"Guess who I met?" K drawled as he strode into Nicholas' office, uninvited as always. The king was at his desk, hunched over scattered parchment and a half-unfurled map — clues, no doubt, about where Gretha might have vanished to.
Gretha. The name alone carried weight. K's grandmother and mentor, the former leader of the Shadow Order. She was a phantom in her own right — an oracle with a mind sharper than any blade and a life that had outlasted empires. She'd walked this world longer than any of them could comprehend, as elusive and unknowable as the shadows she commanded.
"Who is it?" Nicholas murmured absently, not even glancing up. His fingers moved deliberately across the parchment, tracing some invisible thread of logic only he could see.
K leaned lazily against the doorframe, smirk tugging at his lips. He loved these moments — when he could poke at the unflappable king and watch the cracks appear.
"Your old friend," he said airily, letting the words hang in the thick silence between them. "He's still as soft as ever. Delicate, but strong. Quite… adorable, actually."
That got Nicholas's attention.
The quill froze mid-stroke, and when Nicholas finally raised his head, his golden eyes had darkened into something feral — the kind of look that could flay a man alive without so much as a blade.
"What did you just say?" he asked, each word edged with quiet menace.
K chuckled under his breath but felt the weight of that gaze like iron on his skin. Still, he couldn't help himself — pushing Nicholas' temper was practically a sport at this point.
"Ahhh," K said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, "I won't say more. You look like you're about to kill me."
"I will," Nicholas snapped, rising from his chair, the air in the room suddenly heavier, colder. "If you don't explain. Now. What do you mean you met EJ? What happened?"
K leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms and tilting his head, clearly savoring the moment.
"Oh, don't look at me like that, Your Majesty," he teased, his grin widening. "It's not like I planned to meet your precious Legacy boy. Just… fate, I suppose."
Nicholas's hands stilled on the parchment in front of him, golden eyes narrowing like a predator's.
"K," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "you know very well I don't have the patience for your games. Speak."
K chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the dim room.
"Fine, fine. I'll tell you. We were in the Mortal Realm. Me, on vacation well-earned, might I add — and him? Playing detective, as if he were born to it. There was… an incident. A murder. Possession and evil spirits."
Nicholas's jaw tightened as K continued, spinning the tale like a story he knew Nicholas would hate to hear.
"He and his little Celestial companions sniffed out the problem. We freed some poor girls, slayed the spirits. Very heroic." K's grin curved into something sharper. "And yet… when he recognized me, he didn't even flinch. Didn't expose me, didn't fight me. Let me help, even. He handled himself well. Very well."
K pushed himself off the desk now, circling slowly toward Nicholas.
"You know," he added thoughtfully, "watching him back there? It was like watching you–"
Nicholas's eyes flashed, his glare cutting through the air like a blade.
K raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn't falter.
"He didn't say much, though. Just gave me a look now and then. Like he was waiting for something. Or… someone."
Nicholas stood then, the chair scraping faintly against the stone floor as he rose, towering over K now, his presence filling the room like a stormcloud.
"You should've left him alone," Nicholas said coldly.
K shrugged, unaffected by the sudden shift in temperature around them.
"I did. Eventually." His grin softened into something almost knowing. "But you should've seen him. He's relentless. Just like you. No wonder you can't seem to forget him."
Nicholas's hand twitched slightly at his side, but he didn't respond, his eyes dark with something unreadable.
K gave a low whistle and turned toward the door, his coat swirling behind him.
"Well," he called over his shoulder, "I suppose I should get back to finding Gretha. But if you're curious, Nicholas… you should know, he's still chasing the same trail you are. Maybe you two will meet again sooner than you think."
And with that, he slipped out the door, leaving Nicholas standing alone, staring after him, his thoughts heavy and turbulent.
Just then, the door creaked open, and Jo strode in, his arms overloaded with stacks of papers that rustled ominously. "Here," he said simply, dropping them with a loud thud on the desk. "We can find her using this."
At once, Nicholas shifted his attention back to what truly mattered – tracking Gretha. Without a word, he straightened, his expression cold and intent, as if the very air itself had stilled in anticipation.
Jo spread his arms wide, and the papers lifted off the table like a flock of restless birds. They began circling the two men, faster and faster, until they blurred into a whirling ring of ink and parchment. Then with a hiss they ignited in shadow-flame, disintegrating into sparks and smoke as the room filled with the faint scent of scorched magic.
From the ashes, intricate runes carved themselves into the floor in a perfect circle, glowing faintly.
The door opened again, and K and Harua stepped inside just in time to witness the spectacle. Jo's focus was absolute, his eyes blazing, faint sigils etching themselves across his skin like molten tattoos as he channeled the ritual.
With a final, precise twist of his hands, a surge of energy coalesced into a small, dark compass hovering in the air. It spun lazily before settling in his palm.
K let out a low whistle, leaning on the doorway. "That's impressive. Will that little toy actually lead us to her?"
Jo smirked faintly, his chest still heaving from the exertion. "Oh, it will. Get one each."
With a flick of his wrist, the single compass multiplied into three, each identical and humming faintly with dark light.
Nicholas's voice cut through the silence, cold and commanding. "Go."
Without another word, the three generals vanished into the shadows in a flash, dispatched to scour the realms and find Gretha. After all, the sooner they found her, the sooner the answers.
—
The Turf town was small, no more than a handful of crooked streets lined with weatherworn houses, their chimneys coughing out thin trails of smoke into the endless gray sky. Here, the sun had not risen for three months. The cold was relentless, biting into bone, and each day the townsfolk wrapped themselves tighter in furs and scarves, doing what they could to keep the darkness at bay.
In a narrow alley where frost clung to the walls, a young girl staggered through the snow, her thin arms wrapped around her younger brother. The boy was limp in her arms, his small face flushed with fever and his breaths coming in weak puffs.
She pushed open a wooden door at the far edge of town and hurried inside, a bell above the door chiming faintly.
"Grandma! Grandma, please help!" she cried out, her voice trembling.
From the back of the room, a hunched old woman emerged. Her silver hair was wrapped in a dark scarf, her eyes sharp despite her wrinkled face. She wore layers of black and deep green, and her hands gnarled yet steady, already reaching for a bundle of herbs before the girl even spoke again.
"Lay him here," the old woman, Gretha, said calmly, gesturing to a low bed covered with faded quilts.
The girl gently placed her brother down, her fingers shaking. "He… he got worse last night. The cold, we couldn't keep the fire going," she explained, tears welling in her eyes.
Gretha nodded knowingly and crouched down beside the boy. She pressed her palm to his forehead, then to his chest, closing her eyes briefly.
"The fever has taken hold, but it hasn't sunk too deep yet," she murmured. Her voice, though quiet, was oddly commanding, a voice that brooked no panic.
From a shelf, she retrieved dried leaves, a vial of bitter-smelling oil, and a small wooden bowl. With practiced ease, she crushed the leaves between her palms and sprinkled them into hot water. The pungent scent of healing herbs filled the room as she stirred, whispering something low under her breath.
"Drink this," she instructed when the boy stirred weakly awake. She helped him sip from the bowl, then placed a warm poultice on his chest, murmuring to the girl, "Stay with him. The warmth will return soon enough."
Minutes passed, and though faint at first, color began to return to the boy's cheeks. His breathing steadied, and he sank into a calmer sleep.
The girl looked at Gretha in awe. "You saved him…" she whispered.
"I did what needed to be done," Gretha replied simply. She gently patted the girl's head, then turned back to the shelves to prepare more herbs. "Take him home when he wakes. Keep him wrapped and feed him warm broth. And stay out of the wind."
The girl nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks now, this time in relief. "Thank you, Grandma."
As they left, Gretha watched the door close behind them, her sharp eyes softening just a little.
Once she was alone, she moved to the hearth in the corner of her small home. She knelt and drew a circle on the stones with her finger, whispering words that sank into the shadows around her. Then she raised her hand, and a faint black flame flickered to life. It didn't burn the wood, nor give off smoke but the air warmed slightly, spreading through the little house and into the streets outside.
For three months now, she'd lit this shadow flame each day to keep the worst of the cold at bay, hidden where no one could see.
She rose slowly, staring out the small window at the bleak, frozen city beyond.
"Such a pitiful curse," she murmured to herself, her voice sharp but weary. "And yet… someone has to keep these people alive until the sun returns."
She looked at the sky through her frosted window, her sharp gaze cutting through the haze of falling snow and dim light. The clouds churned faintly, darker than usual, as though something far above or far below had begun to stir.
Gretha's hand lingered on the cold glass, her breath fogging it slightly.
Just as she had feared. Just as she had predicted.
'The Onyx is waking up, she thought grimly, her lips pressing into a thin line.'
She could already feel it in the air: the faint vibration beneath her feet, the strange heaviness that clung to the wind, the whispers that skittered just at the edge of her hearing.
In the corner of the room, the shadow flame flickered, a brief sputter as though sensing her unease, then it steadied again, burning black and low.
Her eyes narrowed.
"They'll come looking," she murmured, her voice carrying both defiance and weariness. "And when they do… they'd best be ready."
Her fingers tightened around the windowsill as she watched the clouds roil above the cursed city. "Because this time," she whispered to herself, almost bitterly, "it won't just be the cold they'll have to survive."