The candlelight flickered across the stone walls.
Michael sat at his desk, coat draped over the chair, sword resting against the window ledge.The sealed letter lay in front of him, untouched.
The wind through the open window carried the soft murmur of evening prayer from the cathedral's inner halls.
He had trained earlier that morning—three sessions, two lectures, one student nearly crying.
And still, it was this envelope that refused to leave his mind.
He broke the seal.
No sender.No stamp.Just a folded note.
"There's something stirring. Fortuna isn't the only place that remembers Sparda.Come to Red Grave.Ask for Machiavelli."
Michael read the words twice.
Then leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly.
Red Grave.
A name he hadn't heard in years.
A city swallowed by steel, smoke, and silence.Not ruled by doctrine. Not blessed by statues.But soaked in demon blood all the same.
Morrison had once mentioned it in passing."Not a place for prayers," he'd said. "But a damn good place to make war."
Michael folded the paper again.
No signature—just the printed name, Machiavelli.
It felt deliberate. Like bait left on a well-laid trap.
He didn't mind.
He'd bitten into worse.
POV: Michael – The Next Day
He moved through Fortuna without the weight of armor—just his coat, travel gear packed light across his back. Sword hidden beneath wrapped cloth. Simple. Mobile.
Angela spotted him near the stables.
"You're leaving?"
Michael nodded. "For a while."
"Orders?"
"No."
She didn't press.
"You've been good for them," she said, jerking her chin toward the training grounds. "Credo especially."
Michael paused, then nodded. "He's smart. You'll handle the rest?"
"I always do."
He offered her a quiet look, then kept walking.
He didn't believe in long goodbyes.
The ride down the mountain roads was silent.
Michael took the back routes—avoiding main gates, slipping past checkpoints, choosing the forested switchbacks over the clean-cut stone arches.
He reached the southern port after sunset.
The ferry bound for Red Grave was nearly empty.
He paid for passage with clean cash, tucked inside a leather pouch under yet another false name.
The sky was dark by the time the boat pulled away.Fortuna's towers faded into mist behind him—tall, pristine, and cold.
Michael stood near the stern, coat fluttering in the breeze, eyes locked on the horizon.
Red Grave.
He didn't know what he would find.But it didn't matter.
He was already on the way.