbed wire—spinning slowly, dripping with something not quite blood.
In one hand, he held a scythe—three blades curving at impossible angles, jagged and cruel, the metal etched with shifting scripture in a dead language. Strips of sackcloth clung to it, swaying like mourning banners, soaked with names that vanished if stared at too long.
In the other hand, Judex held a Tarot card.
It pulsed with light—an image of Ilrion, but fractured, wrong. The god's body split into mirrored forms, half in radiant gold, half in sunless shadow. The card shimmered with eldritch geometry, the borders lined with wax-sealed eyes and faded chants that breathed softly even in silence. It was Ilrion's Tarot card.
It was almost like the High Mother was trying to make a contract with Ilrion after she saw Judex, to try and stop him, but she was too late.
What even happened here?
Lucien's knees buckled slightly.
Real fear clawed into him—raw, sickening, primal.
He pulled out his gun and without hesitating, fired into his own skull.
The shot echoed, blood sprayed, and then—he stood again, healing twitch by twitch.
'Steady now. Focused!'
This was the same fear that had claws at him in the Hunting Grounds.
His eyes locked on Judex.
"I should've known she was here…Artemis….!" Judex said.
Then, Lucien heard Artemis's voice in his own head, saying, "Lucien, you need to get out of here now!"
Lucien asked, "Who is this….?"
"Judex. The Tarot God of Death."
…..
Across the street, The sign above a door read The Clock & Chime, its ornate lettering carved into aged brass and backlit by gaslight sconces that flickered soft amber against the grey of early evening. The windows were tall, arched, and wreathed in frost from the inside, offering a muted view of pressed lace curtains and amber chandeliers shaped like blooming lilies. The door let out a soft ding as Sella stepped inside, and she tensed, like she'd set off a trap.
The diner was empty—eerily so—but warm. Elegant. The walls were papered with deep velvet green and gold filigree, and the floor was a polished black-and-cream checkered tile that clicked softly under her boots. Brass clockwork fixtures adorned the walls, ticking softly in asynchronous rhythm, and the chandelier above glowed like a captured sun. Shelves of polished glassware and silver-trimmed dishes lined the back, and every table was dressed in pristine white cloth with a single brass candlestick at its center. It felt too clean. Too still.
Sella hesitated near the door, glancing over her shoulder.
'I'll stay here… blend in. Just until I hear fighting,' she thought, shifting her weight awkwardly.
She stepped forward, stiffly. Her hands barely moved as she walked, posture too upright. 'Okay, just… act natural. Be normal. What do normal people do? They eat, they sit, they… gods, I don't know how to do this.'
Every step felt like a performance she hadn't rehearsed for. She'd only ever been in establishments like this to slit throats or gather intel—never to order food. Never to sit down and relax. That was a foreign language she'd never been taught. She walked up to the polished counter like she was preparing to interrogate someone.
Behind it stood an old man with an elegant black vest and a thick, curled moustache. He smiled the way only old men in safe places do. "Evening, miss. Dining alone this morning?"
"Y-Yes. I mean… of course." She cleared her throat, looked away. 'Too stiff. Relax the shoulders. Less like you're about to shoot someone.'
He gestured kindly. "Would you like a table? Or will you be ordering up here?"
Sella opened her mouth, paused, then said, "Yes."
"Yes to which?"
She stared.
'Shit. That was the wrong answer. You have one job, Sella. Pretend to be a person.'
"I—I mean a table. A table would be lovely. Yes. Please. One."
The old man chuckled softly and motioned to a small table near the window. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll bring you the menu."
She walked over, stiff-backed like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, and sat with all the grace of a soldier preparing for battle. She looked at the napkin, unsure whether to fold it on her lap. She reached for the silverware, then recoiled. 'What if I use the wrong fork? Do people notice that? Is there a fork hierarchy?'
The menu was handed to her with a gentleman's smile, and her fingers gripped it like a shield. Her heart thumped like she'd been caught trespassing.
"Any questions, miss?" the man asked.
'Too many. All at once. I'm insanely overwhelmed.'
"I'll, uh… I'll take the tea," she blurted. "And food. Any food. The normal kind."
The old man raised a brow, still smiling. "Would you like a savory plate? Perhaps eggs and ham, or roast mushroom tart?"
"Yes. The last one. That. That's… very normal. I'll have that."
"Excellent choice."
As he walked away, she slumped back into her seat and buried her face in her hands. 'How embarrassing. I sounded like a malfunctioning automaton. What am I even doing?'
She slipped off her trench coat, folding it neatly beside her. Beneath it, she wore a crisp, high-collared long sleeve white shirt with brass buttons running down the front like pearls. Her pants were light brown, snugly fitted with pleats, held with brass-button suspenders that peeked through her shirt's front slits. Her boots were knee-high, buckled at the sides, and shined to perfection. The outfit looked like something a noble's daughter might wear to a fencing club—practical, stylish, and severe.
And she looked absolutely out of place.
She half-covered her face with her gloved hand, peering through her fingers at the monastery beyond the diner's window. Still no smoke. No fighting. Just the fog rolling slowly, like the city was holding its breath. She pressed her lips into a thin line.
For a fleeting moment—just a flicker—she wished Lucien were with her.
Not because she liked his company.
Hell no.
Certainly not that. But because he would've made this moment feel less mortifying. Less real. His sheer presence would've been enough of a mess to distract from her failure to blend in. In her eyes, he was a terrible man—infuriating, selfish, smug—but she'd gotten used to that by now which was surprisingly fast. She had forced herself to tolerate it.
She touched her lips, barely.
His blood.
Her mouth remembered the warmth of it—metallic, ancient, god-touched. She remembered being on top of him. She remembered the instinct, the hunger, the undeniable pull.
Her eyes snapped shut, jaw tightening. 'The Exarch taught me how to use Soul Alchemy on my blood and soul. That can't be the reason I felt drawn to Lucien's neck, is it? Drank his blood…? It can't be…'
The Exarch would never forgive her. If he found out, if she couldn't explain why—no, there was no reason. She'd crossed a line. She'd tasted the one man she was meant to kill.
Her hand pinched the skin of her arm sharply beneath the table. She flinched.
The old man returned just in time, placing her plate and tea gently before her.
She thanked him with a nod, trying to hide the flush in her cheeks.
Sella sat with stiff poise, her back perfectly straight, chin lifted just enough to seem aloof, elegant—detached. Her fork moved with silent precision, guided by the oddly specific etiquette drilled into her by the Black Chapel. Not too fast. Not too slow. Never let your wrist wobble. Chew precisely. Never open your mouth too wide. The utensils clicked against her plate with an almost mechanical rhythm—yet, despite her ritualistic motions, her flushed cheeks betrayed her. The food was… incredible.
She stabbed another bite of the roast mushroom tart and brought it to her lips slowly, pretending indifference, trying not to moan in delight. The savory crumble of the crust, the soft richness of the seasoned mushrooms, the subtle punch of thyme and goat cheese—it was all too much. Her tongue fluttered in awe. She didn't want to love it. She refused to love it.
'I only did this to blend in,' she insisted, chewing with maddening control. 'That's all this is. Camouflage. Black Chapel protocol. Surveillance in disguise.'
She took a sip of the tea. Something floral and honeyed. It warmed her throat like magic and settled into her chest like a memory.
'What if I'm being watched?…' she thought, hiding her mouth behind the porcelain teacup as if it could also hide her emotions. Her boots shifted beneath the table, knees locked together too tightly, like she was holding herself together by muscle memory alone. 'Act normal. Blend in. Do not smile.'
She grumbled under her breath as her lips betrayed her with the smallest upward curve.
From the kitchen behind the bar, the voices of the owner and his wife murmured. At first, Sella paid no mind—just idle noise—but then the names and words caught her ear.
"…killed himself a few hours ago, I'm telling you, Marta. High Father Alvic. Found swinging in the east chapel. And now High Mother Arnalla's sealed herself in there with the corpse…"
"The nuns said she was talking to someone in there, Arlen. They think… they think she made a deal. Maybe with a Tarot."
Sella blinked, her hand frozen mid-reach for another sip. She lowered her cup.
"What's with this Ilrion Monastery anyway?" she asked suddenly, voice cool, cut like silk through the quiet.
The old man reappeared, peeking through the service hatch. He looked hesitant, but not hostile. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Not exactly."
He exchanged a glance with his wife, then approached her table. "The Monastery of Ilrion in Drakehelm's been here since the city was smoke and river fog," he said. "It was once a beacon. A pillar of discipline and divine law. A place where the faithful believed they were closest to Ilrion's light. Closest to purity."
His wife leaned beside him, speaking softer. "But behind the lit candles and prayers, it was always more than that. Built on doctrine. Fear. Secrets. Some holy. Some heretical. Some… utterly forsaken."
"The Church of Ilrion was split, many years ago," the old man continued. "Some wanted Ilrion's justice to be about absolute judgment—others about salvation. The monastery was supposed to balance both. The High Father, the hand of judgment. The High Mother, the voice of mercy. But in time, that balance cracked. Judgment overshadowed mercy. And well… now you see the result."
Sella nodded, slow. "So after a suicide… it would make sense for the one left behind to look toward Ilrion for… guidance."
"Exactly," the woman said. "But no one knows what she actually did in there. Just that… something isn't right."
Sella turned her eyes back to her plate, silence pooling again. Her fork hovered just above the next bite. Her lips pursed.
'The Exarch would scold me if he saw this. Me. Here. Enjoying outside food like it was acceptable. Heresy by comfort food,' she thought with a bitter smile.
It wasn't forbidden, no. But strongly discouraged. Their code was strict. Their food rationed. Their uniforms exact. Everything—everything—within the Black Chapel was sacred. Even the thread count of their coats was regulated.
She clenched her fist in her lap. Her gloves creaked from the pressure.
'I can't even enjoy a damn meal without guilt strangling me. This food's amazing. It's better than half the things I've ever tasted. And still… I feel like I'm betraying them just for letting my tongue know what thyme tastes like. Is this what Lucien meant when he said live a little…?' No! Why am I even thinking of what that crazy bastard has to say? Get out of my head, fool!'
Her vision blurred a second. Then—like a pinprick to her thoughts—came a flicker. A soft vision. A long table in a warm room, candles flickering. Her mother handing her a slice of tart, laughing as her father stole a bite. They were laughing. All of them. Sella's cheeks were red from joy, not shame.
The memory stabbed.
Her hand trembled slightly, and she almost put the utensils down. Almost.
But she didn't.
She exhaled sharply, poised once more, and brought the fork back up.
The food neared her lips.
Then she stopped.
The room had grown cold.
Her fork hovered midair.
"How long," she said softly, voice darkening like a cloud just before lightning strikes, "have you been watching me?"
The diner was silent.
Then—
Chairs scraped.
Boots tapped.
All around her, they emerged. Fifteen figures in total, stationed like statues dressed in night. Each wore long trench coats tailored to shadow their bodies, soaked black and dyed in streaks of rust-red and slate-grey. Their masks were crafted with intricate designs—some like elongated wolf jaws, others like bird beaks of polished brass, or curved porcelain with etched patterns of holy script. Wide-brimmed hats shadowed their eyes. Their gloves were black, their boots silent. Every single one of them bore a sigil stitched into their coats—the blood-slicked insignia of the Black Chapel. And they did not move with curiosity. They moved with intent.
One leaned against the back wall, arms crossed. Another stirred tea he hadn't ordered. Two stood flanking the door, hands near weapons.
And all of them were staring at her.
Sella didn't turn. She didn't breathe.
But she felt it—the weight of their judgment, the cold shape of their contempt. There was no welcome here.
Only warning.
The diner was silent. The kind of silence that presses into the ribs, that coats the lungs like smoke. The light from the chandeliers above swayed faintly, their brass chains creaking in rhythm with the tension that now strangled the air. Fifteen figures, still and watching, draped in shadows and stitched in menace. The glassware caught no reflection from their masks.
One of them, seated near the window, adjusted the crow-beaked porcelain mask on his face. His voice was casual, but the ice beneath it was undeniable.
"Why haven't you killed Lucien Albrecht yet?"
Sella didn't respond immediately. Her hand rested on the teacup handle, her body still. The clink of ceramic against saucer sounded almost too loud.
Another assassin stood near the clock by the door. His trench coat was layered, cross-laced with thin black chains like veins of metal, and he leaned forward slightly, head tilting. "Did you forget your oath, Huntress? Or have you grown fond of your leash?"
Sella's jaw tensed. Her lips parted, and her voice was sharp, venom-lined. "Leave. This doesn't concern you."
A third stepped into the flickering gaslight. Their hat was broad-brimmed, dripping with pale wax strands like dried sinew. "It does concern us. The Exarch issued the decree this morning. He's offering more power from a Tarot if Lucien's lifeless corpse is brought in."
Sella blinked, her heart pounding in her throat. "Ascend?" she repeated, breath shallow. "More…?"
'He's offering more power than what he already promised?'
A fourth voice answered from somewhere by the bar, quiet but pulsing with glee. "The Exarch's successor… will be the one to succeed as well."
"Impossible," Sella whispered, eyes rising. "Not only is he promising power that only I deserve more than any of you, but also being his true successor? It's supposed to be me!"
But in the half-second it took her to speak, the room had shifted.
All of them had moved.
The one near the clock now leaned just behind her, though she hadn't heard his steps. The one in the window seat now stood beside the kitchen doorway. Even their shadows had changed, like she'd blinked into another version of reality. She rose slowly, boots sliding across the checkered tile. The shop owners hid.
Sella straightened, her voice tight. "He regenerates. He's under contract with Artemis—the Chaos Maiden. He's not a target you can just stab and expect to fall."
"He bleeds," one of them said.
"Then we experiment," came another. "Cut him apart. Maybe it's his heart. Maybe the brain. Maybe he doesn't reattach if the parts are burned and separated across miles."
A fifth voice, scratchier than the rest, echoed from the shadows near the ceiling pipes. "There's alchemy for that. Ironcoffin poison. Bone-severance. We can graft his limbs into different corpses. See what grows back."
Her brows narrowed. "Sacrifice myself for the next one… huh," Sella muttered under her breath, barely audible.
Then another stepped forward, brushing dust from his blood-colored gloves. "Or maybe you're hesitating for a reason. Do you like this outside life, Sella? Grown fond of pretending? Of eating food not blessed by the Exarch? Of him? Have you become… attached?"
"No!" she snapped, too quickly. Her voice cracked like thunder against stone. Then again, but softer. "No."
But her thoughts betrayed her.
This morning…
The way her teeth had sunk into Lucien's neck. The taste of him. His blood like molten starlight.
She hadn't wanted it. Hadn't chosen it. And yet… when she drank from him, she felt something crawl inside her chest—something anchoring her to life. The blood didn't just satiate her. It restored her.
It felt like dying before, like her body was emptying itself. But his blood filled her back up. Like he was her lifeline now. And she hated it. Hated the implication. L
"I'm not giving up my future," she said aloud, more to herself than them. "I'm cherished more than any of you. I am his chosen. I won't throw that away. I won't be stupid and get myself killed over some half-cursed bastard. That power—his trust—that title—is mine."
One of the assassins let out a dry laugh.
Sella's voice tightened again, quieter, almost shaking. "When I was little… my father should've protected me. But it was the Chapel who pulled me from the dark. I still fear it, you know? The dark. Not just the kind in alleys or locked rooms—the kind in my mind. The feeling of being trapped. In anything. In my feelings. In this world. But I was given purpose. A direction. A reason to breathe—."
She stopped herself as soon as she looked down at her half-finished plate. Still warm. Still delicious.
Her voice faltered before she could finish her sentence, throat tightening on what she didn't want to admit.
Then, a voice murmured, not far from her ear, "We know you're the Exarch's top pupil, Sella Varcosta. That's why we came."
Another chuckled coldly. "And you know our laws. You know if a member gets in the way of another's kill—they're fair game. You could kill us all, and no one would mourn it. But you also know… the same applies to you. Who would mourn you?"
Another one leaned in from the left. "So are you going to stop us from getting to Lucien?"
The question hung in the air like a dagger suspended by a single thread. The room was silent. Even the chandelier lights seemed to dim.
…
…
….
….
Sella raised her head slowly, eyes like cut glass. Her voice was calm. Cold.
"Yes."
In the same breath, the room shattered into chaos.
A hulking assassin—a brute draped in layers of heavy trench cloth stitched with iron-thread patterns—moved faster than his size should've allowed. His mask was a brutal iron ram's head, horns curved downward like hooks. His fists were gauntleted and sparked with wild alchemical energy—dark red and sickly violet, lightning weaving between burning runes. Aether-fire flickered across his knuckles like candlelight in a storm.
He roared, slamming his fist forward with an explosion of flame and sound.
The blow struck Sella's chest with the force of a cannon blast.
She rocketed backwards through the wall. Plaster exploded. Wood cracked. A fine mist of powdered stone and ash bled into the next room. For a heartbeat—nothing.
Then laughter.
"I did it!" the brute bellowed. "I hit the real Sella Varcosta! Oh, I'm going to bathe in this memory!"
But then his body stiffened.
A red line bloomed across his throat.
His hand lifted, trembling, touching the warmth spilling from the cut.
Another slash slowly bloomed across his chest.
The third, across his skull. Forming slowly but brutally.
Blood began pouring in sheets. He stumbled, tried to speak and knees gave out.
And with a sickening wet crack, his head slid off his shoulders, rolling across the checker-tiled floor like a discarded apple. His body followed, slumping to the ground in spasms.
All at once, the remaining assassins gasped, but they expected this.
Sella would not be killed easily.
They looked toward the gaping hole in the wall. Dust swirled.
And from the darkness—
She emerged.
He white long sleeve dress shirt stained with blood, Her boots slick with blood. Her face stained crimson, strands of black hair clinging to her cheek. A fencing stance—low, precise, deadly. And in her hand, a rapier born of blood alone, and one hand behind her back. Her blade pulsed in time with her breath, long and glistening like a living vein turned into a blade. A scarlet aura flared around her like wildfire.
Sella Varcosta's eyes gleamed like sharpened garnets.
"You want to get rid of me," she said, voice low and level. "I'll show you why I'm the best."