"Welcome back, knights!"
The voice rang through the deadened village like a divine trumpet shattering fog. Crisp, commanding—its resonance cut through the choking air and the murmur of those too tired to believe they'd truly made it out.
The man who spoke stood tall, his brilliant white cloak flickering like frost-kissed silk against the oppressive gloom that passed for sky. Etched across his visor were looping golden patterns, elegant and ancient, veiling his eyes in mystery while his smile carried warmth like the sun no one here had seen in years.
Mira gasped. The words hit her chest like a rush of spring air after drowning in winter. Her hands flew to her mouth as she spun toward Brin, eyes brimming with light.
"We really survived… we really did! One of the Instructors themselves said it!"
Brin blinked as if shaking off sleep that had lasted a lifetime. A sluggish, incredulous smile spread across his dirt-smudged face. His whole body still ached, phantom roots from the crimson forest still seemed to crawl beneath his skin. But Mira's voice, her joy—it reminded him of home.
A groan rose beside them. Sir Calden forced himself to his feet with the patience of a mountain rising from sleep. His knees cracked like old stone.
"To be young," he muttered, rubbing his back. "Just fought off whatever nightmare crawled out of that hellhole and they're already jumping around like it's festival season. I've got to file for retirement after this."
Rei, ever the bright flame among weary shadows, grinned wide. "But you can't! Retirement isn't allowed, remember? We need every soldier we've got!"
Sir Calden's expression faltered. For a fraction of a moment, a flicker of shadow crept behind his eyes. Something heavy. Something bitter. But no one caught it—too lost in their own celebrations.
"…Oh. Yes. That," he murmured, but it was swallowed by laughter and movement.
While joy bubbled around them like a long-forgotten song, Riven remained quiet, his eyes sharp. The faint glow in them had dulled since his rampage, but the weight of command still rested on his shoulders. He was scanning everything—the villagers, the broken alleys, the golden tower that gleamed with unnatural perfection. The bones beneath his armor had mended, the work of his Creed healing faster than even most knights could fathom. But nothing dulled the steel in his gaze.
Then, the person in white turned his attention toward the one figure still standing apart: Erasmus.
"Sorry, kiddo, for taking you away without your permission! You see, you would've drowned in that... pond without my help. Let's call it even, shall we? Oh, by the way, you can call me Instructor W."
He gave a wink, then gestured to the figure beside him, dressed in a magenta cloak, visor carved in razor-like etchings.
"This here is my fantastic assistant. Call him Assistant W."
He leaned in, stage-whispering in Erasmus' ear with a conspiratorial grin.
"He's kind of a rebel, y'know? In that charmingly chaotic phase—wants to go against everything. Don't mind him. He's got a good heart under the spikes. I'm sure you two will be the best of friends! You're close in age, after all. Plenty of time to bond once we get going up!"
Assistant W scoffed, looking away with a sharp "Tch," clearly unimpressed by the theatrics. He flicked a dying flower with a boot. It crumbled to dust before it hit the ground. The knights shared glances, some chuckling, others sighing in tired relief.
But Erasmus only observed. Quiet. Calculating. His eyes swept across the stone, the still air, the muted villagers, the golden tower—processing it all.
In his mind, he thought,
From the check I just did, this confirms that without a doubt, this place indeed is the Court of Faces. All the surrounding details of the environment match with what I saw in the Fractured Sight. Only, there's an unknown tower I didn't see, and this village seems to be only the bottom part of the court.
Instructor W cleared his throat, and the gathered knights straightened, their laughter dimming.
"All right, enough talking. Save the chatter for when we're somewhere safe."
With that, he turned, white cloak flowing behind him, and strode toward the golden tower's stairway. The knights followed, feet dragging slightly but hearts lighter than they had been in what felt like eons.
They ascended the fifty stone steps carved into the side of the shining structure—each step cleaner than the last, untouched by the decay surrounding them.
But the momentary peace shattered.
"Don't do it! Please! I beg you! My wife has just birthed our son! I need to go take care of her!"
A man in the crowd. Crying. Desperate.
Another, fury trembling in his limbs, wrenched free of restraining hands. "I don't care! I've had enough of these arrogant know-it-alls! They insult our homes, our people, and we just bow our heads?!"
The air turned brittle. The first man sobbed. The second roared—and hurled a stone.
A heartbeat later, death answered.
The stone soared. The Instructor didn't move. No one did. The air throbbed. Then the stone... multiplied. It fragmented like glass and flung itself back, its shards seeking vengeance against its caster. Over a hundred villagers fell. Blood painted the dust. Brain matter spattered the stone. The silence that followed was heavier than mourning. It was payment.
Those who had hidden in doorways and shadows remained frozen, breathless and pale.
Assistant W turned, voice sharp as frost.
"Pathetic. You crawl from your caves, thinking yourselves bold—thinking you could harm us? Disgusting."
His tone was not anger. It was boredom laced with disdain. He turned away. But when he caught Mira and Brin glancing his way, he snarled.
"What are you looking at? You think a little title makes you safe? Being knights doesn't make you untouchable."
Mira and Brin dropped their gazes. Instructor W exhaled, long and slow. Rei glanced between them all, conflicted, guilt worming through his chest.
They attacked first, he reminded himself. Assistant W was justified. We didn't start this. But the words, repeated like a mantra, failed to settle the pit in his stomach.
They reached the final step. The tower loomed above, divine in its geometry. Two guards stood at the entrance—immaculate in golden armor, their helmets flawless, swords gleaming in scabbards. Capes with golden crowns fluttered behind them, moving to a wind no one could feel.
As the group approached, the guards suddenly drew their swords, crossing them to block the entrance. Their voices rang out in perfect synchronicity, hollow and resonant.
"No entry for the one with white hair. No authorization has been granted."
Time froze.
All eyes turned to Erasmus, whose white hair gleamed under the muted light. He met their gaze, unflinching, as the tension in the air thickened.