A week ago...
"What exactly did you see?" Garran asked, his voice low and steady.
Ezren sat upright, eyes shadowed. "Two faces. One human... and one something else. Evil."
Garran rose slowly, gaze distant as he tried to make sense of it. The silence stretched—until Rhosyn scoffed, one hand planted on her hip.
"A human with devil's blood should be executed immediately," she snapped. "We cannot put our country in danger. That child... he's a future threat. A future enemy."
Her words hung heavily in the air, sharp and deliberate. She wasn't just speaking as a medic—she was speaking as a protector. But she also knew Garran too well. A father who had lost his own child, and now faced a boy who mirrored his son's age... and pain.
"What about the child's past?" Garran asked Ezren calmly, as if he hadn't heard Rhosyn at all. As if she wasn't even there.
Ezren hesitated. "It's blocked. I couldn't access it. Not even his future."
Garran's jaw clenched ever so slightly.
"...Should I call Elior?" Ezren asked, hopeful, his wide eyes searching Garran's face. "He might—"
"I'll curse him myself," Rhosyn interrupted, frustration lacing every word. "Every second we waste, we risk something worse. I can seal him until we decide. My grimoire—"
Fwwip.
Her grimoire began turning its own pages, glowing faintly with runes that whispered danger.
"Wait, wait, wait!"
A sharp voice cut through the tension like a blade.
All three turned.
"Sir Davor!" Ezren nearly jumped to his feet, relief washing over his face.
Marshal Davor Renzei strode into the ward with an effortless authority. His dark skin contrasted with the crisp white of his slicked-back hair, not a strand out of place. His short beard was perfectly trimmed, his deep brown eyes piercing and unreadable. He radiated control—power wrapped in composure.
Garran Volkhar.
Rhosyn Drae.
Davor Renzei.
The Pillars of the Night Watchers.
Three figures who had once led armies in silence, whose decisions could save—or shatter—the world.
"I'll handle the child," Davor said, scratching the back of his neck with a lazy smile as he approached.
"A child is a child," he continued, eyes flicking between them. "Raise them with love and care, and they'll grow into someone grateful—someone who'll dedicate their life to you. But if you neglect them... they'll grow to hate you, abandon you. Isn't that right, Garran?"
He clapped a hand on Garran's shoulder with brotherly weight, then moved toward the bed where Cael's unconscious body lay. Without hesitation, Davor scooped the boy up and slung him over his broad shoulder like he weighed nothing—like he was carrying a sack of grain.
"W-Wait," Rhosyn blurted, stepping forward. "What are you planning to do with that child? Where are you taking him?"
Davor glanced over his shoulder. "I know you, Rhosyn," he said, voice calm and unreadable.
He turned toward the door, already walking. "This one's not your call. It's an order... from Elior."
He gave a wink and disappeared through the door.
Rhosyn froze.
"E-Elior..." she whispered, the name alone enough to make her falter.
If it was from him, there was nothing more to be said.
Ezren gave a low whistle, hands folding behind his neck as he glanced at Rhosyn. Then, wordlessly, he turned and walked out.
Garran followed a beat later, silent as ever, leaving Rhosyn alone in the ward.
She stood in place for a moment, then slowly sat on the edge of the bed, the silence thick around her.
A child... connected to the underworld. And we just let him go.
She exhaled sharply, the weight of uncertainty pressing against her ribs.
What happens next... might change everything.
Back in the present...
Commander Garran stood by the window of his office, the cityscape veiled under twilight. A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Come in," he said.
The door opened, and Davor stepped inside, his usual calm confidence in tow. He took the seat across from Garran, settling in with ease.
"Why call a meeting with only me?" Davor asked, brow raised in curiosity.
"It's not that serious," Garran replied. "Just something about the youngest son of the Verault family."
Davor scoffed. "Ah, that child—the family's walking headache. What did he do this time? Blow up another auction hall? Summon a fake relic god?"
Everyone in the city knew about the Verault family. Famous, wealthy, and powerful, they ran the largest and most efficient network producing sacred tools and relics that granted power and protection to the powerless. Their youngest son was particularly well-known for being a spoiled rebel.
"No trouble," Garran said. "His father contacted the office. He wants the boy to start training here."
Davor laughed, leaning back in his chair. "Every damn year he says that. And every year, the boy either refuses or causes a mess before we even finish the paperwork. If I remember right, last year we ended up chasing him through three wards because he mistook a containment seal for a nightclub pass."
Garran leaned forward. "He came here. In person. Today."
Davor's grin faded. "Seriously?"
"He didn't beg us to leave him alone," Garran continued. "He said he wants to join."
Davor raised a brow, genuinely surprised. "That's... new."
"That's why I called you," Garran said, eyes serious. "The problem is... I don't know where to place him—Dominion Cadre or the Aetherion Division."
"Isn't he powerless?" Davor asked.
"He was. But with all the sacred tools and relics his family gave him, it's like he has his own abilities now."
"So... do we place him in Aetherion to train with the tools, or in Dominion to throw him into live operations and see if he sinks or swims?" Garran added.
Davor leaned back, arms resting casually on the chair's sides, thoughtful silence settling between them. Finally, he spoke.
"Put him in Dominion. Let him learn how to survive without those relics. He's still powerless beneath it all. If he wants to prove himself, he needs to start from the dirt."
Garran nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of Davor's judgment. Though he held the title of High Commander, Garran never made major decisions without consulting Davor. After all, Davor was the one who had saved countless lives when Garran's mistake once placed half their forces in danger.
Since that day, Garran bore the burden of regret—choosing to lead with caution and humility.
He would never let his pride risk their people again.
"So, who's going?" Davor asked, glancing at Garran as he pushed himself up from the chair.
"I could ask Mourn or Seren," Garran replied, flipping through a few files on his desk.
"Nah, I'll go," Davor said, shaking his head. He stood, rolling his shoulders. "Seren's too impatient. He might end up fighting the kid instead of talking to him."
He paused by the door, half-turning with a dry smirk.
"And Mourn? Don't even get me started. That man's a coin toss. Either he'll be calm and understanding, or he'll throw the Verault brat in a sack and toss him over his shoulder like cargo."
Garran let out a tired chuckle, nodding in agreement. "Yeah... you're right. Neither of them is a good match for dealing with a reckless kid."
Davor waved a hand casually. "I'll handle it. Be back soon."
And just like that, he was gone—vanishing from the room with the ease and purpose of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
His next stop: the Verault mansion.
To meet the infamous son face-to-face.
The Verault estate was silent, majestic, and steeped in old power—until you reached Darain's room.
A boom echoed from the west wing.
Inside, garments spun midair, flickering with faint magical trails, as if someone had mistaken laundry for combat training. A shimmering rift hovered above the floor, emitting a pulsing hum. It was open—again.
Darain Verault, shirtless, red hair tousled in freshly-woken glory, stood triumphantly on his bed, pointing a golden remote at the glowing Warp-Crystal Mirror, the infamous Verault family relic once designed for battlefield teleportation. Now? A glorified self-laundering system.
"Command acknowledged. Fetch cycle initiated," the mirror intoned in an ancient dialect, now warped by misuse.
FWOOSH!
A second later, dozens of socks, shirts, and underclothes burst out like a summoned storm. A velvet robe wrapped around the chandelier. A silk tie slithered up the wall like it had free will. Then came the boxers—flying in proud, unsettling formation.
"Too easy," Darain grinned, catching one in mid-air. "Laundry day, solved."
At that exact moment, Davor opened the door.
And was immediately greeted by a red pair of boxer shorts slapping squarely onto his face.
He paused, hands slowly lifting the garment off like it were a venomous creature. He exhaled.
"Of all the ways I imagined meeting the infamous Verault heir," he muttered through gritted teeth, eyes closed. "None of them involved your undergarments."
Darain blinked from his bedpost, then cracked a grin. "Oh, hey. Davor, right? Commander of... something dark and serious, I imagine?"
Davor stared.
Darain jumped down, bare feet hitting the floor with a thud, robes billowing around his half-dressed form. "So! You've come to drag me into duty, haven't you? Night Watcher stuff? My mother said someone would come. I was hoping it'd be a beautiful woman with a clipboard, but you'll do."
Davor didn't flinch, though the eye beneath his temple scar twitched. "You are to report to the Dominion-Aetherion Training Base. Today."
Darain swept a mess of belts, boots, and relic-laced gloves into a bag, only pausing to frown at a steaming sock. "Is there, like, a uniform I'm expected to ruin, or do I bring my own chaos?"
"You bring discipline," Davor growled.
"Same thing, really."
Behind him, the Warp-Crystal Mirror hummed louder, clearly unstable.
"You didn't turn it off," Davor said.
"I never do."
The portal flared—again—and launched an entire pile of lavender-scented towels across the room. One hit a lit candelabra, which promptly set fire to a scarf.
Davor drew a blade from his hip, calmly slicing the burning cloth midair before it touched anything else. The room smelled faintly of burnt silk and exasperation.
"You've ten minutes to get ready," he said coldly. "And for every minute you delay, I will deduct your access to coffee rations for a week."
Darain gasped. "Monster."
Davor turned to leave.
"Oh, and Davor?"
He paused.
Darain threw a silver hairbrush through the portal, which flickered and swallowed it whole. "Just so we're clear," he said with a smirk, "you're going to regret recruiting me."
"I already do," Davor replied.
Then the door slammed behind him, muffling the sound of another small explosion.