LOCATION – HONEYWELL TERMINUS
The hiss of the engine faded into the station's clamour. Iron wheels groaned to a halt as steam rolled across the platform like ghosts in retreat.
Levi Etskald stepped down from the carriage, one hand still loosely gripping the rail behind him.
His coat billowed slightly in the morning breeze. He blinked once. Then again.
"Hmm…"
He squinted toward the bright sky, the sun bleeding softly through the hazy veil of soot and light.
"What a noisy little day…"
His voice barely rose above a murmur.
Before his boots could touch the cobbled floor fully, a hand tapped his shoulder.
Levi turned — not sharply, but with a fluid precision. His palm hovered just a whisper's breadth from the man's neck, fingers poised for a nerve strike. His golden and green eyes focused like twin rifle scopes.
But the stranger before him showed no sign of fear.
He simply tipped his hat, revealing chestnut brown hair and eyes so black they could swallow the morning.
"Good day, sir," the man said, smiling politely,
"Would you happen to know where I could hire a wagon from this station?"
A pause. Long enough for a bullet to be chambered.
Levi studied the man in silence.
'Boots with no creases, coat tailored in the upper-west Westry cut, accent sharpened with northern consonants. Not a threat — not yet.'
He relaxed. Barely.
"My apologies for the reflex,"
Levi said, pulling his hand back with the ghost of a bow.
His tone was quiet, clipped. Sincere but still laced with the fog of sleep.
"Turn right from Platform One. The stationmaster's yard keeps the wagons there — tell them Levi Etskald sent you, if they give you trouble."
The man raised a brow, half amused.
"Levi Etskald?"
Levi was already walking away, boots silent against the stone.
"Try not to mention it too loudly," he called back without turning.
"This town's too small for fame."
Steam curled around him like a veil, swallowing his silhouette as he vanished into the crowd.
The corners of the man's lips curved — not in warmth, but precision.
'Youngest son located.'
He adjusted the cuff of his black coat and fell into step beside Levi, casual enough not to draw suspicion, intentional enough to make contact.
"It's an honour to meet you, sir."
The voice was mellow — too mellow, too rehearsed.
Levi's steps didn't falter, but his eyes flicked sideways. A beat passed. The usual calm in his face fractured slightly — not alarmed, but alert.
A breath later, he replied:
"Thank you for the praise. May I ask your name… since you already know mine?"
The man gave a quick, dry laugh. It rang through the morning air with a touch of mischief.
"Haha, fair enough."
He leaned in, just slightly.
"Vincenzo."
Levi's gaze sharpened.
"Are you from Italia?"
"My mother is," Vincenzo answered easily.
"But my father was born and raised in Albion. An unholy alliance, some would say."
Levi's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite disapproval.
He let his gaze wander to the stone-tiled platform. The town's bustle echoed softly — vendors shouting, horses trotting, iron clanks in the distance.
Then Levi exhaled.
"Well, it seems we part ways here."
But he didn't move.
Vincenzo folded his arms and tilted his head.
"You're headed to Redbridge, aren't you?"
Levi turned back to him.
"…What makes you say that?"
Vincenzo's tone softened.
"Because I am. I received a letter this morning — a private funeral, Honeywell District. Redbridge Chapel, 21 South Row."
Levi froze.
The address hit with surgical accuracy.
His voice dropped:
"Why would you be going there?"
Vincenzo met his mismatched gaze squarely, the smile now gone.
"Because I owe her. And you… you are her son."
A heavy silence stretched between them.
Then the whistle of the wagon sounded at the far end of the platform. The pair turned as the wrought-iron wheels came to a halt, steam curling beneath the brass couplings.
"Carriage Six,"
Vincenzo murmured.
Levi blinked.
"That's mine."
Vincenzo nodded.
"Fate, perhaps. Or your mother's last trick."
Without another word, Levi stepped forward. Vincenzo followed.
They boarded the wagon in silence, sitting opposite one another as the vehicle jolted into motion — bound for Redbridge, bound for grief, bound for memory.
Two men.
One journey.
And a ghost between them
The iron wheels of the departing train clanked faintly in the distance as morning sun pooled golden light across the cobbled yard behind the Honeywell Terminus. Smoke hung faint in the air, not yet oppressive. It was 8:30 a.m.—the hour when the city hadn't quite woken, and grief still walked without a shadow.
Anthony stepped into the yard, his coat swaying with each step. Annabelle followed, her gloved hands tucked neatly before her, eyes sweeping across the row of waiting wagons.
He approached the nearest coachman.
"To Redbridge Chapel,"
Anthony said, voice clipped and formal.
Before the driver could nod, a voice boomed behind him—clear and resonant like a church bell striking noon.
"Anthony!"
Anthony turned at once.
Down the row, a black wagon stood idle, its polished doors catching the morning light. The door had swung open. Standing beside it was a mountain of a man in a coal-black coat. Torren Etskald.
Opposite him, still seated within, was Varkis Etskald—half in shadow, elbow on the sill, his emerald eye catching the sun like a shard of stained glass.
Anthony's breath caught in his throat.
"Brother Torren! Varkis!"
He rushed across the gravel.
Torren met him halfway and pulled him into a bone-deep embrace. His massive arms folded around Anthony like armour against the day.
"How are you holding up?"
Anthony swallowed hard.
"I… I'm trying."
Torren didn't speak. He just held him, one hand cradling the back of Anthony's head.
Then Anthony broke away and leaned into the carriage.
"Varkis…"
The blonde agent stirred. His gaze slowly lifted—messy hair falling like straw across his brow. He blinked as though he'd barely slept. But when he saw Anthony, something behind his eyes melted.
He reached out and allowed the hug—stiffly, but not unwilling.
"I should've gone to her more… I told myself there'd be time."
His voice was hoarse. Ragged from silence.
Anthony didn't answer. He only placed a hand on Varkis's shoulder and squeezed it.
The air turned heavier. Quiet. Thick with all the things unsaid.
Then—
"Umm... Hello?"
A voice broke the moment.
They turned to see Annabelle standing near the wagon's step, her blue eyes cautious but warm.
Torren offered a soft smile and stepped aside, gesturing gallantly.
"Miss Annabelle, please. There's room."
Varkis nodded without looking up.
Anthony turned to her and extended his hand.
"Let's go… we shouldn't keep her waiting."
She took it gently and climbed in beside him. The carriage door clicked shut behind them.
As the horses stirred and the coach began to roll forward, none of them spoke.
But in that silence, there was understanding—deeper than words, wider than blood.
Some griefs had no language. Only presence.
LOCATION- REDBRIDGE CHAPEL
Ragnar stood before the chapel, its modest stone façade soaked in the pale glow of morning light. The wind carried a hush, and for a moment, the world felt still—too still.
He stopped just an inch from the door. The threshold.
The wood was old, its varnish worn by time and touch. His gloved palm hovered over it.
'I don't deserve to be here…'
His chest ached with the weight of memory.
'But… but if I don't see you now, Mother… if I turn away now… I'll never forgive myself.'
He pressed his hand to the door. It gave with a low groan, like it too mourned.
Inside, the air was heavy with incense and silence.
A dozen pews stretched before him, cloaked in shadow. The faintest strands of dust shimmered in the beams of sunlight that spilled through the four stained-glass windows—each pane depicting different figures.
Towards the right stood two men. One with long brown hair, gripping a claymore. The other with curly chestnut hair wrapped his fingers around the spellblade.
'Saint Leon… Sir Sigmund Ferros, the Steel Sovereign.'
Towards the left stood a man with a slimmer frame and crimson hair resting a war-axe on his shoulders-Sir Theobald Umbra, the Titan Slayer.
After him stood a black-haired man, fingers curling around an obsidian glaive.
'Saint Raphael'
But it was the window above the altar that drew the eye.
There, immortalized in coloured glass, stood a man with silver hair and a sword across his chest—Sir Vincent Duskrane, long dead, long revered.
The light passed through his eyes like divine judgment.
Ragnar stepped forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor.
Before the altar rested a single coffin, draped in white linen stitched with silver thread. It looked too small, too silent, too still.
Six figures turned at once.
Ian Brooke — his grandfather — sat upright, cane resting against his thigh, his jaw locked in stone. Yet his eyes threatened to spill tears.Percival and Selena Brooke — uncle and aunt — turned with moist, grieving eyes.Father Jonathan, dressed in grey robes, gave a solemn nod from beside the altar.Emily Hope, his mother's friend stood in a lavender shawl, clutched a folded handkerchief, her eyes already swollen from grief.
And then—
Halina.
His sister. She shot to her feet, the bench screeching as it slid back.
"Brother!"
Her voice cracked as she bolted down the aisle.
Ragnar opened his arms just as she crashed into him, burying herself against his chest.
"I—I thought you wouldn't come… I thought I'd never see you again!"
Tears streamed from her eyes as her arms wrapped around him like steel cables. She clung to him—not as a sibling, but as someone grasping at the last branch over an abyss.
Ragnar said nothing. He just held her close, his chin resting atop her trembling head.
The scent of her hair reminded him of home. Of gardens his mother once tended. Of a time before the world turned black.
His gaze lifted slowly—to the coffin.
And then to the teary eyes of the Brookes. And beyond them, to the crucifix hanging from the wall.
His breath was slow. Shallow. Every muscle in his body fighting not to collapse.
He had returned.
Not to forgive. Not to forget.
But to say goodbye.
TRICKLE.
A single bead of blood fell, dark against the chapel's pale stone floor.
Halina pulled back from the embrace, her breath catching. Her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt—and came away stained crimson.
Her eyes widened in horror.
"Brother… your shoulder… you're bleeding!"
Ragnar blinked, as if just now remembering the pain. His gaze followed hers to the soaked patch on his black coat.
"It's nothing," he muttered, turning slightly as though to shield her from the sight.
But Halina's hands trembled, her voice cracking like glass.
"Nothing? You're injured!" she said, louder now.
"Who did this to you?"
Ragnar didn't answer. Instead, he glanced toward the pews—where Ian Brooke now leaned slightly forward on his cane, watching in silence. Percival whispered something to Selena. Father Jonathan stepped down from the altar, concern clouding his old eyes.
"It's just a graze,"
Ragnar said at last. His voice was low, hoarse, and laced with something colder than pain.
"A parting gift from a couple of hired rats."
Halina's face twisted. "Ragnar…"
"It's over," he interrupted gently. His hand rose, brushing a strand of her dark hair behind her ear.
"I handled it."
From the front row, Emily Hope stood, her voice soft but steady.
"Should we fetch a physician?"
Ragnar shook his head once.
"No. The dead don't need doctors." His eyes flicked to the coffin.
"And I won't waste another minute away from her."
Halina stared at him—his pallor, the tight set of his jaw, the storm that never left his eyes. She wanted to say something, anything. But her words failed her.
So instead, she simply stepped beside him.
Ragnar straightened, took a breath, and walked the last few paces to the coffin.
He knelt.
The chapel was silent once more.
And with blood still seeping into his shirt, Ragnar bowed his head before his mother's final resting place.
"I'm here," he whispered.
"Forgive me for being late."