The faint crackle of the lantern and the heavy, ragged breathing of the wounded mercenaries were the only sounds filling the room. The air was heavy, thick with exhaustion and the coppery scent of blood. Zirkel sat slumped against the wall, his axe resting beside him, its edge dull with dried crimson. Around him, the surviving Mad Dogs quietly tended to their wounds—wrapping bloodied cloths around gashes, gritting their teeth through the pain, and sharing brief glances of mutual understanding.
No words were spoken. There was nothing to say.
Then—
CREAK.
The door groaned open, its hinges screeching loud enough to cut through the suffocating silence. Every head in the room snapped toward it, hands instinctively reaching for nearby weapons. The lantern’s flickering light stretched shadows across the entrance, and for a breathless moment, no one moved.
A figure stepped inside.
He moved with deliberate calm, his boots echoing softly on the creaking wooden floor. The faint light of the lantern revealed him slowly—first the dark cloak that fluttered faintly behind him, untouched by the stale air of the room. Then the slim, polished estoc resting lazily at his hip, the blade still faintly shimmering with an otherworldly glow.
And finally, his face—Lucavion’s face. His dark eyes, cold and unreadable, swept over the room with detached precision, lingering for no longer than a second on each man. He looked like he had walked out of a painting, untouched by the chaos they had endured, his sharp features unmarred by exhaustion or injury.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a moment, no one dared to speak. Zirkel’s mismatched eyes narrowed as he pushed himself upright, the scrape of his axe dragging against the floor breaking the silence. The tension in the room was suffocating, a quiet challenge unspoken but understood by everyone present.
Lucavion finally spoke, his voice calm and smooth, cutting through the tension like a blade.
“Looks like I’m right on time.”
Zirkel’s lips curled into a scowl, his voice low and gravelly as he eyed their employer. “You’ve got some damn nerve showing up now.”
Lucavion’s smirk was faint, but it carried an edge. “I figured you’d miss me.”
One of the mercenaries swore under his breath, his grip tightening around a bloodied dagger. Another let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and sharp.
“What do you want?” Zirkel growled, his mismatched gaze burning into Lucavion. “Here to tell us we did a great job? Half my men are dead, and we’re lucky to still be breathing.”
Lucavion’s expression didn’t falter. He stepped further into the room, his cloak trailing behind him as he moved with the same unshakable confidence that had unnerved them all from the start.
“You survived,” he replied simply, his gaze settling on Zirkel. “That’s what matters.”
Zirkel’s scowl deepened at Lucavion’s maddening calm. His mismatched eyes locked onto their employer, searching for something—an explanation, an answer—anything to justify the madness of the last few hours.
“Is that it?” Zirkel growled, his voice low and edged with suspicion. “Is it over?”
Lucavion paused, his dark eyes meeting Zirkel’s with an unreadable expression. Then, with a faint nod, he reached into his cloak. “It’s over,” he said simply.
The motion was quick but deliberate. Lucavion withdrew a small, glimmering object and, without ceremony, tossed it toward Zirkel. Instinctively, Zirkel reached out and caught it midair, his calloused fingers closing around the cool metal. He opened his palm and froze.
A ring. Simple yet unmistakable, its smooth surface glinted faintly in the dim lantern light. Zirkel’s eyes widened in recognition.
A spatial ring.
‘That!’ The thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. Zirkel had seen rings like this only a handful of times before, usually in the hands of high-ranking merchants or nobles. Spatial rings were rare—artifacts that fetched a price high enough to make even seasoned mercenaries stop and stare.
Zirkel’s grip tightened around the ring as a spark of greed flickered in his gaze. The other mercenaries leaned in closer, their tired eyes drawn to the object like moths to a flame.
Lucavion’s voice broke the silence, calm and direct. “Take this.”
Zirkel tore his gaze away from the ring to look at him, his brow furrowing. “What’s in it?”
Lucavion’s faint smirk returned, though it carried no mockery—only finality. “Fifty gold pieces,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of certainty. “Your payment. Assuming that each of you handled five disciples, then the math is complete.”
The room fell silent once more. Zirkel’s eyes darted back to the ring, his mind racing. Fifty gold. Even after splitting it among the ten survivors, it was an ungodly sum. Enough for each man to live comfortably for years—more money than most mercenaries would see in a lifetime.
“That…” one of the mercenaries breathed, his voice hoarse with disbelief. “That’s… real?”
Lucavion turned slightly, his cloak trailing behind him as he moved toward the door. He didn’t bother answering, as if the question itself were beneath him. Instead, his voice carried over his shoulder, soft yet clear.
“Goodbye, Mad Dogs,” he said, his tone carrying the faintest note of respect. “You were quite fine fellows.”
The door opened with a faint creak, and Lucavion stepped through, his figure disappearing into the night like a shadow melting into darkness. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the mercenaries alone in the dim room, the spatial ring gleaming faintly in Zirkel’s hand.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of Lucavion’s words—and the heavy promise of the ring—hung thick in the air.
Zirkel finally let out a long, heavy breath, shaking his head as he leaned back against the wall. “Haaah… I’m really crazy,” he muttered, though a small, disbelieving smirk tugged at his lips.
Around him, the Mad Dogs began murmuring, the tension slowly easing into stunned relief.
“Fifty gold… He really paid up.”
“I thought he’d just leave us for dead.”
Zirkel stared down at the ring in his palm, his mismatched eyes flickering with greed, awe, and something he couldn’t quite name. For all the chaos, for all the madness, Lucavion had been true to his word.
And that was the part that unnerved him the most.
********
The heavy lantern-lit silence of Thornridge’s streets embraced Lucavion as he stepped out of the mercenaries’ den. His cloak stirred faintly in the still night air, the soft jingle of the spatial ring now concealed in its folds. Overhead, the stars had broken through the clouds, their pale light shimmering against the uneven cobblestones.
For a moment, Lucavion simply stood there, his dark gaze sweeping over the empty street. There was no urgency to his movements, no trace of haste or guilt—just that deliberate calm that followed him like a shadow.
Blood always turns to silence once the shouting stops.
The faint sounds of movement reached him, a distant shuffle of boots on stone. Down the alleyway, the glimmer of lamplight grew closer as Thornridge’s knights patrolled the aftermath. Figures in armor, lanterns swinging low, their presence unwelcome but predictable.
Lucavion ignored them. He turned smoothly on his heel, heading toward the stables.
The air was thick with the lingering scent of blood and smoke, but here, farther from the mercenaries and the wreckage of the Crimson Serpent Sect, Thornridge seemed reluctant to acknowledge the chaos. The few souls that wandered the streets—innkeepers locking doors, drunken patrons stumbling home—barely raised their eyes as he passed. Perhaps they’d learned, in this city, that it was best not to look too closely at strangers who walked in blood-soaked silence.
Ahead, the stables loomed in the moonlight, their weathered beams creaking faintly in the breeze. Aether was there. He could sense her.
As he approached, the stable doors swung open with a reluctant groan. A figure emerged, lantern in hand—an older man with hunched shoulders and a soot-streaked apron. His face paled the instant his eyes landed on Lucavion. The lantern’s glow illuminated the crimson stains across Lucavion’s coat and gloves, the dark smears flecked against his jawline like a grotesque shadow.
The stable owner froze, the hand holding his lantern trembling slightly. “Y-You’re… back.”
Lucavion stopped in front of him, his lips curving into a faint, amused smirk. “Was there any doubt?”
The man swallowed hard, his gaze darting nervously between Lucavion’s face and the unmistakable blood on his boots. “Your… your horse is fine. I gave her the best feed, as you asked. Took good care of her.” His voice shook, brittle as dry kindling.
Lucavion reached into his cloak, the movement making the stable owner flinch ever so slightly. He pulled out a silver coin—no ceremony, no flourish—holding it out between his fingers. The coin gleamed faintly in the dim light, but the stable owner’s gaze lingered on the blood staining Lucavion’s gloves.
“A fair payment,” Lucavion said smoothly, his tone soft but edged, as though daring the man to refuse.
The stable owner hesitated before taking the coin, his rough hands shaking as though it might burn him. “Thank you, sir.” He tried to meet Lucavion’s eyes, but fear made him look away. “If… if you need to stay and—clean up, there’s—”
“No.” Lucavion cut him off, his voice gentle yet final. “Not here.”
The stable owner nodded quickly, retreating a step, his lantern swinging low. Fear was a language spoken fluently in these parts.
He stepped past the man into the stable, the sharp scent of hay and leather mingling with the iron tang of blood on his coat. Aether stood in her stall, her glowing eyes cutting through the darkness like molten fire. The great black mare pawed at the ground once as he approached, her gaze unwavering. She recognized him—of course she did—and with her usual air of regal irritation, she tossed her mane, the shadows rippling with the movement.
“Did you miss me?”
Aether snorted, as though offended by the suggestion.
With a swift motion, Lucavion swung into the saddle, his cloak fluttering in the stable’s dim light. The mare shifted beneath him, eager and restless.