Lucian woke up.
The aches in his body hadn't faded since his fight with Dawn—only dulled enough to let him forget for a moment when asleep. Now, awake again, the pain returned like a tide. He winced, clutching his side, and let out a breath that fogged in the morning chill.
"Living... isn't the same as surviving, huh?" he murmured. Above him, the sky stretched wide—an indifferent gray, the kind that didn't promise rain or sun. Just stillness. Lucian stared up for a while, eyes unfocused, before forcing himself to his feet. Every movement was stiff. His coat was torn in places, dried blood caked into the inner lining. The fight was over, but the war inside him had never stopped.
He began the slow walk back to Eberhard's villa. The street walls had aged with time and soot, vines creeping through cracks. Arcane lampposts stood like withered sentinels, flickering dimly even during daylight. Vendors called out in tired voices, hawking cheap charms, stale bread, or dyed cloaks meant to imitate noble fashion.
Lucian passed a crystal-forging workshop where apprentice mages were shaping blue aether into lanterns. The glow lit their young faces in pale hues—carefree, laughing. A reminder of what he never got to finish. Then he stopped.A school. Beyond rusted iron gates, students poured out into the street—chattering, smiling, running to parents or friends. Some wore robes marked with scholarly colors, others in the simpler uniforms of civic schools. The sight pulled something deep out of Lucian. "I miss school..." he whispered.
He looked down at his bruised knuckles, hands that had held books once—hands that had hoped to become something more. "I don't hate school. I want to go back… Please, take me back to school… to Aurelmir..." His voice cracked, and for a brief second, he wasn't a fugitive or a slave or a soldier. He was just a boy. A boy who wanted a desk, a chalkboard, and a future.
"Why is fate so cruel?" he asked softly. No one answered. So he moved on without one.
Eberhard had assigned him a storage room—barely large enough to stretch out in. He never really slept. Not when he was always bleeding or running errands for someone else's profit. His missions were endless. His hours weren't his own.
He reached the wrought-iron gate of the villa and fumbled with the rusted key. It screeched in protest as he turned it. Lucian stepped inside, the cold, dusty scent of iron and mildew greeting him like an old enemy. He tossed the key across the room and collapsed onto the couch.
Coughing. Empty. "Help me... someone..."
"Carol..."
On the other side of Heilen—beyond the smokestacks, market squares, and echoing church bells—lay the High Bridges: Hohenbrücken, the veined arteries of the capital.
They spanned the twin shores like elegant arms, crafted from marbled stone and brass filigree, each bridge rising in arching tiers—some wide as courtyards, others narrow enough for whispers. Tiny shrines nestled in corners, with flickering candles and statues of forgotten saints. Wandering violinists played old hymns for coin. Lovers kissed behind mosaic pillars. And if you looked closely, in the shadows of stairwells or beneath the wooden beams of overhead gardens, you might catch the flick of a rebel's cloak or a coded chalk symbol marking secret rendezvous.
It was here, in a backstreet theatre tucked into the underbelly of Bridge No. IV—known locally as Tassel Hall—that Clarence sat. The play unfolded onstage, all dramatic flair and hollow tragedy, but his mind wasn't in the velvet seats. Beside him, reclining with casual elegance, was Julius—his companion in matters that rarely saw the light of day.
"What could be the special occasion for you to call upon us, Lord Clarence?" Julius asked, eyes still fixed on the stage, as though the unfolding drama had anything to offer beyond pretense. Clarence didn't look at him. His voice was calm, but it cut through the theatre's soft violins like a blade wrapped in silk. "I'll cut to the chase. We've found another one in need of saving from fate. The opposing party is Eberhard Blaze."
That name made Julius finally turn. Just for a moment. He blinked once, then returned his gaze to the stage. "Hmm. A big fish. Heilen's predators don't release their prey easily, you know." His voice was slow, measured. A statement. Not a question. Clarence tilted his head slightly. "So? Will you back off? Disregard your allegiance? Your morals?"A pause. Then, lower—as if saying something else entirely beneath his words:"No worries. We value freedom, after all. If you don't want to help... you don't have to." Julius gave a short laugh—sharp, amused, but not mocking. "You know that's not the case, Lord Clarence. We'd shover our lives if it came to that." Then, with a glance sideways and a crooked grin: "Still... this one's important, huh? You got all tight over our hesitation." Clarence allowed himself a soft, almost nostalgic chuckle. "You could say that."
He stood and reached into his coat, drawing out an envelope sealed with a wax stamp bearing the crest of the Liberation Front—a stylized feather cutting through a chain. "I knew you'd help. Here. Everything you'll need—contacts, patrol patterns, weak links. Even the keys to one of Blaze's outer storehouses."
Julius took the envelope without a word, but his fingers gripped it like it was gold. "We won't disappoint you, Lord Clarence," he said, rising to give a short, respectful bow. Clarence turned without another word, his coat swirling like a curtain drop behind him as he exited Tassel Hall into the veiled corridors of the Hohenbrücken.
The play onstage continued, but for Julius, the real drama had already begun.
By the time Clarence returned to Gelehrtensichel—the scholarly district that housed Eberhard's villa—the dusk air had turned golden, casting long shadows between the towering stone archives and the rust-covered chimneys of ancient observatories. The villa loomed just beyond the old astronomer's tower, where ivy crept like veins across the walls. Clarence slowed his pace when he heard the rustle of leaves above.
"So…" A voice called from overhead. "The stage has been set, huh? What now?" Dawn was perched lazily on the branch of a pale-leafed Tellerbaum, her legs swinging like a child watching clouds.
Clarence looked up, his eyes calm. "Now... it's time for the act to descend upon the stage."
There was a beat of silence—then a flurry of mock applause. "Wow! Bravo! Bravo!" Dawn clapped dramatically. "What a one-liner! Clarence Cross, everyone!" Arlen, standing nearby with arms crossed, rolled his eyes skyward. "Cut it out. We're having a serious discussion here."
Dawn shrugged, still grinning. "Yeah yeah, whatever. Alright. Serious mode engaged." She dropped down with a soft thud, dusting herself off. "Did you talk with the TLF operatives?" Arlen frowned. "TLF?" "The Liberation Front, dumbass." She gave him a mocking tap on the forehead. "You're the one who gave them an abbreviation?" Arlen grumbled.
"Of course I did. Saying the full name every time's a mouthful. You want me to waste breath mid-battle saying 'The Liberation Front' like I'm reading from a history book?" Clarence raised a hand, his voice calm but firm. "Enough. Both of you." They quieted. "Yes," he continued. "I spoke with the Heilen cell's lead operative. They're on standby. All communications are secured. We're synchronized across three bridge sectors and one inner district node." Dawn cracked her knuckles. "So it's all set, then?" Arlen asked, seeking final confirmation. Clarence nodded once.
"Of course it is. Who do you think you're talking to? The great Clarence Cross! Cla-rence! Cr-oss!" Dawn echoed playfully, throwing her hands in the air like a street performer. "And besides—we're here too, aren't we? If something goes south, we handle it. Won't we?"
Clarence turned his eyes toward her. "Damn right we will." The three of them stood in silence for a moment, the wind brushing through the trees, the scent of iron and parchment wafting from the ancient towers around them.
That Afternoon. Inside Eberhard's villa.
The gilded interior was quiet—only the ticking of a grandfather clock filled the silence. Eberhard sat at the head of a long mahogany table, fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes locked onto Lucian, who stood at the foot of the room like a chained wolf refusing to bow. "I need you and Rayen to assist with a hunt," Eberhard said, voice calm but final."The same guild that recently took you in. It'll be poetic, won't it?"
Lucian's jaw tensed. His body still ached from the last mission, from the humiliation. He stared at Eberhard with unflinching eyes. "Why them? Can't you send us with someone else? You know what happened last time." Eberhard waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away a trivial concern. "They won't try anything again. I've made sure of it. Now go."
A pause. "No." Eberhard blinked. "...Huh?", "I said no." The room grew colder. "Did you just say no to me?" Eberhard's voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing. "I give you food, shelter, mercy—and this is how you repay me? I've overlooked your earlier blunders, and yet here you stand, spitting in the face of my sincerity?"
Lucian didn't move. His voice was firm, resolute. "Sincerity? You've never known the word. Every act of yours is a new link in the chain you're wrapping around my throat. I've had enough." Eberhard rose from his chair, the air shifting with the weight of his presence. His tone turned venomous. "So... you'd rather pull at your leash than let me tighten it, is that it? Not entirely unexpected. But I assure you—what happens next will be."
That's when a new voice cut through the thickening tension, echoing from the corridor. "I think not." Clarence Cross stepped into the room with composed confidence, cloak trailing behind him like a curtain about to fall on a tyrant. "I'm here to elaborate on the deal I mentioned earlier," he said smoothly. He turned to Lucian and met his eyes.
"I'll be taking Lucian."