The morning light in Ironhold never arrived with a gentle touch. It was a filtered, sickly grey thing that struggled to penetrate the permanent shroud of soot and coal dust hanging over the Red District. But inside Cafe Abyss, the world was governed by a different set of laws. Here, the air was warm, smelling of dark chocolate and the sharp, floral notes of freshly ground beans, and the light was a soft, amber glow that emanated from enchanted crystals Vespera had brought from the Spire.
Marcus Valerius sat at Table 4, his back against the solid oak wall. It was barely seven in the morning, yet he was already in his usual spot, staring at the counter. For the first time in ten years, he wasn't looking for an exit or a shadow to hide in. He was looking at a milk jug.
Behind the counter, Vespera was engaged in what appeared to be a mortal struggle with a stainless-steel pitcher and a steam wand.
"Krix," Vespera murmured, her voice vibrating with a low, dangerous frequency. "Explain to me again why this liquid is refusing to cooperate with the laws of my domain."
"Your Majesty," Krix whispered, frantically polishing a ceramic saucer nearby, "the milk requires... a gentle touch. It is a delicate balance of air and heat. You cannot simply command it to be fluffy."
Vespera narrowed her crimson eyes. She was holding the pitcher with the same intensity a general might hold a war council map. In her mind, she was Vespera, the Eternal Queen of the Abyss. She had commanded legions of gargoyles and silenced ancient gods. The idea that a pint of bovine secretion was defying her will was a stain on her legacy.
Marcus watched as Vespera's aura—that suffocating, velvet-black Mana—began to leak from her fingertips. The air around the espresso machine began to shimmer with heat, but it wasn't the heat of steam. It was the heat of a looming apocalypse.
"She's doing it again," Marcus rasped, his voice sounding like gravel. He didn't look up from his empty cup, but his senses, honed in the blood-soaked trenches of the Great War, were screaming at him.
"Doing what, Master Marcus?" Neptune asked, popping up from under a nearby table where she had been meticulously organizing a collection of spoons by the "pitch of their chime" when struck. Her mismatched eyes were wide with wonder as she stared at Vespera. "Master Vespera looks so focused! The air around her is turning a magnificent shade of bruised plum and static electricity!"
"She's treating the milk like an insurrectionist," Marcus sighed. He leaned forward, his rusty armor clanking. "Hey, Queen. If you keep pouring that much killing intent into the pitcher, you're not going to get microfoam. You're going to get a very confused, very dead cow."
Vespera froze. She turned her gaze toward Marcus, her vertical pupils dilating until her eyes were twin pools of blood. "I do not have 'killing intent,' Marcus. I have a vision. I am attempting to create a 'rosetta'—a floral pattern that, according to this human magazine, signifies hospitality and grace."
"Right now, you're signaling that you want to decapitate the entire district," Marcus replied, unfazed by the terrifying pressure she was emitting. "I've seen men charge fortresses with less resolve than you have right now. Your Will is too loud. You're trying to dominate the milk, but Aura doesn't work that way. Especially not for something this... fragile."
Vespera looked down at the pitcher. The milk inside was bubbling violently, looking more like a boiling cauldron of lava than the glossy "wet paint" texture she had read about. She realized Marcus was right. Her obsession with perfection had triggered her latent Will—the Path of Will that Marcus understood so well. She was using her soul's tekad to force the milk into submission.
She took a deep breath, consciously pulling her aura back into the core of her being. The shadows in the corner of the room stopped vibrating. The temperature dropped back to a comfortable level.
"Show me," she said, her voice dropping into a soft, melodic challenge.
Marcus hesitated. He hadn't touched anything with the intent of "creating" in a decade. His hands were meant for the pommel of a greatsword, for the neck of a foe, or for the grip of a rusted gauntlet. But the silence in the cafe—the beautiful, suppressed silence that only Vespera's presence provided—gave him a rare moment of clarity.
He stood up, his heavy plates groaning, and walked to the counter. He was a head taller than Vespera, a mountain of rusted iron standing next to a doll of porcelain and silk.
"Give me the pitcher," Marcus said.
He took the cold metal in his hand. His fingers were scarred and calloused, but they were steady. He didn't use Mana; he didn't have any. He used Will. But instead of the explosive, destructive Will he had used as a Hero, he reached for a forgotten part of himself—the part that used to maintain his gear, the part that required precision and patience.
"Watch," he muttered. "Aura is about flow. You don't push it; you let it ride the movement."
He engaged the steam wand. Instead of the screaming hiss Vespera had produced, Marcus produced a gentle tssch-tssch sound, like the tearing of paper. He moved his hand in tiny, infinitesimal increments, feeling the vibration of the milk as it aerated.
Vespera watched with a strategist's eye. She didn't see a man making coffee; she saw a master of the Path of Will demonstrating the highest level of energy control. He wasn't fighting the milk; he was becoming a part of the fluid's physics.
"Now, the pour," Marcus said.
He tilted the cup, his hand moving in a rhythmic, oscillating motion. It was the same movement a swordsman might use to parry a series of rapid stabs—fluid, reactive, and perfectly timed. As the white foam hit the dark surface of the coffee, a shape began to emerge.
It wasn't a Rosetta. It was... something else.
Marcus stepped back, sliding the cup across the counter to Vespera.
Vespera looked down. In the center of the dark crema was a perfectly rendered white skull with a small, delicate flower between its teeth. It was macabre, technically flawed by human standards, but the symmetry was absolute. The texture was glossy, the foam so fine it looked like solid silk.
"The texture is... correct," Vespera admitted, her voice filled with a rare note of genuine respect. "But the imagery is somewhat... morbid."
"It's the only thing my Will knows how to draw," Marcus shrugged, though there was a phantom of a smile hidden in his stubble. "But it won't bite. Drink it."
Vespera took a sip. Her eyes widened. The sweetness of the milk, perfectly caramelized by the steam, balanced the intense bitterness of the Abyssal beans. It was a harmony of opposites—dark and light, bitter and sweet, intellect and will.
"I see," Vespera whispered. "I was attempting to conquer the coffee. I should have been... negotiating with it."
Neptune cheered from the sidelines, hopping up and down. "A masterpiece! The Master of Will has taught the Master of Mana! The harmony is complete! I shall call this drink... The Death of the Morning!"
"Just call it a latte, Neptune," Marcus grunted, but he didn't head back to his table immediately. Instead, he pulled out a small rag and a bottle of oil he'd been carrying.
He sat back down at Table 4 and began to do something he hadn't done since the betrayal. He began to polish his rusted gauntlet. He wasn't doing it to prepare for a fight; he was doing it because the cafe was clean, the coffee was good, and for the first time in ten years, he felt like he had a job to do. He was the critic. He was the one who kept the Demon Queen's ego in check.
Vespera watched him from the counter, a new batch of milk already in her hand. She wasn't angry anymore. She was focused. She began to steam again, this time mimicking Marcus's subtle movements, her crimson eyes glowing not with killing intent, but with the spark of a true student.
The Abyss was peaceful. And for once, the world felt like it was finally brewing something worth waiting for.