“Is that something you’re allowed to even say?”

  His voice was colder than the night wind.

  “Listen. It doesn’t matter what you think the truth is. There’s only one conclusion—Aurora, that traitor, is guilty.”

  His younger brother, still clutching the back of his head, wore an expression of unconcealed confusion. He lowered his voice, shot back, “But... something’s off about it, bro. I just can’t shake it.”

  “One woman? A single knightess, no matter how skilled—she took down Rod’s entire kill squad and personally torched the whole armory? That was the arsenal Cole and Warren personally guarded! There’s no way a lone knightess could’ve pulled that off!”

  He paused, his voice trembling now—not just with anger, but with a gnawing doubt about his fallen comrades. “And the story that Rod himself betrayed us and joined Aurora? That’s even less believable! We didn’t know Aurora that well, but Rod? We grew up with him! He’d never ditch us for some knightess we barely even liked!”

  The older brother fell silent. The shadows in his eyes ran deeper than the streets ahead.

  Of course he suspected. He’d suspected it longer, and more thoroughly, than his brother ever could.

  But he understood the new politics of this town better now. In this fragile new order, built entirely on the “King’s” will, the truth had no weight. If the King decred someone a traitor, then a traitor they were. To question it was to invite death.

  He opened his mouth again, ready to shut his brother down with harsher words—this reckless line of thinking could get them both killed—but his body froze mid-motion.

  “Shh—”

  His eyes snapped sharp with alertness. He raised a single finger to his lips, signaling silence.

  The younger brother felt it too, and followed his brother’s gaze into the distance.

  Far off, the unlit streets beneath the ghastly moonlight were beginning to fog over. But this wasn’t normal mist—no damp breath of the earth. This fog was strange, slick almost, a creeping darkness that oozed from the shadows of the ruined buildings like a living thing.

  And it advanced toward their tiny isnd of light at a speed no natural phenomenon could expin—fast. Terrifyingly fast.

  The torches flickered wildly. Shadows twitched.

  “Sound the arm!” the older brother hissed, his voice suddenly ragged with urgency. He gripped his notched, battered longsword, his lungs burning as he roared into the night:

  “INTRUDERS!”

  Perhaps Arthur’s training had finally paid off, sharpened by the trauma of the armory fire. Almost immediately, the quiet houses around them stirred with movement—boots on wood, muffled shouts, the ctter of hastily grabbed weapons.

  But before the two guards could exhale in relief at their timely warning… a figure emerged from the thick, swallowing fog.

  Not approaching. Appearing.

  And by the time they registered movement—he was already standing right in front of them.

  “How odd,” the figure mused, his voice young and smooth, ced with a natural arrogance, as if mortal lives were beneath his notice. “You’re faster to react than I expected.”

  Then, with casual impatience: “Sleep now. Don’t trouble me further.”

  The brothers opened their mouths—to demand his identity, to call for help—but before a single sylble could form… a crushing, soul-deep weariness smmed into them.

  It wasn’t fatigue. It was as if their very essence had been flooded with liquid lead. Their strength vanished. Their knees buckled. Not even a gasp escaped before they colpsed onto the cold stone like broken puppets, snoring softly within seconds.

  The bck-robed man gnced down at them without interest. He raised his right hand, his fingertips brushing a bracelet carved from an unknown obsidian stone. Silver glyphs—like miniature star-charts—slowly rotated across its surface, glowing faintly in the dark.

  “Hmph.” He let out a soft, derisive chuckle—reserved for insects that dared cross his path.

  Then, without another word, he strode straight into the brightly lit City Hall, as casually as if walking into his own garden.

  The unnatural fog followed, slithering behind him like a tide of living shadow, until it completely swallowed the building in its suffocating embrace.

  Soon, muffled thuds echoed from within—thump… thump…—like bodies hitting the floor.

  The guards who’d just scrambled from their beds, weapons in hand, hadn’t even cleared their doorways before they, too, sank into a deep, unnatural slumber. This sleep was far heavier than the one outside—breaths slow and even, minds unreachable.

  The bck-robed man paid it no mind. He moved through the hallways like a ghost who knew every secret passage, cutting through corners and bypassing main corridors with uncanny precision.

  Within moments, he stood before the grand study on the second floor. Two fully armored guards y slumped at the door, breathing steadily—clearly asleep.

  His target was inside.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  One step forward. His hand reached for the heavy oak door—

  —but then, as if changing his mind on a whim, he stepped back.

  An instant ter—

  BOOOOM—!!!

  The door exploded inward!

  A massive warhammer, gleaming with cold steel, burst through the wood with savage force, sending splinters flying like shrapnel toward the exact spot where he’d stood.

  The strike was perfectly timed—fast, precise, lethal.

  But it struck only air.

  Inside, Arthur—gripping the hammer’s haft—felt his stomach drop.

  His ambush… had missed.

  Without thinking, he dropped the hammer, drew his sword in one fluid motion, and leaped backward, every movement sharp with elite knightly discipline.

  Meanwhile, the bck-robed man acted as if nothing had happened. Calmly, he pushed aside the shattered remnants of the door—which now hung by its hinges—and stepped silently into the study.

  The flickering torchlight caught the contours of his face beneath the hood.

  Arthur’s eyes widened in shock.

  He saw now: this intruder wasn’t some ancient sorcerer or nameless horror.

  He was young—barely older than Arthur himself.

  But what chilled Arthur to the bone were the markings on the man’s skin. Fine, intricate, web-like veins of crimson traced across his face—not ink, not scars from battle… but something deeper. As if his very flesh bore the memory of a power too vast to contain…

  A living, breathing scar.

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