The cold kiss of the night air did little to soothe Drake's nerves as he walked the deserted pathways of Arachis Academy. Though curfew restrictions had loosened three weeks after the Watcher incident, security remained tight—random blood tests and armed patrols still prowled the grounds. The ever-present weight of being watched pressed down on him.
His boots echoed against the ancient stones as he approached Winston's tower. Alexis had begged off escort duty tonight—something about helping Xian with "classified research" that undoubtedly meant they were sneaking into restricted archives again. Drake smirked. For all his noble posturing, Alexis was turning into a terrible influence.
A prickle of unease crawled up his spine. Drake froze.
"Who's there?"
Silence. Then—
The shadows between two oak trees rippled. Duron stepped forward like a nightmare given form, his golden eyes catching the moonlight like a predator's. "Impressive," he murmured, lips curling into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You sensed my presence before I revealed myself. Most students wouldn't notice me until my knife was at their throat."
Drake's fingers twitched. The instructor's presence always set his teeth on edge, but tonight was different. There was a hunger in that gaze. "Good evening, Sir Duron." He forced the words through tight lips.
Duron closed the distance in three silent strides. His hand clamped onto Drake's shoulder—not quite painful, but with the unshakable certainty of a man who knew he could break bones if he chose to. "Where are you off to alone at this hour?"
"Principal Winston summoned me." Drake gestured upward where the silhouette of Winston himself loomed in the tower window, whiskey glass in hand, watching them like a hawk.
For a heartbeat, Duron's grip tightened imperceptibly. Then he released Drake with a laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping stone. "Then don't keep our dear principal waiting." As he stepped past, his whisper carried the weight of a threat: "We'll continue our conversation later."
That was creepy. Drake resisted the urge to rub his shoulder as he continued toward the tower. Behind him, he felt Duron's gaze boring into his back like a physical weight.
Duron watched the boy climb the tower steps, his golden eyes narrowed to slits. Something had changed. The way Drake moved—smoother, more controlled. The sharpness in his gaze that hadn't been there last week. Most telling was how he'd sensed Winston's observation from that distance—a feat Duron himself had barely managed.
A slow smile spread across Duron's face. This wasn't natural progression. This was intervention.
His fingers twitched toward the bloodstained notebook in his coat pocket. Unpredictability. Variables. The bane of any carefully laid plan. His mission in Arachis was simple: identify potential disruptions to the Hands' designs and record them in his little book of death. The judge surveying his execution list.
And Drake had just written his name in crimson letters.
CLIFFHAVEN
Far from Arachis, where the Atlantic's fury met sheer cliffs, the coastal city of Cliffhaven blazed with festival lights. Once called Slieve League, it had been reborn under House Grimmjaw's rule—a jewel perched precariously between civilization and the Atlantic's fury.
Music and laughter spilled from the taverns lining the harbor district, where fishermen and merchants drank away the memory of last winter's storms. Paper lanterns shaped like leaping dolphins swayed between rooftops, their painted colors dancing across the cobblestones. The scent of spiced wine and sizzling mackerel mixed with the ever-present salt tang of the crashing waves below.
At the city's highest point, Lord Rikash Grimmjaw's estate loomed over the revelry, its stained-glass windows casting jewel-toned shadows across the courtyard.
Inside the grand ballroom, Rikash slumped on his stolen throne, his massive frame drowning in velvet and self-loathing. The ballroom swirled with laughing nobles, their silks whispering secrets as they danced around the truth none dared speak—that the man they toasted tonight had won his crown with brother's blood.
Nolan, his shadow and chief conspirator, shoved a goblet into his hand. "Drink, you miserable bastard. This is your victory night."
Rikash stared at the dark liquid. His brother's favorite vintage—the last bottles from the family cellar. The irony burned worse than the whiskey ever could. "Victory?" He gulped the drink, welcoming the fire in his throat. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Nolan dropped into the adjacent seat, his usual smirk slipping. "You're alive. He's not. The Hands got half their tribute. The city thrives. I'd say that's victory by any measure."
Rikash's left hand spasmed. The scar there—self-inflicted and ragged—pulsed with remembered pain. He'd taken a dagger to the Mark of the Hands the moment the coup was done, trying to carve away his sins. The wound had festered for weeks.
"You think they've forgotten?" Rikash's voice was barely audible over the musicians. "The Hands don't forgive. They don't forget. They're just waiting."
Nolan refilled their glasses with shaking hands. The candlelight caught the sweat on his brow. "It's been eight months. If they wanted revenge—"
"Precisely." Rikash's fist clenched around his cup. "Eight months of silence. That's what terrifies me."
The unspoken truth hung between them—they'd used the Hands to overthrow Rikash's brother, then tried to double-cross them. A dangerous game with the worst possible players.
Outside, the festival's joy rang hollow against the cliffs.
Three figures stood atop the storm-worn rocks beyond the city's glow, watching the lantern lights dance on the waves below.
Medusa (XI) tilted her head, the tattoo on her shoulder gleaming in the moonlight. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Her voice held the wistfulness of someone admiring flowers before picking them as she rubbed the head of her six eyed null beast.
Falkore (VII) ran a tongue over his filed teeth. "Makes the burning sweeter." His grin split his face like a wound.
The third figure said nothing. The number "XII" gleamed on his collarbone.
Falkore cracked his neck. "Remember—the lord's mine. I want to see the look in his eyes when he realizes who's come knocking."
With a laugh that echoed like breaking bones, he leaped into the night, his cloak billowing like the wings of some great carrion bird.
In the city below, a child pointed upward at the falling star.
By dawn, Cliffhaven would learn it was no star at all.