Kai sat on the rooftop, his legs pulled up to his chest, staring at the man who had just dragged him through three different realities like a dog on a leash.

  He forced himself to meet Balthazar's eyes, even though Every survival instinct he’d inherited from twenty years on Earth was screaming at him to look at the floor, but he pushed back.

  "Fine, Mr. Complicated Name," Kai said, his voice rough from the strangling. "If you people won't stop chasing after me, then I surrender. Do what you will."

  I need to be smart here. Stall as much time as I possibly can. If i can somehow bring back the joker again, I should have a chanc-

  "You seem confused, Kai," Balthazar interrupted, his tone almost conversational. "I'm not here to take you to the ACA's headquarters."

  Kai blinked. "What?"

  "I've been assigned by the ACA to make sure the prophecy is fulfilled," Balthazar said, as if explaining the weather.

  "Prophecy?" Kai's brow furrowed. "I'm not aware of any prophecy."

  Balthazar's smile widened, something knowing and infuriating flickering in his too-bright eyes. "Hmm. You're not supposed to be, Baron Vane."

  He stepped closer, crouching so they were at eye level. "The ACA is a collective of cowards. Instead of killing you and risking a paradox, they want the prophecy to run its natural course.."

  Kai's mind raced, trying to parse the logic. "The fact you're here right now already changes the outcome, doesn't it?"

  Balthazar tilted his head, considering. "Don't worry, Kai. I'm not here to hurt you or interfere with your life. But sending out Rowan itself changed things. I'm merely trying to make sure there are no further consequences of that action."

  Kai opened his mouth to ask what that meant—what consequences, what prophecy, what natural course—when a sound cut through the night.

  The front door of the estate slammed open.

  Kestrel's voice rang out, sharp and panicked. "Vane! Baron Vane!" laced with a panic Kai had never heard from her.

  Kai’s blood went cold. He looked through a gap in the tiles. Kestrel was in the yard, her head swiveling. And right in her path... lay Rowan’s mutilated corpse.

  "Letting your grandmother find that... messy body will put you in a pickle, wouldn't it?" Balthazar said, his voice light, almost amused. "I've already put an illusion on her, but you should probably clear out the body and fix the wall by morning."

  Kai's head snapped toward him. "Illusion? Is that your magi—"

  ?Balthazar didn't answer. He just gave Kai a firm, playful shove.

  Kai's stomach lurched as he tumbled backward off the rooftop, arms pinwheeling uselessly. The last thing he heard before gravity took him was Balthazar's voice, soft and almost apologetic.

  "We'll meet again soon."

  Thud.

  Kai hit the bushes below with a bone-jarring crash, branches snapping beneath him. Pain flared across his back, a sharp, stinging reminder that gravity was the only constant in every universe.

  He groaned, rolling onto his side, and looked up.

  Balthazar was gone.

  "Vane!" Kestrel's voice was closer now, frantic. Her boots pounded across the grass, and then she was there, kneeling beside him, her hands hovering over his body like she was afraid to touch him.

  "Oh dear heavens, what happened to you? Your entire body is wounded!"

  Kai blinked, confused. He looked down at himself. His clothes were torn and bloodstained from the earlier fight with Rowan, and his face was bruised and swollen. But the only real injury was the deep bruise on his stomach, hidden beneath his tunic.

  Yet Kestrel's eyes were wide with horror, scanning his arms, his legs, his chest, as if she were seeing wounds that weren't there.

  He's making her see an exaggerated version. He’s feeding her a horror movie starring me so she doesn't look at the dead guy ten feet away.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Kestrel's hands finally settled on his shoulders, steadying him. "Can you stand? We need to get you inside. I'll call the physician-"

  "I'm fine," Kai interrupted, forcing a weak smile. "I just... fell. Off the roof. I was trying to fix a loose tile and slipped."

  Kestrel stared at him, her jaw tight. She didn't believe him. But she didn't press.

  Instead, she helped him to his feet, her grip firm and unyielding.

  "We're going inside," she said, her voice leaving no room for debate.

  --

  In the palace chambers-

  The room was dark, lit only by the pale wash of moonlight filtering through the enchanted glass.

  Arthur sat on the edge of his bed, his upper body hunched forward, his head bowed. His hands rested on his knees, fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

  Across from him, seated in a high-backed chair, was Malakor.

  Even with the white blindfold, Malakor’s presence was an anchor.

  He didn't need eyes to feel the room; he could hear the frantic rhythm of Arthur’s heart and the way the air shifted with every shaky breath his friend took.

  Finally, Malakor lost his patience.

  "Come on, Arthur. Spit it out. The air in here is getting thick enough to choke on."

  Arthur didn't move. His breathing was shallow, ragged, like he was forcing himself to stay upright through sheer will. His eyes were wide, glassy, fixed on some invisible point on the floor.

  ?His mouth opened, then clicked shut. He looked like a man trying to speak through a throat full of glass.

  ?Malakor leaned forward. He 'watched' the micro-tremors in Arthur’s hands. "Arthur," he said, his voice dropping the casual edge for a moment. "Whatever it is, just say it. I’ve faced gods; I can handle your bad news.

  Arthur clenched his hands tighter, trying to still the tremor, but it spread—up his wrists, into his forearms, until his whole body was vibrating with suppressed fear.

  Finally, he lifted his head.

  His face was pale, eyes wide and wet.

  "Do you remember..." Arthur's voice cracked. He swallowed, forced himself to continue. "Do you remember when we were little and I came down with that... that contagious disease?"

  Malakor's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. He straightened slightly, his hands resting on the arms of the chair.

  "Sure," Malakor said, forced a smirk. "Your sister treated me like a leper. I still haven't forgiven her for that."

  Arthur took a shaky breath, his hands still trembling. He nodded, once, like he was gathering the last fragments of his courage.

  Malakor waited.

  "What about it?" Malakor finally asked.

  Silence.

  Arthur's lips pressed into a thin line. His jaw worked, muscles twitching beneath his skin. Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a smile.

  It was forced. Nervous. Painfully transparent.

  Malakor recognized it instantly.

  "Just reminiscing the old days," Arthur said, his voice too light, too casual.

  As he spoke, his hand moved.

  It was subtle—a small, almost imperceptible shift. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and held it out to the side, away from his own line of sight.

  His eyes never left Malakor's face.

  Malakor's head tilted slightly, tracking the movement. He didn't look at the paper. He kept his gaze—or the impression of it, beneath the blindfold—locked on Arthur.

  Arthur nodded.

  A tiny, almost invisible dip of his chin.

  Malakor understood.

  He stood, his movements smooth and unhurried. As he walked past Arthur, his hand shot out, snatching the paper in one fluid motion. He rolled it into a tight cylinder and palmed it, hiding it completely.

  ?"Well, it's getting late, Arthur," Malakor said, his tone perfectly flat, perfectly casual. "Don't let the 'memories' keep you up."

  "Thank you for the company." Arthur replied, his voice projecting for an audience that wasn't supposed to be there.

  Malakor inclined his head and walked toward the door.

  ?Malakor stepped into the hallway and immediately felt a spike in heat—a body nearby. Arthur's handmaiden.

  Her breathing was too fast, her skin slick with the sweat of someone who had been pressed against a doorframe for twenty minutes.

  A spy? Or just a terrified girl caught in the middle of a purge?

  Malakor didn't even glance at her. He simply walked past, his boots clicking rhythmically on the marble.

  When he turned the corner, out of sight of the handmaiden, he stopped.

  He unrolled the slip of paper.

  Three words, written in Arthur's cramped, shaking handwriting:

  I NEED HELP!

  Malakor stared at the note for a long moment, his jaw tight.

  Then he folded it carefully, tucked it into his coat, and kept walking.

  The palace was silent, but to Malakor’s ears, the walls were already starting to scream.

  [TO BE CONTINUED]