Morning crept in with damp air and the scent of rain on cobblestones, laced with a faint brimstone whiff—echoes of a distant hell.
Oswald opened his eyes slowly, his mind muddled. For a moment, he forgot where he was.Then it hit him—the tavern, the disguise, Ramona.
He sat up, gripping the bed, and scanned the empty room. "Ramona?" he called, then corrected himself.
"Ellijah?" No response.
Panic pricked his chest. He rushed to the window, pulling the curtain aside.Below, Ellijah jogged through the misty street, breath visible in the chilly air.
Heavy grey skies hung low, but a golden hue lingered behind the clouds, promising a brighter afternoon.Oswald exhaled, relief washing over him.When Ellijah returned, Oswald sat on the bed, arms crossed, scowling.
"You nearly gave me a heart attack." Ellijah smirked, adjusting his beanie. "Waited 'til your snorin' stopped. Didn't want you flailin' like a dumb puppy lookin' for its master."
Oswald groaned."Needed to get my stamina up," Ellijah continued. "Strength's back, but the body's catchin' up. Can't rely on power alone—gotta sharpen the blade.
"Oswald didn't argue.Their goodbye was brief—a nod from Ellijah, returned with quiet resolve by Oswald. They parted ways.
in Crimsongard Mansion
The drawing room was silent, heavy with grief and unanswered questions. Oswald sat at the long oak table, eyes sharp, voice steady. Before him stood seven maids present the night his father, Duke Andrew, was murdered.He questioned them thoroughly.
Each told the same story—no one saw or heard anything. They were working, cleaning, cooking. Their duties were recalled with precision, but when it came to the murder, their memories fractured
.Blank. Vague. Shocked."I was in the kitchen," one said, eyes wide. "Then… the master was dead."
"I was changin' sheets," another murmured. "Heard the alarm bell. Nothin' before."No struggle. No sign of Mrs. Luna, Oswald's mother, leaving. Their alibis matched too perfectly, as if rehearsed.
Oswald's eyes narrowed. Too clean.These weren't testimonies. They were scripts.
The seventh maid sobbed in the corner, her confusion genuine. "We didn't know… not 'til it was too late…"None remembered.Because someone had rewritten their truth.
After dismissing the maids, the house fell eerily silent. Oswald didn't sleep well, his mind racing. Suspicion gnawed at him—Alma, the maid, had been too calm, her guilt and sorrow too polished. A perfect performance.
He didn't know the quiet night he planned would become a battle for survival.
That Night: Crimson Moon's Prince Outraged
Two hours after Oswald fell asleep, the wind whispered secrets. Rainwater clung to windows, the scent of petrichor mingling with a faint sulfurous tang. The Crimsongard estate was calm. Too calm.
In the darkened halls, "Alma" moved silently. A sweet scent—chamomile and lavender—drifted from incense she'd placed, a sedative to deepen slumber.But Abigail, the devil cloaked in Alma's skin, knew knights were different.Oswald's eyes snapped open.A chill ran through him, instincts screaming. Murderous intent.His gaze darted, heart hammering.Then he saw her.
Alma clung to the ceiling, limbs twisted like a beast, her brown hair a dark mass of shadow. Red eyes glowed like bloodstones, her grin too wide for a human.Oswald sprang from bed, seizing his longsword, and slashed upward in one motion.Abigail hissed, leaping down like a spider. Their blades—steel and claws—clashed in sparks. The bedroom couldn't contain them. Strikes splintered walls, shattered furniture. Flames sparked from Oswald's Ignisiel, coating his sword in fire, scorching all it touched.The mansion shuddered.
Oswald burst through the hall, forcing Abigail onto the lawn, away from his parents' memories.
Starlight pierced the cleared sky, illuminating the garden's chaos."You…" Oswald growled, blood on his lips, "killed my father."Abigail's form flickered like smoke. "You're no match, boy," she hissed, her voice a warped choir of layered tones, born of the Shadowfen Threshold's depths."You don't have to run," he spat, fire swirling at his heels. "But you'll die."They clashed again, fueled by rage and sorrow.Oswald's body bled, burned—but he didn't yield. Abigail, for her demonic power, wasn't invincible. Victory hung in the balance.
Until a voice echoed from the shadows—cold, firm. "That's enough."Black mist surged, dragging Abigail back. She snarled, resisting, but couldn't disobey. In a blink, she vanished, leaving a distorted whisper: "We'll meet again, knight. When your heart's most vulnerable."Oswald stood, panting, blood dripping, the garden scorched, the mansion half-ruined.
He dropped to his knees. "Ramona…"A rustle sounded behind him, but nothing was there—save a faint flicker of orange flame darting into the shadows.The storm passed, but its memory clung like smoke in silk. Ash floated in the dining hall, where Oswald lay bloodied, breathing shallowly. Every part of him throbbed, the burn on his arm a curse.
He'd fought a devil. Alone.And lived.Barely.The maids lay unconscious, overwhelmed by Abigail's essence. Char and singed wood choked the air, but something stirred.A flicker of flame curled through the ruins.
A feline shape emerged, formed of fire and light, leaving no prints as it crossed the broken floor. No smoke followed. Only warmth.The fire cat—a remnant of Duke Andrew's Ignisiel, his power forged to witness his final duty.It moved to the maids, nudging them gently with its tail. One stirred. Then all.Firelight reflected in their eyes, horror replacing confusion as memories flooded back—Alma's shifting face, her red eyes, the shadow of hatred. The blood. The laugh that wasn't hers. Duke Andrew's death.They saw Oswald, broken but alive, as the fire cat sat by him. Its tail curled around his arm. His breath hitched, eyes snapping open.He didn't scream. He watched.The cat's gaze met his, and visions burned: Duke Andrew's last stand, Ignisiel flaring. Abigail's true form—a devil in Alma's skin. Mrs. Luna, shackled in darkness. A red-signed mark: Schwarzezirkel, pulsing.
Oswald gasped, reaching for the cat, but it dissolved into sparks, fading into the night.His father had crafted the fire cat as a legacy, a witness to guide Oswald. It revealed the attack on Duke Andrew, Lady Richtofen's kidnapping, and Abigail's warning to avoid Schwarzezirkel—a shadowy force tied to Ramona's accusations.
Questions burned in Oswald's mind.
Who was Schwarzezirkel? What did they want? Why did his father die?
He staggered to his father's study, searching the desk. Among scattered papers, he found a notebook, its final page titled Die Krone des Abgrunds—The Crown of the Abyss.
Duke Andrew rarely noted trivial matters, but this was different. He'd overheard Baron Avendria boasting about joining "GRUNDS" a group promising wealth and calm. Avendria's assets had surged, but Andrew's prayers at the Krunds—a Kratos temple—yielded doubts. Why 24 saints? Why were 40% of Krasians fanatic, hosting costly "learning" events? Why was Ramona, no devout follower, leading these events?
When Andrew sought the Kros, the Krasian leader, saints blocked him, claiming the Kros was busy. Even the crown prince sided with them. Something was wrong.Outside, the wind carried burnt wood and broken dreams. Inside Oswald's heart, fury tempered with resolve. He stood as the maids gathered, shaken but alert. He'd rebuild. He'd uncover Schwarzezirkel's truth.They would pay.He clenched his fists, facing the dawn.
The hunt had begun.