Chapter 8: A Bloody Proposition
The embers of the Beowulf battle still smoldered in Riya's bones as he and Muramasa moved through the mist-veiled forest.
The trees whispered with unseen voices, and every broken twig beneath their boots felt like a declaration of their presence.
They couldn't stay.
Their position was compromised.
Beowulf had found them, which meant others could too.
The forest—once a refuge—was now a beacon for danger.
Without a word, Riya and Muramasa packed their meager supplies and vanished into the dense underbrush.
Their destination: Sighisoara.
A town swallowed by time, where cobbled streets wound like veins through ancient stone.
Crumbling towers leaned with the weight of history, and the scent of old magic clung to the air like damp fog.
Worn churches loomed above shuttered windows, and people walked quickly, eyes downcast—either ignorant or willfully blind to the growing shadow of the Holy Grail War.
"Good place to disappear," Muramasa muttered as they passed an old well, its depths filled with silence.
They found a small, derelict house at the edge of town—one of many left to rot.
Ivy choked the outer walls, and the wooden door creaked like it hadn't been touched in decades.
Inside, dust coated everything, but the structure was intact.
It would do.
They settled in.
Neither spoke much that night.
The tension hadn't left them—it had merely changed shape.
The stillness of Sighisoara was more unnerving than the chaos of battle.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed Riya.
The darkness that greeted Riya this time wasn't still.
It breathed.
It pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, like the beating of a hundred hearts just beneath a black silk veil.
The world around him was formless, shadowy, humid—dripping with the scent of roses, blood, and something too sweet to be natural.
Then he saw her.
Not the childlike killer of grimy alleys and torn lullabies.
No, this Jack—the Jack that stepped forward now—was a woman forged from midnight.
Her body swayed with every step, curves wrapped in smoke and tight leather, leaving little to imagination.
Each movement was deliberate—predatory, calculated, intoxicating.
"Riya…" she whispered, her voice a husky melody that coiled around his spine.
"Finally, you're here… with me."
She emerged fully into view, standing under a flickering gaslight that didn't exist moments ago.
It lit her face in slivers—eyes that glimmered like daggers dipped in wine, lips red and parted in wicked amusement.
A scar traced her collarbone like a signature left by violence, but her smile...
Her smile was temptation made flesh.
"You're surprised?" she asked, stepping closer, hips swaying like a slow dance of sin.
Her gloved hand brushed along his jaw, fingers cold, then hot, then somewhere in between.
"I came to make you mine, Riya," Jack whispered, her lips brushing his ear. "Mind, body, and every dark little urge you hide."
Riya's breath hitched, unsure if it was fear or desire crawling through his veins.
She circled him now, the smell of her—iron and lilies—making his thoughts go soft at the edges.
"You want power?" she murmured, breath tickling his ear. "You want to use my gifts... my knives... my body?"
Her hand slid across his chest, tracing his heartbeat.
Then lower.
"I won't give myself to just anyone, Riya. No... I want to see the killer in you.
"The real one."
"The cold one."
She stepped in front of him again and drew close—so close their lips almost brushed.
Her tongue darted out, a teasing Llick, ghosting across his lower lip.
"You have to earn me."
"Prove to me that you're not just some trembling boy playing hero."
Jack's voice dropped lower, a sultry, decadent whisper.
"Kill someone for me."
"A magus that has found himself in this filthy, twisted war."
"No excuses."
"No mercy."
"Hunt them."
"Stalk them."
"Slit their throat... slowly."
Her gloved fingers now curled into his hair, yanking his head back with erotic cruelty.
Her gaze bore into his.
"And when you do... when I see the blood on your hands... I'll wrap myself around you so tight, you won't remember what life felt like without me."
She leaned in and kissed him—not soft, not gentle.
It was a possession, a mark, a brand.
Her mouth tasted like copper and forbidden fruit.
When she pulled away, her grin widened, wicked and hungry.
"Make the kill, Riya."
"And I'll make sure you never forget what I taste like."
And then, like smoke, she vanished—leaving him alone in the dark with the thundering of his heart, and the memory of her voice dripping like poison in his ear.
Riya shot upright, heart pounding.
Sweat clung to his skin despite the cold.
The dream clung to him like a second skin, each word echoing in his mind.
Kill a magus.
The idea churned in his gut like poison.
Muramasa stirred across the room, already sharpening a fresh blade.
The swordsmith's gaze flicked to Riya but didn't press.
He could see the torment in the boy's face.
Riya stood and wandered to the cracked mirror above the sink.
The porcelain basin was chipped, and the faucet groaned before releasing a weak trickle of water.
He splashed his face—cool relief.
But then he froze.
Reflected in the mirror, spidering across his back and shoulders, were dozens of glowing red Command Seals.
Not just three.
Not a single line.
Dozens.
Laced together like wings—curved, pulsing, alive with mana.
He turned slowly, lifting his shirt.
The glow illuminated the room in brief pulses.
Each one throbbed with untapped potential.
Muramasa rose and stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "That… shouldn't be possible."
"What the hell is this?" Riya whispered.
The swordsmith circled him, gaze heavy.
"This is more than a pact."
"The Grail itself has marked you."
A pause.
Then, with solemn gravity:
"You're not just a Master anymore."
He met Riya's eyes.
"You're becoming something else."
"A Ruler."
Riya stared into the mirror again, half in light, half in shadow.
"I didn't sign up for this," he muttered.
Muramasa gave a low grunt. "None of us did."
Elsewhere.
The castle of Yggdmillennia bristled with activity.
Screams echoed through the stone halls as Spartacus, Berserker of Red, tore through barriers and walls alike, fueled by madness and conviction.
He had broken free of Red's command and charged across the countryside, following his warped sense of justice all the way to the enemy's doorstep.
The Black Faction scrambled to respond.
Darnic, ever the opportunist, watched from atop the battlements as Spartacus was finally subdued—bound in enchanted chains, his body bruised but unbowed.
"Foolish beast," Darnic mused aloud. "But perhaps… useful."
Behind him, the other Masters murmured uneasily.
Far from the scene, atop a crumbled watchtower, two red-cloaked figures observed.
Achilles leaned against a mossy wall, a grin tugging at his lips. "You see that? That idiot's going to burn the whole war down."
Arash, silent, arms crossed, simply narrowed his eyes.
Night fell again.
Riya stood at the window, staring out over the broken town.
Somewhere out there, a magus lived their life unaware of what the boy with burning seals might be planning.
He didn't want to kill.
But Jack had made her demand—and power came at a cost.
The war was escalating.
And it was only the third day.