Lucretius stumbled through the portal and appeared before the grand doors of his mansion in Ashenmaw Forest — a structure of dark marble and cold obsidian spires that loomed like a relic from a forgotten age. Cygnus Portal sealed behind him with a low, resonant hum, leaving only the silence of the night and the faint crackle of burnt fabric as he walked forward.

  His once-pristine armor was scorched and torn; the crimson edges of his cape had been reduced to black ash. Adamsword, still faintly glowing with residual ether, dragged against the marble floor, leaving a molten scar in its wake.

  The Fallen Knight looked less like a conqueror and more like a ghost staggering through the ruins of his own pride. His vision blurred; the weight of Starmist’s blood on his hands pressed harder on his conscience than any wound. He reached for a nearby table, fingers trembling, and for a moment his knees nearly gave way.

  “Yugor… Yugor!”

  His voice echoed through the dim corridors, cracking the stillness of his vast and lonely estate.

  Moments later, the hurried sound of small footsteps broke the silence. Yugor — the little steward, a creature with the anxious eyes of a hunted hare, rushed in carrying a decanter of dark wine. Without a word, he poured it into a goblet, and Lucretius snatched it, downing it in several heavy gulps until not a drop remained.

  “Story, Yugor. Now.” His tone struck like a blade against stone.

  The servant paled, trembling as he nodded, bowing low before scurrying back into the inner hallways. Papers rustled in the distance as he fetched reports, while two other attendants — Fer and Hun — exchanged nervous glances before rushing to prepare clean garments.

  Lucretius sank onto the bench, his mind unraveling. The scene replayed again and again — the blue ichor spilling from Starmist’s wound, Cygnus collapsing in the dust, and the uproar of the council’s spectators as everything descended into chaos. The shame bit deeper than the pain. The commander of the Regal Vanguards, the knight of countless victories… humiliated in the eyes of his own kind. Nearly killing a council’s most beloved figure.

  A soft click broke his thoughts.

  His transmitter crystal pulsed faintly on the table beside him. The name etched across its surface: Raidbones.

  Lucretius stared at it for a long thirty seconds, unmoving, the light reflecting off his hollow gaze. Finally, with a sigh that sounded like defeat, he lifted it to his ear.

  “Lucretius,” came the familiar gruff voice through the static, “we’re on the road now. Princess Samartian, Prince Morrigan, and all Abyss supporters are with me. We’ll reach the kingdom by dawn.”

  A pause, followed by a chuckle. “Dryskull rode with us halfway but turned back north.”

  Lucretius responded quietly, “Understood.”

  “So? Who’s the fool that dared to attack at us this time?” Raidbones asked, the humor in his tone doing little to mask the undercurrent of curiosity.

  There was only silence from the other end.

  “Lucretius?”

  “Good. As usual.” he answer

  Lucretius shut the transmitter with a flick of his thumb — a clean, sharp click that severed the line before Raidbones could pry any deeper. The silence that followed was heavy, pressing down like the air before a storm.

  Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed from the hall. Yugor reappeared, panting, his arms struggling to hold a box stuffed full of old parchments and worn tomes. He staggered toward the table and dumped the contents with a soft thud — papers, scrolls, fragments of sealed letters — the chaos of history waiting to be spoken aloud. The Ashkin servant began sorting through them with nervous precision, his thin fingers trembling slightly.

  “The last story, Yugor,” Lucretius said, swirling what remained of his wine before drinking it down in one swift motion.

  The servant blinked, startled for a moment, then nodded quickly as the memory of it returned to him. He found the right scroll among the pile, the parchment marked with faded crimson wax. Without waiting for permission, Yugor struck a match, lit the fireplace, and set a few candles aglow. The mansion’s front chamber came alive with a warm orange hue that did little to dispel the chill clinging to the stone walls.

  He took his seat beside Lucretius, the flames casting uneven light across his pale, anxious face. Then he began.

  “The soldier grew insatiable for power,” Yugor said softly. “His ambition — to wield all seven relics, each forged to bind with a part of the body, from the soles to the crown. He dreamt of becoming a one-man army, unmatched, unstoppable. Naturally, such obsession stirred outrage among the Weapon Masters.”

  Yugor paused, glancing up.

  Lucretius didn’t move. His expression was hollow, the sort of emptiness that follows too much thought and too little sleep. The wine had splattered across his hand, crimson stains like blood against pale skin, but he didn’t seem to notice. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, watching as it devoured the wood in a slow, hungry rhythm.

  Taking that as leave to continue, Yugor went on.

  “The Council intervened before his ambition reached its peak. They captured him — made him one of their own. Of the relics, only one was recovered: Rustblade. It surfaced recently in a black-market auction before being seized and sealed in the Council’s vaults. The others…” — he hesitated — “... their whereabouts remain unknown.”

  The door creaked open. Fer and Hun entered quietly, each carrying a folded mantle draped over their arms. Yugor raised a hand, signaling them to wait. The two attendants froze in the doorway, their eyes catching the strange tension in the air — a silence deeper than fatigue, colder than despair.

  “Some say the remaining relics were hidden among his kin,” Yugor continued. “Others claim they were destroyed… or scattered across the galactic markets by the Extraterrestrials.”

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  He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

  “But what is certain, my lord, is that the man behind all this — Marcos Killingham — was one of the most terrifying and corrupt Weapon Masters of his age.”

  Yugor’s voice faltered on the name, as though speaking it might draw something out of the shadows. He closed the parchment and exhaled slowly.

  The crackle of the fire was the only sound between them.

  Then —

  “Killingham!?”

  Lucretius’s voice tore through the stillness like a thunderclap. His head snapped toward Yugor, eyes sharp and burning beneath the weight of his exhaustion.

  The Ashkin flinched, instinctively covering half his face with the parchment as if it could shield him. “Y-you know him, General?” he stammered, voice quivering.

  No answer.

  Lucretius’s gaze turned back to the fire — silent, distant. The reflection of the flames danced across his face, their light twisting the exhaustion into something far darker.

  The servant dared not ask again.

  Fer and Hun stepped forward cautiously, their movements deliberate — like prey approaching a wounded beast. Neither dared to speak. They simply knelt, presenting the fresh garments folded neatly in their arms: a clean black tunic lined with dark silver thread, and a heavy mantle.

  Lucretius stood, slow and deliberate.

  He slipped into the new attire wordlessly. When he finally drew the mantle around his shoulders, it draped him like a shadow given form.

  “Find another story, Yugor,” he said without looking up, adjusting his sleeve. “I won’t be sleeping tonight.”

  The command froze the room.

  Fer and Hun exchanged glances — uneasy, confused. It was rare, almost unheard of, for their master to ask for more stories. The Fallen Knight was not one for tales; his patience for idle talk was thin as blade’s edge. Yet tonight, something was different — something in the way his voice carried, low and hoarse, like he was clinging to the sound of another’s words just to keep from being alone with his own.

  Yugor hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded quickly. He turned to the pile of parchments, sifting through the crumpled edges with nervous care, searching for one that might appease him.

  Meanwhile, Lucretius motioned toward the two attendants. “Sit,” he ordered.

  Fer blinked. "General?”

  “Sit.” The tone left no room for refusal.

  They obeyed, awkwardly lowering themselves into the chairs across from him. Lucretius gestured toward the wine jug. “Pour for yourselves.”

  The two Ashkin servants exchanged another uncertain glance — but again, they obeyed. The clink of glass echoed softly as they filled their cups, hands trembling slightly under his gaze.

  It was an odd sight — the Fallen Knight, commander of the most feared vanguard in all the Realms, sitting with three of his lesser servants in the dead of night, waiting for bedtime stories like some twisted gathering of ghosts.

  But then again, it had been a heavy night.

  And perhaps, even legends needed the distraction of myths to drown the sound of their own downfall.

  The colosseum lay shrouded in silence. Its once-roaring stands — the same seats that only hours ago trembled beneath the thunder of a thousand voices — now sat empty beneath the cold, pale light of the moon.

  At the far end of the spectator’s row, Leroy sat alone. His silhouette was still, carved against the marble benches like a statue of thought. His eyes lingered on the darkened arena below, where faint traces of blood still glistened under the moonlight.

  He flexed his fingers absentmindedly, a habit of his when lost in thought. The events of the evening replayed in fragments — the clash of ether, the sudden collapse, the moment the world itself seemed to stop breathing.

  All the other Council members had already departed, their duties and reputations too heavy to remain in the shadow of what had transpired. Only a handful of maintenance soldiers remained below, sweeping away the debris of the battle, their movements watched over by the towering figure of Thousand Fist, who stood vigilant like a sentinel carved from steel.

  Then, soft footsteps echoed down the stairway.

  Remini appeared — her cloak brushing lightly against the stone, her book of spells cradled close to her chest. She descended quietly, then took the seat beside him. The air between them was cool, still; the chorus of insects whispered faintly from the dark edges of the forest beyond the colosseum walls.

  “Quite a night, wasn’t it?” she murmured, her voice gentle but edged with exhaustion.

  Leroy smiled faintly without turning to face her. “Unexpected, yes,” he said. “Who would’ve thought that entertainment could turn so cruel?”

  A hollow chuckle escaped him, dry and humorless.

  Remini looked down at her lap, fingers tracing the sigils on her spellbook. “I promised to keep it secret,” she whispered. “But… I saw Starmist. She was hurt, wasn’t she? Is she going to be alright?”

  Leroy exhaled softly, the breath visible in the chill air. “There was… a misstep,” he admitted. “But she’ll recover. She always does.”

  His tone carried the weight of familiarity — not comfort, but weariness.

  Remini smiled faintly, relief flickering through her eyes. “She always did,” she echoed, more to herself than to him.

  A gust of wind swept across the arena, stirring the dust and the faint metallic scent of blood. The two sat in silence as it passed, their cloaks rustling in the cold.

  “This place feels cursed,” Remini said at last, voice almost lost to the wind.

  Leroy chuckled — though it was the kind of laugh that carried more defense than amusement. “Cursed?” he repeated, glancing at her. “You mean because of what it used to be?”

  Remini nodded slowly, her eyes drifting toward the center of the colosseum. “The old battleground, where the condemned fought for mercy. Now it’s dressed up as a ceremony hall — a place for duels of honor."

  Leroy’s smile faded. He turned his gaze back to the center pit, where the workers’ lanterns glowed like dying stars. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured. “Maybe the ghosts here just found new masks to wear.”

  “Leroy… it seems what you said might be true.”

  Remini’s voice broke the long silence. Her gaze remained lowered, fixed on the spellbook resting in her lap. The moonlight glimmered faintly on her skin, giving her the look of a figure caught between worlds, between faith and doubt.

  Leroy raised a brow, only halfway, his attention still adrift. “Oh?” he murmured. “And what is it?”

  She took a slow breath, exhaling through a soft, humorless smile. “Peace,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t just dull our instincts… it makes us careless. Vulnerable.”

  The words hung in the cold air, heavy and deliberate.

  Leroy leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his tone sharpening with focus. “Careless? You mean—?”

  Remini looked up then, her violet eyes catching the faint silver of the moon. “I mean exactly that,” she replied, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “You’ve already begun thinking of a way to fix it, haven’t you?”

  He huffed out a dry laugh, running a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples. “Honestly? This time… I have no idea where to even begin.”

  The witch smile softened — not mockery, but quiet understanding. “Come now, you’re Leroy,” she said with a teasing warmth. “Chairman of the Council, master of the Unus Bank. You’ve always found a way. You always do, old friend.”

  For the first time that night, something almost human flickered across his expression — a faint, weary grin.

  Down below, the echo of heavy boots began to fade. Thousand Fist was gathering the last of his men, signaling the cleanup to end. The arena floor, once soaked in chaos, was now bare and silent — though the air still held the tension of what had transpired.

  “Time to go, Remini!” Thousand Fist’s deep voice called from below.

  Remini rose, brushing dust from her cloak. “Duty calls,” she said with a small sigh, patting Leroy’s shoulder before turning toward the stairway.

  As she descended, Leroy’s voice followed her, low but clear. “Remini,” he called.

  She paused, half-turned, the shadows of the corridor stretching long behind her.

  “You’re a good friend,” he said simply.

  Remini smiled — bright, unguarded and raised a thumb in reply. “And you’re terrible at saying goodbye,” she quipped. Then, with a light laugh echoing off the stone walls, she added, “Oh, and by the way — I’m taking a few months off. Planning to explore the wilds, gather stories for my book.”

  Her voice lingered in the corridor as she disappeared into the moonlit archway, the sound fading like a spell gently unraveling.

  Leroy didn’t answer. He only chuckled under his breath, the sound tired yet content.

  Then silence returned.

  He leaned back, gazing once more at the vast, empty colosseum — the battlefield that had witnessed both glory and shame under the same sky. The Green Wraith sat there, still and unmoving, the wind tugging at his coat as the night deepened around him.

  Above, the stars stretched endless and cold — scattered like embers across the void — watching over a man who could not yet let the day die.