On the way back to the Citadel, in the Garden of Merit, the two passed by the same black stake where Micah had been killed. His stomach churned and he felt short of breath just from standing in the same place as his temporary ruin. His body remembered the skin stretching, his tears boiling, the sound of his own body fat popping…

  He walked faster, leaving that place before he had a panic attack. Dennisorfeu found it strange, but said nothing and kept the same pace.

  Then a shiver seized Micah, forcing him to stop. It wasn’t the ordinary chill of cold or shock — it felt like a rough, cold tongue sliding along the entire length of his spine, sanding down every tiny nerve and leaving him trapped in a frustrating limbo between sensations; a mixture of a halted sneeze and an unreachable itch that seemed to gnaw at the very marrow of his bones.

  By choice or not, he looked down.

  And his heart stopped.

  Ignoring all logic, his shadow was pointing at something with a finger, while he himself stood there. Motionless.

  The gesture led to a carriage before the Ducal Market — embroidered with a crest in golden thread and drawn by white horses with combed manes. The crest showed a spear and a hammer intertwined behind a shield, which divided two scenes diagonally: a knight defeating something that looked like a giant insect, and a red anvil burning in black fire. Just below the shield, a ribbon read “Blackfeller,” and above it a full, crowned helm stared directly at the observer, shaded in a threatening manner.

  The coachman was strange — he moved too uniformly, almost like a machine following a pre-determined path. He wore a suit, and his face was covered by a bronze mask depicting a bull with sawn-off horns.

  As soon as he rose, he opened a side door of the carriage with reverence, and from within stepped élise Blackfeller. She wore a red dress, her hands covered in white gloves that extended past her elbows, made of fine fabric. An elegant hat shielded her face from the sun, adorned with white plumes that perfectly complemented the gloves.

  Micah looked at his shadow again, questioning his sanity, but it merely copied his movements as always.

  — Hey, Sorfeu, who’s that in red? — Micah asked, still staring toward the carriage.

  Dennisorfeu didn’t slow his stride.

  — That one? — he said, as if commenting on the weather. — élise Blackfeller.

  The name fell strangely into the air. Heavy.

  — Blackfeller…? — Micah repeated, tasting metal in his mouth.

  Sorfeu gave a short, humorless laugh.

  — The very same. Daughter of the oldest house in Pulmérica. Too much money, too much influence and… — he made a vague gesture with his hand — …very little patience for common folk.

  Micah looked again at the woman in red. Something about her felt displaced, as though the world around her had been rearranged to receive her. People stepped aside without realizing they were doing so.

  — Is she… important? — he asked.

  — She’s dangerous. — Sorfeu answered without hesitation. — When élise walks into a place, someone has already lost before they even knew they were playing.

  He hesitated for a moment, then added in a lower tone:

  — Besides, it’s as clear as day she funds rebels, but no one has concrete proof. And even if we did, it’s not as if we could do much. After all, our kingdom depends on their dirty coin.

  Micah felt a chill in his stomach but didn’t press further. They kept walking until she disappeared into that monstrous building.

  A few minutes passed in silence before Micah frowned.

  — Hey… why wasn’t she wearing black or silver

  Sorfeu blinked, surprised.

  — Good question. Not many people notice that.

  He took a deep breath, as if deciding how much was worth explaining.

  — Because she’s not from Luther. — he said at last.

  — What do you mean?

  — Vellancian. — he replied. — Born in another country, outside the caste system. That means she doesn’t answer to the Silver Serpent. She’s here because of old agreements… and mutual convenience.

  The Citadel rose before them, imposing as ever. Guards came and went, the inner courtyard already occupied by a few squads in light training.

  — Good. — Sorfeu said, cracking his neck. — Since you survived the Axedal, time to learn how to survive armed people.

  They stopped in a side area of the courtyard, where the ground was marked with old training scars.

  — First thing. — Sorfeu began, removing his jacket and remaining in his dark tunic. — Fighting isn’t about strength. Nor about honor. It’s about position.

  He stood before Micah.

  — If you control the distance, you control the rhythm. If you control the rhythm, you decide when something ends.

  Sorfeu lunged suddenly.

  Micah reacted too late, feeling the bard’s fist strike his shoulder and shove him back, forcing a groan of pain from him.

  — Dead. — Sorfeu said, stepping back. — Again. Left foot forward, right foot back, guard your face with your arms.

  — In this stance your weight should be on your hips, put your left foot a bit further forward. Like this. — He demonstrated. Micah copied him. — Now your weight shifts to your shoulders so you can transfer it to your fist and strike.

  — Try to dodge and counter me. — Sorfeu concluded before attacking again.

  Micah failed once more, taking the punch to the face.

  They tried a few more times. Micah got hit more than he’d like to admit, but he began noticing patterns: the shift of weight, the angle of the feet, the exact instant before movement.

  — Don’t think. — Sorfeu corrected. — Thinking slows you down. Observe and respond.

  That was when a soldier appeared in a hurry, interrupting the training.

  — Lieutenant Becker-Braun! — he said, out of breath. — The Captain-Paladin wants to see you. Now.

  Sorfeu sighed.

  — Always at the best moment.

  In the vigil office, Asáimon and Thonathaniel were already there when they entered. Reblis remained behind the desk, fingers interlaced, expression closed.

  — As you may already know, Wanderson and Rebbeka are getting married. — Reblis began. — With so many nobles gathering in a single place, the possibility of an attack cannot be dismissed.

  “Knowing that, the Duke has requested Awakened for the ceremony’s security and continued vigilance until the wedding concludes, especially due to the Scarlet Hood’s recent inactivity.”

  “This means constant presence on the Citadel’s upper floors. At least two of you per day. Free rotation, full responsibility.”

  — Until when? — Thona asked.

  — Until the last guest leaves… or something goes wrong.

  Before anyone could respond, the door burst open.

  Three figures entered.

  The smell came first.

  Old blood, iron, and something sour.

  The first to appear was a tall, broad man, shoulders nearly as wide as the doorway itself. He carried a heavy sack stained with blood, and as soon as he stepped in, he rested an enormous sword on the floor, its design similar to a zweih?nder.

  An old scar traced his left cheek, from the corner of his mouth almost to his temple, and his eyes — gray as storm-laden clouds — carried an indescribable weight. It was hard to tell whether they emanated trauma… or threat.

  Everything about him seemed measured to the millimeter: his hair, his uniform, his knee-length cloak, his heavy boots. Even the dust seemed afraid to make him asymmetrical. As if everything about him followed a defined limit.

  The next to enter was a blonde woman with an orange scarf around her neck and two daggers at her belt. The scent of her perfume overtook the smell of old blood, leaving behind crushed black pepper, dry tobacco, and burnt orange peel. She wore a short leather jacket over her uniform, fingerless gloves, and tight denim trousers partially covered by thigh-high boots.

  Her energy was the complete opposite of the first man’s. With a relaxed posture and one hand on her hip, she studied the room with almost childlike curiosity, her golden eyes taking particular interest in Micah.

  The last figure was a short, withdrawn girl with caramel-colored hair cut to her shoulders. She drew the least attention, wearing a simple uniform and subtle earrings. Her hands were clasped behind her back — not confidently, but like someone unsure where to put her arms. Her eyes were pale gray, almost translucent, avoiding prolonged eye contact.

  The tall man pulled something from the sack and let it drop to the floor: the deformed head of a Soulless fox. Its eyes still open, jaw twisted, cleanly severed from the body.

  — Bountiful Road. — the blonde said with a sideways smile. — Caravans won’t be disappearing there anymore.

  Reblis closed his eyes for a second.

  — Excellent. Terrible timing.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Then he looked at Micah.

  — Micah. — he said, gesturing toward the three. — This is the rest of your squad.

  — Bartkuma.

  The tall man inclined his head in silence.

  — Felipa.

  The shy girl gave a small wave, without smiling.

  — Lysandre.

  The blonde was the only one who stepped forward, analyzing the redhead from head to toe.

  For a single second, Micah noticed something strange in her eyes — like a camera lens shifting focus.

  — Hm. — she murmured. — So you’re the Migrator who died twice.

  Micah blinked.

  — I… what?

  She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  — Relax. I’ll explain later. Or not. Call me Lysa.

  Sorfeu let out a short laugh.

  — Welcome to the group, Micah. — he said. — From here on, it can only get worse.

  — Well. — he added, as if reaching an obvious conclusion. — Since the squad’s officially complete… I think we deserve a proper reception.

  Reblis raised an eyebrow.

  — Becker-Braun—

  — A welcome party. — Sorfeu cut in, too quickly to seem innocent. — Nothing much. A tavern, a drink, everyone gets to know each other outside of work. Group morale, sir. Curfew doesn’t even let us go out after shift.

  Lysandre broke into a wide grin, immediately approving.

  — Finally someone with some sense in this dump!

  Bartkuma didn’t react. Felipa looked as though she were assessing whether a roof might collapse.

  Reblis sighed, rubbing his face.

  — One hour. — he said. — After that, I want everyone rested. We’re on duty tomorrow.

  Sorfeu smiled like a man who had just won a diplomatic battle.

  — One hour. I promise. — already turning to leave. — Let’s go before I change my mind and become a model soldier.

  The group dispersed through the Citadel’s corridors, heading down toward the lower levels. The atmosphere had shifted: less weight, more footsteps, loose comments, restrained laughter.

  An unlucky soldier passed in front of the office.

  — Hey, you. — Reblis called. — Can you find someone to remove this?

  He pointed at the monstrous head on the floor. The poor man nearly jumped out of his skin.

  — Uhh… Yes, sir.

  — So… — Lysandre began, walking backward for a few seconds to look at Micah. — Did you really die on a stake?

  — I prefer to call it… an educational experience. — he replied sarcastically.

  — I love ironic survivors. — she winked. — You know, if you had a bit more muscle, you’d actually be cute.

  Micah blushed.

  — W-what?!

  Lysa gave a short giggle.

  — Not good at taking compliments, huh? Usually we say thank you. — Her tone lowered. — But it’s strange… You don’t have any scars, do you? I’ve never seen an Image like that. Even the most skilled healers leave some kind of trace.

  — I don’t know how to explain it. I just died… and woke up underground in the same instant. — He looked at his hands, remembering his clay-like skin, now returned to normal.

  Felipa walked a few steps behind them, hands hidden in her light gloves. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, mentally counting the rhythm of her own steps.

  That’s when Micah noticed.

  Someone was descending from the upper floors.

  The flow of soldiers was usually predictable: those assigned to the gates didn’t show up there at that hour. And yet—

  — Gunther? — Sorfeu frowned.

  The man approached with his helmet tucked under his arm, uniform still too immaculate for someone who should be at the South Gate. His stride was firm, but there was tension in his shoulders, as if he carried a thought too heavy.

  — Brother. — he greeted, curtly. — Did Reblis let you off already?

  — A rare miracle. — Sorfeu replied. — Weren’t you supposed to be—

  — I know where I’m supposed to be. — Gunther cut him off, too quickly.

  Micah felt the air shift for a second. Not hostile.

  Misaligned.

  — Everything okay? — Sorfeu asked, now serious.

  Gunther hesitated. A microsecond. Enough.

  — I saw unusual movement in the inner courtyard. — he said. — Nobles arriving earlier than expected. Some… without clear registration.

  — Before the wedding? — Asáimon commented from behind. — That’s unusual.

  — It is. — Gunther nodded. — I decided to report it personally.

  Sorfeu held his gaze a second longer than necessary.

  A seed was planted.

  But it had no time to sprout.

  Because Gunther stopped speaking.

  Literally.

  His gaze had drifted — first casually, then fixed — toward Felipa.

  She was a few steps back, speaking quietly with Lysandre when she felt the weight of his stare. She slowly lifted her head.

  Their eyes met.

  Gunther blinked, as if pulled from a distant thought back into the present.

  — …Hi. — he said, completely out of military tone.

  Lysandre raised an amused eyebrow.

  — Well, well. — she murmured. — That got interesting fast.

  Felipa adjusted her gloves, nervous.

  — Hi.

  Silence.

  Sorfeu glanced between them, smiling faintly.

  — Do you know each other?

  — A little. — Gunther answered, too quickly again. — I mean— not much.

  Felipa nodded.

  — He… asked me out. — she said, almost in a whisper.

  The bard’s eyes widened slightly.

  — You asked someone out? — he asked theatrically.

  Gunther cleared his throat.

  — That’s not relevant.

  — Of course it is. — Sorfeu spread his arms. — We’re going for drinks. Why don’t you come with us, little brother?

  Felipa looked like she wanted to disappear into her own uniform.

  — I don’t—

  — One hour. — Sorfeu repeated, pointing at her. — I promise no one’s going to make you drink until you pass out.

  — I never drink until I pass out. — she replied defensively.

  — Exactly. — Lysandre smiled. — We’ll take care of that.

  Felipa shot her a deadly look.

  Gunther sighed.

  — I should—

  — The South Gate’s still there. — Sorfeu clapped his shoulder. — And the world won’t end if you’re away from it for an hour.

  Gunther hesitated. Looked once more in the direction he’d come from. Then at Felipa.

  — One hour. — he said.

  And just like that, the subject died.

  Or, at least, was pushed beneath the right rug.

  ...

  The chosen tavern was low-ceilinged, hot, and far too loud for any deep conversation to survive. The smell of grease, barley, and smoke wrapped around the group the moment they stepped inside.

  Sorfeu raised his hand.

  — A round on me. — he declared. — To Micah’s arrival, to the whole platoon returning, to the road cleared—

  — And because you just needed an excuse. — Lysandre finished.

  — Mostly that.

  Laughter.

  Micah sat down, feeling something rare: normality.

  Felipa chose a seat at the end of the table. Gunther beside her. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

  Until she murmured:

  — You lied.

  — I know.

  — Why?

  — I can’t say here. It’s too dangerous.

  Felipa swallowed hard.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by a heavy slam against the counter. Sorfeu raised his glass high.

  — Cheers! — he shouted.

  Glasses clashed.

  The noise echoed like a domestic thunderclap, and for a few moments everything was foam, laughter, and wood groaning beneath the weight of tired bodies. Sorfeu drained his drink in one go, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and without a word climbed onto an empty stool near the wall.

  A few groans of protest rose.

  — Ah, no… — someone muttered.

  — He’s really going to do this? — Lysandre arched an eyebrow, already smiling.

  Sorfeu ignored them. He pulled the instrument from his back — old, patched, bearing too many road-marks to still sound so good — and turned one of the tuning pegs with exaggerated care.

  — Learned this one from an old man in my home village. — he announced. — Ugly fellow, far too serious, and he hated when I changed the lyrics.

  — Then change all of it — someone shouted.

  Sorfeu gave a crooked smile.

  The first notes sliced through the tavern’s noise like a hot blade. They weren’t delicate. They were firm, repetitive, made to be followed by a foot pounding the floor.

  Gradually, the conversations died.

  Even Micah noticed — the sound didn’t ask for attention, it took it.

  Sorfeu began to sing:

  “Once upon a time,

  Plagues that filled our lungs.

  Hear me now,

  I’ll sing of a man and a dream.

  Forged in pain and flame,

  Born to end the mire,

  Made his soul his weapon —

  And his bed, the battlefront.”

  “He rose from mud, from blood and sweat,

  The son of man, the lord of dread.

  With rage clenched tight within his hand,

  He bound together village and land.”

  “And insects flew with wings of gold,

  Called us servants, stole what we’d hold.

  But Gilgadeon raised his gaze,

  And made each king bow in his blaze.”

  “Sing it loud, now beat the drum!”

  Fists banged on tables. Mugs clinked to keep the rhythm. Shamelessly discordant voices joined in. Even Bartkuma and Asáimon tapped their feet to the beat.

  “For the man who broke (for the king who broke the terror!)

  Gilgadeon, blade of humankind,

  Made freedom our design!”

  “He asked no blessing, spoke no plea,

  Was chosen by conviction’s decree.

  And where the elves built towers tall,

  He planted bodies, built his hall.”

  “He was no king by luck or chance —

  But sweat, decree, and death’s advance.

  And when the winged king finally fell,

  All Pulmérica roared his tale.”

  Lysa pulled the waiter into an awkward dance, too enthusiastic to be sober—or to care about any technique.

  Felipa didn't sing.

  She watched Sorfeu with the glass still in her hands, her lips closed, feeling the weight of Gunther's lie vibrate in her chest with each verse about unity and truth won in blood.

  Gunther, beside her, avoided her gaze.

  Micah sang softly. Not for the words—but for the strange feeling of belonging to that chorus, even knowing that stories like this always hid something the refrain didn't say.

  “Sing it loud, now beat the drum,

  For the man who broke (for the king who broke the terror!)

  Gilgadeon, blade of humankind,

  Made freedom our design!”

  “The Demiurge saw and chose his hand,

  For blood returns what it demands.

  If light is born from deepest scar,

  Then he was our rising star.”

  “The elves were taken by the sea,

  But none erase his memory.

  For while there’s fire, war and roar,

  The liberator’s name will soar:

  Gilgadeon…

  Son of clay, of steel, of flame,

  Who crushed the termites, claimed our claim,

  And turned history into his story.”

  When Sorfeu reached the end, the final note stretched on too long, as if the instrument were reluctant to let the song die.

  For a second, there was silence.

  Then the tavern exploded.

  Shouts, applause, calls for another. Sorfeu made an exaggerated bow, nearly fell off the stool, and laughed as if he had just told the greatest joke in the world.

  But beneath the laughter, beneath the myth of the first king and the freedom won, something was beginning to stir.

  Rumors, like songs, needed only a first ear willing to listen.

  And that afternoon,

  someone had already begun telling the wrong version of the story.

  …

  The sound of high heels echoed through the vast corridors of the Ducal Market.

  At the highest point of the building stood élise, before a great dark wooden gate, guarded by two men clad in heavy armor, who allowed her entry without hesitation.

  She entered, but her masked butler remained in the corridor.

  The room was wide and luxurious, with three great stained-glass windows filtering the intense sunlight from outside. Along the adjacent wall stood a table laden with appetizers and delicacies, seasoned with spices only the elite could afford. Rare statues and exotic plants adorned the empty corners.

  One of the walls boasted a painting far too large for the hall that housed it. Its edges had already darkened, as if time itself had tried to burn it — and abandoned the effort midway through the act.

  It depicts a city at the exact instant of its fall — not before, not after.

  The city occupies the center of the canvas like an open wound in the world. Towers of white marble and gold are split in half, leaning at impossible angles, like broken bones piercing through the flesh of the landscape. Bridges collapse in frozen silence, streets fold in upon themselves, and walls — once symbols of order and human dominion — are now being destroyed by the very beings they once protected.

  The sky is the most disturbing element.

  There is no sun. There is no moon.

  There is a tear.

  Clouds spiral around a luminous, sickly opening, as though the firmament had been pierced from the inside out. From that rift pours a light both greenish and golden at once — too beautiful to be natural, too aggressive to be divine. The light does not illuminate: it exposes. Every shadow cast by the city points in a different direction, as if reality itself had lost consensus.

  Above, nearly imperceptible at first glance, colossal forms observe the scene. They are not fully defined: silhouettes of limbs too long, incomplete faces, broken crowns floating in the void. Archons — before they were even called such. They do not attack. They do not need to. The city’s fall seems to occur by withdrawal, not invasion. As if something essential had simply been switched off.

  In the foreground, the horror is human.

  People are painted in excessive number, layered, crushed against one another. There are no heroes. No epic poses. Men, women, and children run, fall, cling to the broken statue of the former emperor, beg gods who no longer look back. Some have their faces turned toward the sky — and those are the most terrifying — for their expressions are not of fear, but of belated understanding.

  Among the bodies, the Empire’s symbols appear profaned: banners burning, codices torn apart, royal seals split in two.

  In the lower right corner, almost hidden, there is a detail few notice:

  An imperial priest kneeling, still clutching a human sacred symbol. The paint around him is thicker, almost viscous. His face is not in despair. It is empty. As if he had understood that the mistake was not losing — but believing the Empire could never fall.

  There is no artist’s signature.

  But on the back of the frame, there was a title:

  “The Fall of Gomorrah”

  Beside it, two women wearing cow masks played a melodic sonata through a piano and a violin. And before the artwork stood an armchair, where someone observed the painting while savoring a cigar and a Bourbon.

  élise walked to the armchair, kneeling behind it.

  — I am here, Father.

  The man raised his hand. The music ceased at once.

  He took another drag from his cigar, remaining silent.

  — The plan is already in motion, — she continued. — I can assure you the city will soon be ours. And it will be done without mobilizing a single soldier.

  Silence.

  — It is a beautiful piece. — he declared. His voice was firm, so deep it bordered on the inhuman.

  "And like Gomorrah, this kingdom will burn. From its ashes we shall rise as kings, and all who remain will serve us."

  “Our family will rule undisputed over the world.”

  “Continue like this, my daughter, and you will be ready to take the position of Matriarch.”

  — Thank you, Father. I will not disappoint you. — She lowered her head slightly before rising and leaving.

  Thus the family meeting ended.

  In promises, debts, and conspiracies.

  As the Blackfeller family has always operated.