"I want to apologize for what I said earlier, Adrian."
Clark Kent emerged from the ruins of the manor, brushing dust from his tattered clothes. His chest rose and fell as he tried to steady himself, his face heavy with regret.
"My emotions were unstable," he admitted, lowering his gaze. "I don't even know what I said. But if I hurt you, I truly am sorry."
Facing his younger brother, Clark felt guilt tighten around his heart.
Adrian didn't immediately answer. His eyes remained fixed on the shadow of a retreating assassin from the Court of Owls. For a long moment, it seemed he would ignore the apology entirely. Then he exhaled quietly, and his voice softened—just a fraction.
"You've had worse days, Clark. I know that. Words spoken in the heat of the moment don't matter half as much as you think." His eyes flicked toward him, just briefly. "You don't need to apologize. But… it means something that you did."
Clark's lips pressed into a thin line, though some of the tension in his shoulders eased. Adrian's words weren't warm, not exactly, but they carried less steel than before—something closer to acknowledgment, maybe even understanding.
He remembered a saying he once heard: Apologizing doesn't always mean you were wrong; sometimes it means you value the person more than your pride.
That thought stung now, as if it had been written for this very moment.
Forcing himself to focus, Clark changed the subject. His eyes drifted toward the unconscious assassin sprawled across the debris.
"Adrian, do you know who these people are?" he asked.
Adrian crouched beside the fallen assassin, pried away the ornate owl mask, and studied the intricate patterns with cool interest. His tone still carried an edge, but it no longer sounded like a blade pointed at Clark.
"Maybe you should ask Lex Luthor what kind of enemies he's stirred up," he said. Then, with a trace of weariness, he added, "You put too much trust in him, Clark. And he gives you too little in return."
Clark flinched at his brother's words, but Adrian wasn't finished.
"You hide your true self from him. He hides his schemes from you. Both of you play at trust, all while guarding against each other. When that thin trust snaps, the two of you won't be friends—you'll be enemies of the worst kind." His gaze flicked again toward Clark, softer this time. "I'd rather see you disappointed now than destroyed later."
The name Lex Luthor echoed in Clark's head. He thought of the man who was still, in some sense, his friend. But Adrian's words made it sound inevitable that friendship would twist into hatred.
"Are you saying," Clark asked quietly, "that the explosions just now… were because of Lex?"
"You can find that answer yourself." Adrian's tone was firm, but no longer dismissive. For the first time tonight, there was almost a note of concern beneath it. "Just don't wait too long."
With that, Adrian turned his back on him. The assassins were already fleeing into the shadows, and though Adrian's vision could pierce through distance and darkness, he knew better than to let them slip too far from reach.
Clark was left standing in silence, burdened with doubt—but also with the faint comfort that, beneath Adrian's hard words, there was still a brother who cared.
---
Deep beneath Gotham, the Court of Owls convened.
The council chamber was hidden behind walls of marble and secrecy, filled with men and women in pale owl masks. Their aristocratic posture only sharpened the air of menace.
The Speaker's voice carried over the table, stern and deliberate.
"You all heard the report. A man with heat vision. A man whose strength surpasses even our Talons. Tell me, how does such a creature exist?"
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
"Even united, the Talons failed against this man."
"If he discovers us—" another voice broke in, panicked—"if he finds this place, the Court will fall."
"Enough."
The Speaker slammed his hand against the table. The echoes silenced the chamber.
"Even if he enters the Labyrinth, he will face defeat. The maze is only the beginning. And after that, we have our conjurer."
All eyes turned to the shadows where a man in a long black trench coat stood. His presence was heavy, his expression unreadable.
"Am I right, Mr. Parody?" the Speaker asked. "Our magician?"
The man stepped forward, correcting him with icy precision.
"I am no magician. I'm a conjurer. Illusions, deception—tools meant to mislead. Real magic is something else entirely, something dangerous. I do not pretend to wield it."
"Semantics," the Speaker replied, his tone dismissive. "Whether conjurer or magician, your task is simple. The blasphemer challenges the dignity of this Court. You will demonstrate your effectiveness."
Parody's eyes sharpened.
"Then I expect payment. The book. Without it, our arrangement ends here."
His hand rose casually, pointing to an owl mask mounted on the wall. With a murmur, he whispered, "Masks to fireflies."
In an instant, the mask dissolved into a flutter of glowing insects, scattering golden light across the chamber. Gasps filled the room as the fireflies danced, illuminating the grim faces behind their masks.
The Speaker leaned forward, his expression hard.
"Impressive tricks. But remember this, Mr. Parody—He is no mere man. If you fail, the Court will not forgive."
---