Another chap with 2900+ words.... read leisurely my friends.
AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT-
My motivation and inspiration for this novel is the webtoon- Eternally Regressing Knight/ The Knight only lives Today.
But it is inspired not copied, but there may be a few familiar elements. The webtoon is one of my favourites.
Okay, BBye... Happy Reading!!
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A FEW HOURS LATER – BROOKE MANSION, WESWARD COURT, REDBRIDGE
The iron-gilded gates creaked open as the carriage trundled into the courtyard of Brooke Mansion, its ivy-draped facade looming under a brooding grey sky. Gravel crunched underfoot as the mourners disembarked, one by one, their expressions dulled with fatigue, grief trailing them like soot.
The manor's wide double doors—oak, ancient, and polished with age—stood half-ajar. Somewhere in the trees, a crow cawed once, then silence resumed its reign.
Levi stepped down last, adjusting his coat as if awoken from a trance.
His gaze darted about.
"Brother."
His voice was breathless. His eyes, sharp with sudden clarity.
"Where is that man?"
Ragnar, just beside him, turned.
"What man?"
Levi's lips parted with urgency.
"The one I met on the platform this morning. Chestnut hair. Black eyes. Roughly one-eighty in height. I'm certain he entered the chapel alongside us."
A beat of silence followed. Torren, weary-eyed, pressed a hand against his temple.
"Let it go, Levi. It's been a long day. We'll find him if it matters."
But Levi didn't respond. His eyes scanned the façade of the mansion, brows furrowed in thought.
Then Percival Brooke, cane in hand, halted mid-step. His gaze lifted toward the doors of the mansion.
"Who in God's name—"
A solitary figure stood by the entryway.
He was young, perhaps no older than seventeen, yet his presence radiated an unsettling calm. A long white coat fluttered gently around his boots. Hair like bleached silver spilled over his shoulders. His amethyst eyes, piercing and calm, shimmered faintly in the filtered daylight.
"Who are you?" Percival demanded, voice stiff, gaze narrowing.
The boy gave a half-bow, his eyes never leaving Levi's.
"Vincenzo," he said simply.
Levi's brows twitched, recognition dawning. He stepped forward.
"That's him. That's the man I mentioned."
Torren, crossing his arms, tilted his head.
"Wait a minute. Didn't he—"
"Does it matter?"
Vincenzo interrupted smoothly, eyes still affixed on Ragnar now.
"What I looked like hours ago isn't half as important as why I'm here now."
He walked forward, each step measured, until he stood inches from Ragnar.
Then—he turned his back to him, arms behind his back like a formal orator.
"I made an oath to Lady Althaea."
"An oath?" Ragnar asked, his voice low and guarded.
Vincenzo's lips curled into a sly grin.
"To help her children once."
Anthony stepped forward, standing now between Ragnar and Vincenzo, his tone formal, controlled.
"With all due respect… who are you? What ties do you truly have to our mother?"
Vincenzo turned, unbothered by the directness.
"I told you. I am—" he placed a gloved hand over his chest, "—an acquaintance of the late Lady Althaea. She helped me once, when no one else dared. It would be ungrateful not to answer her final letter."
"Final letter?"
Varkis interjected, voice icy.
Vincenzo winked at him.
"You always were the suspicious one, weren't you?"
Varkis, arms crossed, said nothing. But the intensity of his stare could have frozen glass.
Vincenzo strolled toward the grand doors and casually leaned his shoulder against the frame.
"Now, how about this—I stay the night. We speak in the morning. I'll take a corner room, keep to myself, won't touch the silver. You can even lock my door from the outside."
A silence.
Ian looked at Ragnar.
"Your call, boy."
Ragnar studied Vincenzo. Something about the man unsettled him—but it wasn't malice. It was the way his presence refused to shrink, even in a house shrouded by mourning.
Ragnar exhaled.
"You may stay the night. But you'll answer our questions. All of them. At dawn."
Vincenzo bowed again, deeper this time.
"Wouldn't dream of anything else."
And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the house, as though he'd always belonged in its haunted halls.
Annabelle turned to Anthony, whispering,
"Who is he really?"
Anthony muttered, his eyes still locked on the door,
"That's what I intend to find out."
EVENING-
The tavern was quiet this hour. Only the low clinking of cutlery and the hum of the overhead fan broke the stillness. Morning light bled softly through the smoked-glass windows, painting long shadows across the walnut floor.
Two glasses of water sat between them, untouched.
Gabriel, clad in the muted golden and silver of the Paladin Corps, leaned back in his chair, gloved hands folded across his lap. The fire-red of his ponytailed hair glinted faintly beneath his cap.
"Speak,"
Gabriel broke the silence.
Ragnar stared at the ring of condensation forming beneath his glass.
"Gab… I think I've done something terrible."
Gabriel exhaled. Not tired—resigned.
"Greg told me."
Ragnar looked up sharply.
"When?"
"Just before I boarded the train. Said you came to him half a ghost and full of fire."
There was a long pause between them. Then Gabriel leaned forward.
"Ragna… what you did isn't just a mistake. By law, it's a crime."
Ragnar's jaw clenched. He leaned back in his seat, his long coat shifting across the chair's arms.
"So… what now? Will you arrest me? You're a paladin, after all."
Gabriel clicked his tongue, shaking his head.
"No, but listen to me,"
"The two gunmen? That's a grey field—could be argued as self-defence. But the gardener? That was no duel, Ragna. That was deliberate. Prolonged."
"I was angry," Ragnar muttered, voice low.
"I wanted him to suffer."
Gabriel nodded slowly, as if waiting for more.
"Did he lay a hand on your mother or sister?"
Ragnar looked away.
"No. But he tried to stain them with his tongue."
Gabriel's voice was still.
"That does not warrant murder."
Silence hung again, heavy like a velvet curtain.
Ragnar's gaze dropped to his glass.
"And yet... we're applauded when we kill in war. Given medals. Raised on pedestals. But when a man like that dies, I'm the one on trial."
Gabriel's brow furrowed. He leaned closer.
A faint grin stretched across Gabriel's face,
"You kill others in war to protect yourself and your country, platoon commander Allen or Ragnar."
A faint smile tugged at Ragnar's mouth.
"What about those who rot the kingdom from within?"
"That's Anthony's work now. The Metropolitan are tasked with rot. We don't become vigilantes because justice is slow."
Ragnar ran a hand through his hair, suddenly wearied.
"Is there a way to repent?"
Gabriel's eyes gentled, but his voice retained its iron.
"Repent to the Lord, first and foremost. Then—find one of the girls that bastard wronged. He served time for it, didn't he?"
Ragnar nodded, jaw tightening.
"Only briefly. Maximillian bailed him out. Called it an indiscretion."
Gabriel's lips thinned in disdain.
"If you can find one of them, ask her to give a sworn statement that she granted you the right to avenge her. Or claim she named you as her sword."
Ragnar blinked, unsure.
"Is that allowed?"
"In ecclesiastic law," Gabriel said, sipping from his glass,
"It is. The Church permits the victim to enact justice—either with her own hand or by naming a proxy."
Ragnar arched a brow.
"Wouldn't men exploit that?"
"Only if they can prove the crime," Gabriel said, setting down the glass.
"No priest signs off unless the truth is undeniable. We trust the Almighty. And the fear of His wrath keeps most from lying."
A sardonic grin returned to Ragnar's face.
"So, no one lies before the Holy Bell, is that it?"
Gabriel nodded grimly.
"Even a liar's tongue dries in the chapel."
Ragnar lowered his voice, his tone shifting.
"And if I do it—if I secure the testimony?"
"Then you'll still be punished," Gabriel said. "But it may only be two months. Enough to be remembered. Not long enough to be ruined."
He placed his hand gently over Ragnar's.
"Ragna… your mother would want you to live free. Not chase shadows till they devour you."
Ragnar met his eyes, voice quieter now.
"You and Greg… you both scold like old women."
Gabriel chuckled, the sound sharp and dry.
"You bastard."
"Fine," Ragnar muttered, pulling back with a sigh.
"I'll try not to kill them."
His eyes narrowed darkly.
"I'll make them destroy themselves."
Gabriel's face sobered again, a flicker of disappointment crossing it.
"Do what you will… But isn't the army calling you again?"
Ragnar straightened in his seat, suddenly more composed.
"I've already sent the letter. Requested reappointment. I have to fulfil what I promised her."
Gabriel raised a brow.
"To earn the highest honour in the service?"
Ragnar nodded.
"That was the oath."
Gabriel leaned back, his smile returning—but quieter, sadder.
"Still the same mad dog, aren't you?"
Ragnar's eyes gleamed for a moment.
"Yes, the same mad dog."
Gabriel set down his empty glass with a soft clink, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.
"Well," he exhaled, his voice low and wry, "Let's leave the morning's madness to Gregory. He's better at... papered storms."
WHAM!
The tavern doors burst open with a bang, the brass handles slamming against the wall. Light from the street outside cut a harsh angle across the room's smoke-drenched interior.
A figure stepped through—ashen-haired, coat flaring behind him like a banner caught in a gale, golden eyes sharp and utterly unhinged.
"You God-forsaken bastards!"
His voice cracked through the room like musket-fire. Every patron fell silent. Even the pianist at the corner bench let his hands hover above the keys, uncertain.
Gabriel sighed without turning.
"Speak of the devil."
Ragnar raised a brow, eyes glinting with dry amusement.
"I thought we barred the door to madmen today."
Gregory Wells stormed toward their table, boots striking the floor with theatrical aggression. His cravat was crooked. His sleeves were rolled unevenly. And his ledger case—clutched in one hand like a weapon—was rattling from the sheer fury of his grip.
"You left me, again, to clean up your divine mess!"
He jabbed a gloved finger at Ragnar, then Gabriel.
"You—man of war! You—man of god! Both of you walked out like noble-born heroes, and I—I!—was nearly arrested by two Metropolitan officers and a priest who insisted my quill was cursed!"
Ragnar leaned back with a smirk, arms crossed lazily over his chest.
"You do have a cursed quill."
"It hums in the night!" Gabriel added helpfully.
Gregory slammed his ledger down on the table, causing their empty glasses to rattle.
"I swear to the Archivum and every forgotten saint of paper and ink," he hissed, leaning forward until his golden eyes were inches from Ragnar's, "if I have to file one more sealed murder report under 'miscellaneous civilian correspondence,' I will personally forge your death certificates."
Gabriel waved for a fresh glass, unbothered.
"Forgive us, Gregory. The Lord sends His trials in strange forms."
Gregory snapped his head toward him.
"The Lord should send me a bloody pension!"
Ragnar chuckled.
"You missed me."
Gregory sneered.
"I miss silence."
But his voice had lost its edge, dulled by familiarity and fatigue. His eyes—sharp though they were—held something else beneath the irritation. Worry. Sorrow. The shared kind.
Gregory sighed and sat, dragging a stool toward the table.
"How's the chapel?" he asked softly.
Ragnar looked away for a moment, toward the window where sunlight now filtered in faint amber.
"Buried," he said, voice low. "But not gone."
The silence that followed was not empty—but reverent.
Gregory rested his arms across the table.
"Well. Then let's talk vengeance. Or salvation. Or...how to keep your name off the next wanted list."
Ragnar met his gaze again. His expression darkened.
"Let's begin with the list."
Gregory pulled out a folded parchment from inside his coat and slapped it on the table, the wax seal already cracked. His golden eyes gleamed, not with excitement—but with grim anticipation.
Gabriel leaned in, gaze shifting warily between the two.
"Don't tell me this is—"
"—The names he asked for," Gregory interrupted,
"And the ones he didn't know he needed."
Ragnar unfurled the parchment. Ink ran down in precise, codified strokes—a list written in cipher, names arranged not alphabetically, but by proximity. Political. Familial. Financial. One by one, he traced the names with his gloved fingertip.
"Maximillian Beaumont."
"Cornelia Beaumont."
"Vice-Minister Harland."
"The Gravesend Board."
"Alfred Cosgrove."
"Elder Felix of the High Synod."
"..."
Each name was a world unto itself—a ghost with power, or the hand that pulled strings behind it.
Gabriel's voice turned cold.
"That's half the bloody elite of Westry."
Gregory nodded.
"And most of them don't even know they're on the wrong side of this war. Why would they support the rival country?"
Gabriel asked,
Ragnar's eyes didn't blink.
"They know it. And if they don't, we enlighten them."
Gabriel scoffed.
"You say that as if you're not under Church trial, military review, and moral damnation."
Ragnar folded the parchment back up, slipped it into his coat.
"I'm well aware. That's why I'll wear their uniform again. That's why I'll Walk the front lines like a lamb. And when I'm there—"
He turned, his eyes a storm behind them.
"—I'll make them kneel."
Gregory drummed his fingers on the table.
"Then we need leverage. People. Information. Maybe a few ghosts of our own."
Ragnar's brow furrowed.
"I've sent word to the old informants,"
Gregory continued.
"The locksmith in Farwell, the Archivists from the Ironhill Registry. Even the florist widow in Blackchapel owes me a favour."
Gabriel glanced sideways. "You're waking shadows, Greg."
"We're surrounded by corpses already," Gregory replied. "Might as well make some of them walk."
A beat passed. Ragnar took another drink of water. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"And the shares?"
Gregory's jaw tightened.
"They're being siphoned through fronts. Dummies with no past, no future. But I traced the paperwork—it all loops back to a firm in Marinth."
Ragnar raised an eyebrow. "Ardenmark's coast."
"Exactly. There's no way this isn't coordinated. Your father's fingerprints are on the dagger—but the hilt? That belongs to someone far north of Albion."
Gabriel's voice sharpened.
"Are you saying Maximillian's selling out the country?"
Gregory exhaled through his nose.
"I'm saying Maximillian's many things—a sadist, a tyrant, a coward. But not stupid. He's preparing for a shift in power."
His silhouette, all shadow and scar, loomed in the flickering lamplight.
"Sit down, Ragna."
Gregory's tone was a weary drawl, tired from knowing too much and trusted too little. He waved a gloved hand like a professor ushering an unruly student back to his bench.
"They're not patriots, and they're not ideologues. They're chasing one thing."
"Money," Gabriel said, his voice like a blade dragged against stone.
Gregory tilted his head in mock applause.
"Correct, Father Gabriel. Ten points to the Order of the Unimpressed."
"But…"
Gabriel leaned forward, brow furrowed.
"I understand scoundrels like Maximillian, but… Elder Felix? He served with honour in the Ecclesiastical Guard. I met him in the Temple of Tenets. He was—he seemed—a good man."
Gregory pressed thumb to temple and groaned,
"Sweet Saints preserve us, this birdbrain."
He looked up at Gabriel as if speaking to a slow child.
"Let me walk you through the pipeworks, featherhead."
He slapped a thick file on the table. The edges were frayed, stamped with the wax seal of the Commerce Hall.
"Their grand plan is called Project Basilica."
Gabriel arched an eyebrow.
Gregory continued, voice hushed now, words sticky with disgust.
"Phase One is already underway. They call it the Coastal Valve. Shipments rerouted. Laws rewritten in silence. All with the signature of your friendly neighbourhood Vice-Minister Harland."
Gabriel leaned in, whispering,
"How the hell do you know this?"
Gregory banged his hand on the table with theatrical flair.
"Because I work at the bleeding Registrar's Office, not a candy stall! After registering Allen's 'death'—" he flicked his eyes at Ragnar,
"—a letter arrived from the Commerce Hall, demanding the transfer of Ragnar's dormant holdings to a trade affiliate in Marinth."
Ragnar's jaw tightened.
"On what grounds?"
Gregory answered sharply,
"Obscure wartime clause. Section 14, Sub-Decree 7 of the Commerce Mobilization Act. Says that 'inactive domestic assets belonging to deceased war-commanders may be reassigned to foreign enterprises under the clause of wartime liquidity.' Written by—guess who?"
Gabriel exhaled, eyes dark.
"Vice-Minister Harland."
"Ding-ding."
Gregory smiled without humour.
"The shell company in Marinth? It's a front. Owned by your father's mistress, Cornelia, who's posing as a trade intermediary for religious goods. In reality, she's funneling shares and profits from the Beaumont Corporation through fabricated import licenses and ecclesiastical permits."
Ragnar's fists clenched slowly atop the table.
"And the weapons?"
He asked coldly.
Gregory leaned back, rubbing his brow.
"That's the vile genius of it. They're being shipped disassembled through church-sponsored relief convoys. Every crate stamped with the seal of Saint Avitus. You think customs will tear through a priest's blessing? Please."
Gabriel cursed under his breath, knuckles white.
"I did see Elder Felix inspecting the convoys more than once," he muttered.
"Claimed he was ensuring safety..."
Gregory nodded grimly.
"Safety from whom? The poor?"
He continued, voice lowered:
"Felix is the linchpin. He smuggles the parts. A man in the Ardenmark chapter—probably a cousin or an orphan he groomed—receives them. The goods are reassembled in the old forges of Sablewine. Ardenmark gets Albion's finest firearms without the stink of import."
"And the crown?" Ragnar asked.
"Do they just sleep through this?"
Gregory exhaled slowly.
"That's the cleverest part."
Gabriel looked up.
"They've taken a loan, haven't they?"
Gregory snapped his fingers.
"Finally, he uses that crusty lump of meat inside his skull!"
Gabriel shot him a look.
"Say that again, and I swear by the Tenets—"
Gregory raised a palm in truce.
"No offense, featherboy. But yes—the Crown took a massive loan from the Commerce Hall last month. Why? Because eighty percent of their military consignment was seized in the Frestia Waters by Cymrian pirates."
"That explains why the Gravesend Board is so emboldened,"
Ragnar said softly.
"They've snared both the monarchy and the warfront. And all it cost them was a few falsified ledgers."
Gregory nodded.
"They're gambling with kingdoms. Crushing two nations under debt—Albion and Ardenmark—so that when the smoke clears, the Commerce Hall owns both corpses."
The air went still. The lamp hissed. Footsteps outside scuffed against wet stone.
Gabriel sat back slowly. "Then what do we do?"
Ragnar stared ahead, jaw clenched.
"Well," he said, his voice low and level,
"Then let's talk vengeance. Or salvation. Or how to keep my name off the next wanted list."
Gregory met his eyes.
"Let's begin with the enlistment plan."
Gabriel's brows knitted,
"Enlistment plan?"
Ragnar tapped his shoulder,
"Gab, I am enlisting in the army, did you forget?"
Gabriel shook his head,
"Okay, let's begin."
Gregory opened a folder.
"Lats start with this-."