The chamber was quiet, save for the low hum of magic that pulsed from the cracked stone beneath them like a slow, steady heartbeat. Faint torchlight flickered along the fractured pillars, barely reaching the vaulted ceiling above. Shadows clung to every edge.
A man in dark robes knelt before the broken throne at the end of the hall. His forehead nearly touched the ground, hands flat against the cold floor. Beside him, more robed figures bowed in silence—disciples, perhaps, or something less distinct.
The throne itself was jagged and asymmetrical, carved from obsidian and bone. Upon it sat a figure draped in threadbare robes of deepest black, his right side veiled by a cracked, featureless mask. The left half of his face remained uncovered, revealing skin like porcelain and a gleaming violet eye that never blinked.
Four figures flanked him—two to each side.
One was a woman in silver armor, face hidden beneath a veil of sheer cloth that shimmered like smoke. Another stood twice the height of a man, broad as a wall, with molten lines running down his chest like cracks in a volcano. The third appeared to be a child—red-haired, freckled, barefoot—wearing a cloak of stitched-together dolls. The last was a tall figure in tattered robes whose head was missing entirely, but whose body remained unnervingly upright.
The kneeling man finally spoke, voice low but steady.
"Herald. The operation near the northeastern gate is complete. We succeeded in disrupting the outer defense grid and spreading confusion among the watch. Casualties remained within acceptable range."
The Herald didn't respond.
The man hesitated, then went on.
"There were... complications. Harm was intercepted. Destroyed."
A pause. Just long enough for discomfort to crawl in.
"But not permanently," he added quickly. "A new vessel is ready. We've dispatched retrieval to recover his core. The delay will be minimal."
Still, silence.
The man lowered his gaze.
"And… Love was captured."
A subtle shift passed through the room — not a sound, not a breath — more like pressure against glass. The Herald's violet eye narrowed. A thin crack deepened along the throne's armrest.
"She's careless," he said softly, cold and clipped. "That mind wasn't meant to carry so many names. Too many roles, too much noise. But I trust she's not wasting time."
He leaned back slowly, voice steady.
"She still has use. But if she can't show results soon, then she'll be discarded."
None of the four figures flanking the throne stirred.
The Herald's eye shifted, settling on the red-haired child seated at the base of the throne.
"Dread."
The boy looked up, lips stretching into a too-wide smile. His teeth were too sharp, too many for any normal child. He clutched a stuffed animal close to his chest—small, handmade, stitched from something that looked too much like skin.
"Yes?" he said, voice light and cheerful.
The Herald paused, as if waiting for Dread to misbehave.
But instead, the boy tilted his head, almost thoughtful.
"I want to go west," he said. "There's a town near the old magi-train line. Small. Nothing important. But someone's been poking around—soldiers, surveyors. From the Empire."
The Herald didn't respond. The statues lining the chamber walls stood silent and unmoving.
Dread hugged the doll tighter.
"They're digging for something they don't understand. I want to see what they find before they ruin it."
His tone stayed sweet, but there was a note beneath it. Not excitement. Not malice. Just... interest.
The Herald's eye narrowed.
"And Arden?" he asked, voice low.
Dread shrugged.
"He's not mine. Let someone else babysit the silent man. I don't feel like chasing ghosts this week."
A few of the robed cultists stirred, glancing nervously between the boy and the throne. But Dread didn't flinch, didn't blink.
"I won't break your little festival," he added. "I'll be quick. Quiet."
Another pause. Then the Herald leaned back in his seat.
"Fine. Go."
Dread grinned wider, skipping once in place before twirling toward the shadows.
"I'll bring back something fun."
He slipped into the dark without another word, and the scent he left behind was something sickly sweet—like sugar gone wrong, with just a hint of copper.
And the Herald did not look after him.
The woman next to his throne stepped forward at last, her voice steady, cool, but with a thread of caution running beneath the surface.
"Herald. If I may speak freely... is it truly wise to provoke Arden further?"
She did not flinch under the weight of the violet gaze, though a few of the kneeling cultists stiffened as if expecting it to be their last breath.
"I have crossed paths with him once," she continued. "Briefly. That... thing is no ordinary man. No, I daresay he is not a man at all."
The air stilled. Then the Herald raised his hand.
That was all it took. Silence. Final and absolute.
He lowered it a moment later and spoke, not to her, but to the room itself.
"He can be hurt."
His tone was cold, unbothered. As if stating a rule of nature.
"He breathes. He bleeds. He walks. Whatever lives beneath that skin, Arden is still bound by flesh. And that flesh houses a heretic. One who slew our god."
Murmurs rippled through the kneeling robed men. Reverent and furious.
"He desecrated the divine," the Herald continued. "He severed us from the voice that once guided this world. For that, he will be unmade."
He turned his head slightly, the cracked mask catching a flash of light.
The Herald's voice didn't rise.
"He's not untouchable. But he's not our target either. Not directly. There are better ways to break a man."
Now he looked at her.
"You've been watching him?"
"I have," she said, nodding once. "Since the capital. He's careful. Always watching the people around him. If he thinks someone's in danger, he moves slower. Divides his attention. He tries to be everywhere at once."
Her posture stayed straight, composed. Her tone, clinical.
"If we pressure the people close to him, if we time it right, we can wear him down. He won't abandon them. That's where he's weakest."
She remained perfectly composed, chin lifted in confidence. But even in the dim light, the faintest shift of her stance betrayed her. Not smugness, no—just the quiet, invisible tail-wag of someone waiting to be praised for pointing out that the moon was, in fact, still in the sky.
The Herald, either oblivious or deliberately cruel, did not acknowledge her.
A new figure stepped forward from the shadows near the throne. She moved with quiet grace, long white hair flowing down her back like a silver waterfall. Her face was half-covered by a mask — one side wore a soft, serene smile, the other side a drawn tear and a frown. The contrast gave her an almost unsettling calm, like she carried two moods at once.
Her voice was gentle but firm when she spoke.
"Herald, I would like permission to approach Arden directly."
She paused, letting her words settle in the heavy air.
"I've watched him from afar. There's something... different about him. I believe I could get close, gain his trust — and the trust of those around him. It would give us a valuable advantage, insight from the inside."
The room stayed quiet for a moment. No one moved.
The Herald's violet eye fixed on her steadily, unreadable.
"If you choose to do this," he said slowly, "know that if you are caught, the consequences will be yours alone."
She nodded, calm and unafraid.
"I understand."
Her expression behind the mask didn't shift — the smile and tear remained, a silent promise.
In truth, Arden's ability to sense hostility or malice made him difficult to approach by anyone with bad intent. But Kindness held no such darkness. She believed her actions were justified, necessary, even kind. That made her perfect for the task.
The Herald gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
"Very well. Proceed."
Kindness bowed once before stepping back into the shadows, her white hair catching the faint light like a whisper of snow. She moved with calm purpose, knowing the risk, trusting her intentions would keep her safe.
He was staring—blankly, intently, unflinchingly—at an automaton stationed near the end of the plaza.
It stared back. Or, rather, its unblinking glass lenses did. Its steel limbs hissed softly with every mechanical breath, a puff of mist venting from its side like a tired sigh.
Then Arden sneezed.
A sharp, sudden choo that made Sora flinch beside him.
"Um. Are you okay?" she asked, leaning a little closer, concern in her voice. "Did the dust get to you? Or… are you catching a cold?"
"No," Arden said simply, brushing a sleeve beneath his nose. "Just a malfunction."
He had been thinking about the automaton—about gears and joints and mana-smooth mechanisms—so when the sneeze snuck up on him, the word just… slipped out.
Would sneezing count as a malfunction, if he were a machine? Probably.
Sora blinked. "Eh?"
He didn't clarify.
He simply resumed his silent staring contest with the automaton, as if the sneeze—and the confusion—had never happened.
I wonder what it's like... to be an automaton.
No hunger. No dreams. Just gears. Steam. Duty.
Imagine the simplicity. No one expects you to smile. No one asks why you didn't laugh at their joke. Just clank around and hiss occasionally. Maybe shoot a cannon out of your chest, if you're lucky.
His eyes narrowed, like he was genuinely considering career options.
Sora tilted her head, watching him. She recognized that look. The strange, far-off fog in his eyes that said he was either remembering the fall of an empire or wondering what oil tasted like.
She chose not to ask.
A gentle breeze stirred, and Arden slowly shifted his gaze to the distant palace spires jutting up from the city's heart. His voice came quieter now, almost absentminded.
"...Did I make the right choice? Bringing her with us."
Sora followed his line of sight, easily guessing who he meant.
After a small pause, she smiled. "I think you did. You always do."
Arden turned to her. His glasses caught the light—just a glint hiding whatever expression might've been beneath.
Then both his hands shot out and slapped gently onto her cheeks.
"W-Wha—!" Sora squeaked, her face smooshed as he rubbed both palms into her cheeks like she was an overexcited puppy. Her blush was instant and furious.
"There," he said. "I just felt like doing that. Your reactions are cute."
"Y-you—" she mumbled, flustered, trying not to melt into a puddle of embarrassment. "You never warn me before you do weird stuff like that…"
He gave her hair a casual ruffle—short, gentle, practiced—before turning on his heel and walking away.
"I feel like eating something. Let's head to that tavern down the street."
Sora stood there a second, stunned, cheeks red and slightly puffed. Then she blinked, realizing he was already several paces ahead.
"W-wait! Don't just walk off like that after saying something nice so weirdly!"
She scrambled after him, hands clutching her skirt, muttering all the way about unpredictable boys and sneak attacks disguised as compliments.