Stone steps spiralled into darkness, lit only by the flickering lantern in Thomas Dias' hand. The air hung heavy—damp with old magic, thicker still with older secrets.
"Tell me, little fang," Thomas said, his voice echoing off the stone, "what did you do to make the girl poison you?"
Michael sighed, tossing his cloak with a dramatic flourish. "The usual. Sweet talk. Light treason. A jab at her tea-making. She didn't take it well."
Thomas chuckled. "Seventeen, aren't you? That golden age when heartbreak feels like death—and dagger-wielding girls become... fascinating."
Michael scoffed, hopping down two steps. "If anyone believes the Mad Pope—mass murderer and resident lunatic—is some kind of love sage, the world's worse off than I thought. And for the record, I'm not fascinated. I'm terrified. Mildly impressed. But mostly terrified."
"Yet here you are," Thomas said, "chasing her into the bowels of a cursed Keep. Vengeance?"
Michael grinned. "Curiosity. If someone poisons you and disappears into a haunted ruin, wouldn't you want to know why? Revenge is boring. Mystery is more fun."
Thomas laughed. "And here I thought books and pastries lured me along."
Michael glanced back. "Books, sure. But pastries? Please. You're just bored. And curious. A girl outwits Thomas Dias? You had to see it for yourself."
Thomas smirked. "You see too much for your age."
"And you talk too much for yours," Michael said with a wink. "Now hush. If we want to surprise her, best not sound like clucking hens."
Thomas snorted. "Two fools, chasing a girl half your size."
Michael's grin widened. "Half my size—three times the trouble."
Their laughter echoed once—then vanished into the mist below.
The Throne Hall
Beneath the castle sprawled a vast, ancient throne chamber—square in shape and lost to time. The stonework, once grand, had faded into legend, but faint light still shimmered from mana crystals embedded in cracked walls. Their cold, bluish glow bathed the hall in ghost-light, casting shadows that clung like memories.
The entrance lay at one end of the hall. At the far side, an enormous throne loomed—carved from obsidian stone, black as void. It sat atop a steep staircase of twenty wide steps, like a broken mountain rising from the floor. Time had not dulled its presence. Even in silence, it ruled.
At the chamber's heart stood a sacrificial altar, circled by four towering pillars, each wrapped in broken chains—untouched by rot, disturbingly new. Surrounding them like a ritual boundary stood two dozen more pillars, some shattered, all bound in those same fresh chains. It looked as if someone had once tried to bind a god here.
Joan knelt beside the altar, brushing away layers of dust and dead insects with the hem of her skirt. Her hands moved on instinct. Her eyes did not. They kept drifting—to the throne at the far end of the hall.
Massive. Empty. Watching.
Perched above like a relic awaiting memory. Something about it felt... awake. Ancient. Patient.
A shiver traced her spine. She scowled and tore her gaze away.
She still wore the same maid's garb she'd used to slip poison into Michael's tea—not that she regretted it. If anything, she considered it a minor public service. What she did regret was the aftermath: two days spent hiding in this reeking crypt of rats, rot, and bat piss.
Then it came—the sound she'd dreaded.
A long, groaning creak. Heavy. Grinding. Thunderous.
The great doors at the far end of the hall were opening.
Joan froze.
No one should've been coming through those doors. Not now. Not here.
Her hand flew to the dagger at her waist.
She ducked behind the altar's far side, slipping into shadow. From that angle, she'd be hidden from anyone entering the room.
Not my brother, she told herself. He'd already been here an hour ago. Arrogant, reckless, loud—but not stupid. He wouldn't come back.
So who had?
She held her breath and peered through a crack in the stone.
Eyes.
A pair of them. Dim. Burning. Red as embers.
They drifted forward through the mist.
Her heart lurched. Froze. Then slammed into motion, beating so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.
One name thundered in her mind before thought could form:
Benjamin Centarious.
The Azrael of the South.
The Angel of Death.
Even after poisoning Michael, this was the reason she hadn't fled. She hadn't feared the guards, or the dungeons, or even the Duke.
But him?
Everyone feared him.
Commoners called him the devil's warhound. Nobles named him butcher and blade. Her brother had described him with a single word:
Untouchable.
And now he was here. In the dark.
Without hesitation, Joan activated her magic—vanishing into mist.
She was a Mist Binder, able to summon and shape fog. Binders were trained wielders of new magic—those without divine blood or legacy, who carved power from discipline alone.
According to myth, the world had two creators: the Maker, the cosmic father who forged existence, and the Goddess of Night, who gave it life. From them came two forms of magic:
Old Magic, born of the Mother, passed through blood—Walkers, who inherited power.
New Magic, born of the Father, drawn from the world—Binders, who learned to master it.
Joan's mist bloomed in waves, flowing fast across the ancient floor like a living thing. She didn't hesitate. Fear clawed at her gut as she dashed for the throne, praying—to the Goddess of Fortune, to anyone listening—that she'd live long enough to regret her choices.
Within seconds, the hall was swallowed in silver haze.
Then she heard them—boots on stone. Calm. Steady. Loud in the silence.
She slid behind the throne just in time, pressing her back to the cold rock, breath caught in her throat.
Then—a voice.
Smooth. Teasing. Familiar.
"Where are you, my dear tea-maker? Hiding again? Or still plotting with your precious nutmeg powder?"
Joan froze.
Her heart stuttered—then surged.
But the fear melted. Transformed.
Into something far more dangerous.
A smile.
She wasn't hiding from Benjamin Centarious.
She was hiding from him.
And she knew that voice anywhere.
Michael.