"Y-yeah… I'm fine," Caspian muttered, his voice low and hoarse. He slowly pushed himself up from the slick stone floor, his soaked clothes clinging heavily to his frame. Water trickled down his arms and dripped from his chin, forming small puddles beneath his feet. He ran a hand through his drenched hair, slicking it back with a frustrated sigh, then shook the excess water from his sleeves.
The dim lighting of the hideout flickered above them—erratic and unreliable—casting jagged shadows across the concrete walls. It was quiet, except for the gentle pattering of water and Caspian's labored breathing.
"How long was I out for?" he asked, eyes still downcast.
"About twenty minutes," Julius answered, his voice devoid of judgment, but not warmth either.
Caspian looked up. For a long moment, they simply stared at one another. Neither of them spoke. The silence thickened, tangible and heavy, like a veil draped between them. Julius's eyes, usually sharp with amusement or veiled contempt, were unreadable now—clouded with something darker. The quiet persisted long enough for the tension to become suffocating.
Finally, Julius exhaled and broke the silence.
"You using your ability is in the past," he said, voice even. "And no matter how much I dislike that you did… we can't change the fact that you did."
Caspian flinched slightly but didn't respond.
"Now," Julius continued, folding his arms, "tell me what happened."
Caspian hesitated for a heartbeat, then began to speak. His voice was low, strained, as if every word cost him something. He told Julius everything—how Julius had blown up the tower, how the city was engulfed in fire, how Layla, Andrew, and Camael had fallen. The battle with Alexander, the overwhelming strength he possessed, and the terror that had accompanied it all. Every detail poured out of him like blood from an open wound. He didn't embellish or dramatize—he simply told it as it was, his words hollow with loss.
When he finally finished, the air was still again. Julius stood motionless, more silent than Caspian had ever seen him. The usual smugness in his features had vanished, replaced by something unreadable. His eyes had narrowed ever so slightly—not in thought, but calculation.
"So," Caspian said quietly, "what do you propose we do?"
There was a long pause. Then Julius began to smile.
Not a soft smile, not one of comfort. It was the kind of grin that crawled up his face slowly—twisting his mouth until his jagged, yellow teeth were bared in full. His eyes glinted in the dim light like a predator's.
"Well," Julius said, his voice tinged with amusement, "if we can't take the city away from the man… we take the man away from the city."
Caspian blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
Julius chuckled—an ugly, unsettling sound. "We failed at destroying the city, Caspian. So now, we destroy him."
Caspian's eyes widened. "W-we can't do that! Did you not hear what I said? He destroyed us! We didn't stand a chance!"
"Obviously we didn't," Julius said, rolling his eyes. "But that's because killing him wasn't our task. It was to claim the city. You and I are both capable of killing him, but not without flattening the very thing we're trying to seize. What's the point of taking a ruined wasteland from a corpse?"
Caspian looked away, frowning. He knew Julius wasn't wrong—but knowing didn't make it any easier to accept.
"So you want to do this… diplomatically?" he asked, his voice thick with skepticism.
Julius burst into laughter. "No, of course not. You and I both know we're not diplomats. Diplomacy is for people who wear suits and cry over spilled ink. What we need is misdirection—a little sleight of hand. We draw Alexander away from the city, then we claim what's left behind."
"And how exactly do we do that?" Caspian asked, arms crossed.
Julius leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret with a child. "We give him an offer he can't refuse… a meeting with his long-lost brother."
Caspian went still. His jaw slackened.
"H-how do you know about that?" he asked, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of his voice.
Julius's smirk widened. "You really think I'm just a bloodthirsty maniac? I'm quite the informed gentleman, actually. Oh—and I may have eavesdropped on your little heart-to-heart with Alexander."
Caspian grimaced. "You're unbelievable."
"Yes," Julius agreed cheerfully. "But I'm also right."
Caspian shook his head, then exhaled through his nose. "Your rudeness aside… how exactly do we use his brother against him?"
Julius's expression shifted slightly—less wild now, more focused, almost composed. "Alexander may have the strength of a god, but his heart still beats like a man's. And like any man, it can be broken."
He stepped back, pacing slightly as he spoke.
"We send a letter from his brother—something sincere, heartfelt, laced with just enough desperation to pull on his tragic little strings. Then, we send a second letter—supposedly from Alexander—asking the brother to meet far outside the city. Middle of nowhere. While the great family reunion happens, we step in and claim the throne."
Caspian stared at him. The plan wasn't flawless, but… it wasn't hopeless either.
"And what if he figures it out?" Caspian asked quietly.
"Then we adapt," Julius said with a shrug. "Like we always do."
There was another silence. Caspian rubbed at his shoulder, staring at the ground.
"When do we move?" he asked.
"As soon as possible," Julius replied. Then he clapped Caspian on the shoulder—just hard enough to sting. "But for now, you have a dinner to attend, don't you?"
Caspian raised a brow. "You remember that?"
"Of course," Julius said, grinning again. "Go. Eat some food. Relax. Tomorrow we take a city."
And with that, Julius turned away, his footsteps echoing through the stone chamber as Caspian stood alone—wet, exhausted, uncertain—but not defeated.
Not yet.
At Dinner
The dining room in Blackwood Tower was a thing of quiet magnificence. Shadows danced on the carved mahogany walls as the flickering chandelier overhead refracted golden light across the long, obsidian-black table. Ornate candle holders framed the polished surface, their flames throwing warm glows upon silverware arranged with near militaristic precision.
Alexander sat at the head, upright as ever, dressed in his usual midnight-black waistcoat embroidered with thread so dark it shimmered violet in the light. His black-gloved hands rested calmly on the table as he glanced across the guests, his sharp gray eyes lingering on each face.
To his right sat his son, Johnathan—a tall young man with hair the color of dying embers and sharp, intelligent eyes. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, the collar of his white shirt slightly undone, giving him the appearance of a man who had just returned from winning something important.
Beside him was Layla, her raven-black hair braided over one shoulder, a deep sapphire dress clinging to her like ink to parchment. Silver earrings dangled from her ears like frozen tears, and her gaze carried the calm serenity of someone always watching.
Opposite her sat Andrew and Camael, both dressed in formal attire. Andrew wore a steel-gray blazer with fine lapel embroidery resembling swirling frost. His white hair had been slicked back for the occasion, giving him the air of a man who'd once walked battlefields and boardrooms alike. Beside him, Camael lounged in his chair, a deep burgundy suit framing his lithe frame. His golden hair curled slightly at the edges, unruly but undeniably elegant, and his smile rarely faltered—even when his eyes did not match it.
Caspian sat between them, noticeably quieter, dressed in a simple black button-up and a dark green jacket that brought out the faded amber in his eyes. His hair was still damp from his recent shower, brushed down into something resembling order.
Dinner was already underway. The scent of roasted duck glazed in plum wine filled the air, accompanied by delicate spoonfuls of saffron rice, charred asparagus dusted with lemon zest, and a caramelized beet salad adorned with crumbles of aged goat cheese. Every dish gleamed as though it had been painted by light itself.
"This rice is incredible," Camael muttered, mouth half-full, before catching the sharp lift of Alexander's brow. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, brushing a stray grain from the corner of his mouth. "My compliments to the chef."
Alexander didn't smile. He simply gave a slow, deliberate nod, his long fingers tightening subtly around the stem of his wine glass as if reminding the table that even praise should be delivered with precision.
"So," he said after a pause, his voice cutting clean through the room like the edge of a scalpel. "You've all had a week to breathe Nimerath's air. Tell me—how are you finding it?"
Andrew set his utensils down and dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin before speaking. "It's... familiar, oddly enough. The weight of eyes on your back. The way every sentence has a second meaning. The politics, the tension, the hierarchy... it's not unlike the last war I fought in—just quieter."
Camael leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the side, the other twirling a fork between elegant fingers. His gold earrings caught the candlelight as he tilted his head. "It's chaotic. But not without charm. The city feels alive, like something breathing through the cracks in the walls—even if half the people you meet want to kill you."
Johnathan exhaled a dry laugh into his glass. "Sounds about right."
"And you, Caspian?" Alexander turned his gaze toward him. His tone softened—but the weight behind it remained unchanged, like velvet hiding steel.
Caspian hesitated. He wasn't a man who spoke to fill silences. He reached for his glass of water, letting the condensation cool his fingers before answering. "I like the view. And the silence, when it shows up."
Layla leaned in, resting her cheek on her palm, a crooked smile playing at her lips. "You mean those three minutes before the city wakes up screaming again?"
Caspian gave a short, faint smile, almost reflexive. "Exactly."
A quiet descended—an unspoken ease settling among them. Outside the tall windows, the wind whispered across the balconies, rustling the vines that clung to Blackwood Tower like old secrets.
They returned to their meal with the kind of energy only familiarity can bring. Laughter rang softly around the table, subtle but genuine. Layla teased Andrew for the meticulous way he cut his food, claiming it was "surgical" in every sense. Camael argued, theatrically, that the lamb was slightly overdone while shoveling mouthfuls into his face. Even Johnathan cracked a rare grin when Caspian deadpanned a remark about how the wine probably cost more than his entire childhood.
Golden light shimmered above them from a chandelier strung with amethyst. The room buzzed with soft conversation and clinking glasses. They were soldiers, yes. Strategists and killers. But for a moment, they were just people at a dinner table, letting down their guard like peeling off armor.
Then Alexander set his glass down with a measured click, and the room recalibrated itself around him.
"Well," he said, voice steady and deliberate, "I suppose there's no better time to inform you—Blackwood Tower will be hosting its annual gathering in two days."
The warmth at the table pulled taut.
Johnathan straightened. "Already?"
Alexander gave a small nod, his fingers interlaced on the table in front of him. "The Blackwood Ball is not a mere celebration. It is a cornerstone tradition—older than some of the towers in this city. Investors. Allies. Rivals. Everyone who matters will be there."
"Sounds like a powder keg in formalwear," Camael murmured, eyebrows raised.
"It's exactly that," Alexander replied. "A night where no one draws their blade, but everyone brings one."
Andrew's expression sharpened. "You're saying it's a performance."
"A necessary one," Alexander said, his tone clipped. "For this city, for the legacy we've built, and for the image we project. You will attend. All of you."
Layla leaned back slightly, one brow raised. "Then I'm going to need something new. I'm not stepping into a high-society battlefield in this old dress."
She gestured down to her deep blue gown, elegant but simple—hardly suitable for what Alexander had just described.
"I'm sure we all could use an upgrade," Andrew said. "No sense walking into a lion's den without the armor."
Caspian exhaled softly through his nose. "And this armor has to sparkle, apparently."
Johnathan chuckled. "Sparkle and stab. That's the unspoken dress code."
Alexander folded his hands, his expression unreadable but eyes assessing each of them. "Then I ask—do any of you know someone capable of dressing you for war... without making you look like you came from one?"
There was a moment's pause.
Then, in perfect unison—half amusement, half reverence—Camael, Andrew, and Caspian said together:
"We know a guy."