The twilight bled gold across Lunaris Street, where the lights of a hundred runes shimmered in violet and silver, flowing like a river of stars.
Lucen's bag of fireworks crackled faintly as he stopped before a crystal sign glowing with Ether light.
The words, written in elegant celestial script, curved like wings:
"The Glimmering Chalice."
From inside came the scent of honeyed liquor and caramel — so thick it almost had a color of its own. Music floated out in lazy spirals, a blend of Ether strings and whispering wind.
Alice hesitated at the threshold.
"We shouldn't go in there," she murmured. "It's a tavern."
Lucen's grin was half mischief, half charm.
"Just a sip of light wine. Come on — sometimes the only way to know a world is to taste its vices."
Elior gave a quiet laugh. "I doubt the secrets of the heavens are hidden in a bottle."
Lucen winked. "If they are, I'll find them — or blow something up trying."
He pushed the door open before either of them could stop him.
The Tavern of LightWarmth wrapped around them like a slow sigh.
Angel-wing lamps drifted in the air, shedding white mist that glowed faintly blue at the edges. Tables of pale stone hummed with soft runic light, and the ceiling above mirrored the drifting clouds — a miniature sky captured indoors.
A silver-haired waitress approached, her eyes faintly luminous.
"Welcome, travelers. What may I serve?"
Lucen scanned the floating menu, his gaze catching on a line of glowing text.
"Three glasses of Seraph's Kiss, please."
Alice nearly choked. "That name alone sounds illegal."
"It's mild," Lucen said breezily. "They say even the scent can make you feel airborne."
They ordered Ether-honey bread and moonleaf salad for their belated breakfast, settling by the window where floating towers swam through the clouds like silent leviathans.
Laughter filled the table — Lucen boasting about the time he nearly vaporized his dorm, Alice pretending to scold him while hiding her smile, Elior watching with a calm warmth he hadn't felt in weeks.
For a fleeting moment, peace seemed possible.
Until Elior saw him.
The Man in WhiteIn the farthest corner, beneath a pale lamp, sat a man cloaked in white. Two others flanked him — the same robes, the same air of sharp, calculated stillness.
Elior froze. He knew that face. He'd seen it earlier that morning.
The man's eyes were too clear, too cold — the kind that never blinked without purpose. His features were sculpted, perfect, and lifeless, as if someone had carved obedience from marble.
"Lucen," Elior murmured, leaning closer. "White robes — which order?"
Lucen, half-drunk on laughter, answered absently. "Angels. White for Angels, black for Demons, gold for Sages, blue for Seers. How do you not know this?"
Elior frowned. "Then why are they here — in the Angelic Quarter — acting like spies?"
A slow idea took shape behind his eyes.
"Lucen," he whispered, "do you still have one of your small fireworks?"
Lucen blinked. "You're not thinking—"
"Just a flash. Enough to distract them. I'll plant a scout beetle on the one in the middle."
Lucen's grin faltered. "Elior, that's insane. Those are angelic officers."
"That's exactly why," Elior said. His voice was quiet, edged with steel. "Beliar once said — angels and demons never share a table unless something dangerous is about to happen."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Lucen chuckled softly, nervous but exhilarated.
"All right, fine. But if this place catches fire, you're the one explaining it."
Lucen slipped a fire orb beneath the table and tapped the trigger.
A delicate pop cracked the air — followed by a burst of silver flame scattering across the ceiling like Ether flowers.
Gasps. Screams. Shattered glass.
In the chaos, Elior moved — fluid, invisible.
He brushed a silver beetle onto the white-robed man's collar and vanished back into his seat before anyone noticed.
Moments later, the three angels rose from their chairs.
Their faces were masks of glass and light — unreadable, inhuman.
"You," one said, voice smooth but venomous, "what was that?"
Lucen forced a shaky grin. "Just, uh… field testing?"
The leader's hand slid to the hilt of his silver blade.
Alice stood, her staff flaring blue.
"This isn't the place for violence."
The air shimmered — and then froze.
A wall of ice erupted between them, light fracturing across its surface like trapped stars.
Lucen shouted, "Run!"
Elior grabbed Alice's wrist, and the three bolted through the back door — shards of glass raining around them, the scent of liquor and Ether swirling in their wake.
Behind them, the angels' blades cracked through the ice. But by the time they reached the alley, only the echo of footsteps remained.
High above, a silver beetle unfolded its wings and hummed.
Through the static of Ether in Elior's earpiece came a distorted whisper:
"—Prepare… Phase One…"
Elior's breath hitched.
"Phase One?"
He looked back toward the glowing city — radiant, alive, impossibly bright.
But in his chest, the first shadows had begun to stir.