As the mercenary sprinted through the moon-drenched alley, bootheels pounding cobblestones slick with evening dew, a figure stepped into his path.
He collided into him—but did not move him.
The mercenary stumbled back as if struck by a wall of marble. He blinked once. Then twice.
And froze.
Long, snow-white hair cascaded like silk over a tailored obsidian coat. Amethyst eyes, neither kind nor cruel, simply watching—like twin lanterns suspended over a dark sea.
Vincenzo Duskrane.
A name that echoed like a bell in the underworld.
"S-Squad Leader Finn…!"
The mercenary dropped to one knee with trained immediacy, fist over heart. His voice betrayed no panic—but a thread of disbelief laced every word.
"Squad Leader Finn greets Young Master Duskrane!"
Vincenzo's lips curved into the faintest smile—familiar, amused, and just barely fond.
"Stand up, Squad Leader Finn. You'll bruise the knee again, and Lucien will worry. How is he doing nowadays?"
His voice was silk over steel, laced with familial knowledge few would dare presume.
Finn rose, straightening his overcoat.
"Young Master Umbra is… well, sir. Preparing for entrance trials at the Alder National College of Engineering. He's put aside swordplay for books—though, between us, he still prefers the gun."
Vincenzo chuckled, a sound light and brief.
"I suppose genius runs in the family. But loyalty—"
He flicked his wrist and revealed a silver coin, small and glinting beneath the gaslight, its surface engraved with the Umbra family's sigil: a wolf's face carved on a shield.
"—loyalty, I hope, runs deeper."
Finn's eyes widened. His breath caught.
"Young Master… is this—?"
Vincenzo flipped the coin to him.
Finn caught it without thinking, his gloved fingers trembling as they enclosed around it.
"Take that, and abandon the mission."
A silence bloomed between them.
No threats. No bribery. Only a memory. Only the weight of an oath older than either of them wanted to remember.
Then, Finn nodded. The faintest of smiles traced his weathered lips.
He reached into his coat and drew a small brass flare. A flick of the thumb—CRACKLE!
The flare soared into the air—exploding into twin plumes of green and red.
Colours of retreat.
Vincenzo's amethyst eyes reflected the burst as though carved of stained glass. And when he looked down—
—Squad Leader Finn was gone.
Not a single sound. Not a scuffed footprint left behind.
The alley stood empty once more, save for the echo of bootheels and fireworks dying in the distance.
Vincenzo turned his gaze toward the now-disappearing carriage, where the three girls were being whisked away.
His voice barely above a whisper.
Soft. But with a promise.
"One time left."
He disappeared into the night.
Inside the creaking warmth of the carriage, Halina pressed herself gently to Ragnar's side, her arms wrapped tightly around his as though afraid the night might take him too.
Her head rested against his shoulder, and for the first time in hours, her breathing slowed.
Ragnar's voice was low, steady—anchoring her.
"You are not to blame, Halina. None of this is your fault."
He spoke not to comfort, but because he believed it. His hand rested gently upon her back, fingers tracing small circles over the fabric of her dress.
Across from them, the flickering lantern swayed gently, casting amber light over the others. Annabelle sat composed, her hands folded across her lap. Beside her, Elizabeth leaned back but not at ease—her hazel eyes remained fixed on Ragnar, observant, unreadable.
Eventually, Ragnar met that gaze.
It lingered.
Then—
"Mrs. Elizabeth. Mrs. Annabelle," Ragnar said, his voice regaining its composure, "Are either of you hurt?"
Annabelle offered a faint, warm smile.
"No, Brother Ragnar. Thank you for your concern."
Her tone was soft, tinged with lingering adrenaline, but steady as ever. Ragnar nodded once in reply, then let his gaze shift—unflinching—to Elizabeth.
"I'm unscathed," she said quietly, the shadow of guilt lining her words. "But… I owe an apology. This whole misadventure was my suggestion. I thought a walk might lift Halina's spirits. I didn't expect the night to turn on us so sharply."
Ragnar exhaled, not harshly. Almost with a half-smile.
"It's all right, Elly."
The name left his lips before he could catch it.
The carriage fell into silence.
Halina stirred slightly against him. Elizabeth blinked. Even Annabelle turned to glance between them.
Realizing the ripple his words had made, Ragnar cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck.
"I—apologies. Mrs. Elizabeth. Halina calls you Elly so often that… it seems the name found its way onto my tongue without permission."
A rare glint of amusement lit Elizabeth's eyes. She looked away, as though to hide it.
"I don't mind," she said at last, her voice a notch warmer.
Outside, the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestone echoed steadily through the fog-draped streets of Honey Well.
The stars above had vanished behind a veil of cloud, and the scent of rain hung heavy in the air. But for the first time since dusk fell, the carriage felt like a haven.
Within it, the silence returned—but softer this time.
NEXT DAY- 7TH Meadcrown, 1855
The gaslight chandeliers of Brooke Mansion's banquet hall flickered against velvet drapes and polished mahogany. Every shadow seemed to lean forward, watching.
At the far end of the room stood Vincenzo Duskrane—white hair cascading to his shoulders, amethyst eyes alight with something unreadable. The room was still, heavy with unease.
All eyes were on him.
It was Torren who broke the silence first. His voice, calm but carrying the iron undertones of a military man, echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling.
"Then speak clearly. What exactly was your relationship with our mother?"
Vincenzo tilted his head. A small, knowing smirk pulled at his lips.
"She helped me," he said lightly,
"In a time when I had shut the world out. When my heart was… no longer mine to trust."
That poetic vagueness earned a sharp look from Varkis, who stepped forward, brows drawn low.
"Don't deflect. That is not an answer. Speak plainly."
Vincenzo sighed. With a dramatic shrug, he lowered his gaze to the silver buttons of his coat.
"I was a patient in the same hospital as Lady Althaea. We shared hours. Words. Silence. I suppose… companionship."
"And?"
The word came cold from Ragnar, his brow arched, arms crossed. Suspicion masked his grief.
Vincenzo raised both hands as if offering peace.
"We became buds,"
He said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
The word echoed with a vulgar triviality. It snapped something in Anthony.
CLICK.
Steel met candlelight.
Anthony had drawn his revolver. The barrel aimed square at Vincenzo's head.
"Don't fuck with us," he said, voice like cracked flint.
The smile vanished.
Vincenzo's gaze turned deadly still, and in an instant, the air in the room shifted. Predatory. Unnatural.
"Even if you bear her blood," Vincenzo said softly,
"Do not raise a weapon in front of me."
His words rang like a warning carried by something far older than wrath. For a moment, time stood still. The weight of his presence bore down like a stormcloud.
Then—
"Put. That. Down."
The words were simple. But they hit Anthony like a force. His knuckles whitened around the grip, but every instinct screamed to comply.
Levi, composed but weary, stepped forward and laid a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Enough. Let's not embarrass her."
Reluctantly, Anthony lowered the revolver. The metal clicked as it returned to its holster.
Vincenzo stepped forward, his boots echoing against the marble. As he passed the firelight, his silhouette moved like water, and his eyes danced with something far from human.
"How about this then?"
He said with a grin, one hand tucked into his coat pocket.
"You five. The proud sons of Lady Althaea. The military man, the spy, the officer, the sharpshooter, and the marine."
He turned, slow and theatrical.
"Try to defeat me. Use everything—your revolvers, your knives, your holy batons, your clever little traps. Let the whole mansion be your arena."
He smiled again, that same dangerous curl.
"And if you so much as leave a scratch on me… I will submit to anything you demand."
A hush fell.
Ragnar narrowed his eyes, voice low and steady.
"You're proposing a test."
Vincenzo bowed slightly, silver hair falling like silk.
"I'm proposing an understanding."
Gregory helped the family exit the room but his eyes did not leave Vincenzo,
"By chance, are you a Mystarch?"
Vincenzo turned to him,
"I am much higher than a measly Mystarch."
Ragnar stepped forward, slow and deliberate. The room quieted. The others watched him—like men watching a fuse burn down to the charge.
"If you're bluffing," Ragnar said,
"I hope you pray."
A faint flicker of amusement passed through Vincenzo's gaze. His smile returned, calm and maddening.
"Then let the hunt begin."
He moved first.
In less than a breath, Vincenzo closed the distance. His coat flared behind him as his heel slid across the marble.
Ragnar raised his Tranter, but Vincenzo's hand blurred—a flick to the revolver's hammer stalled the shot. Ragnar barely twisted aside as a palm sliced through the air where his throat had been.
Torren roared, charging with the weight of a battering ram. His fist swung like a cannonball. Vincenzo leaned just far enough to let it pass, caught Torren's elbow mid-swing, and redirected the man into the table with a crack of splintered wood.
Anthony fired. The Colt 1851 belched smoke and flame—
Vincenzo vanished sideways, the bullet slicing only air. He was already beside Anthony, ducking low, palm striking the revolver's frame.
The gun flew from Anthony's hand and clattered against the stone.
Varkis lunged in from behind, no firearm—only a pair of steel forks swiped from the breakfast tray. He moved like a ghost, aiming for Vincenzo's eyes. But the silver-haired youth tilted his head half an inch.
The tips missed.
Vincenzo caught Varkis' wrist mid-air, twisted it just enough for Varkis to release the improvised weapon, and flung him across the floor like a broken puppet.
Levi fired from the stairs. A single round from his Whitworth rifle—deadly, precise.
Vincenzo didn't even look.
He shifted his foot, and the bullet passed harmlessly behind him. The moment the echo faded, he appeared beside Levi.
The rifle vanished from the boy's hands, disassembled in two motions. Levi stared in disbelief as the barrel rolled to his feet.
Ragnar struck then—no gun, just a soldier's hands. His elbow came fast, low, meant for Vincenzo's ribs.
But Vincenzo caught the attack against his forearm and stepped inside Ragnar's guard. A shoulder-check knocked the air from Ragnar's lungs.
Anthony was back on his feet. He swung a chair like a mace. Vincenzo ducked, spun, and tripped him with a sweep of the ankle. Anthony crashed down, breath lost to the floor.
Torren tackled next—LeMat drawn and aiming point-blank.
Click.
The hammer never fell. Vincenzo's fingers had already locked the cylinder in place. His knee met Torren's gut and dropped the Marine to one knee.
It all ended in less than thirty seconds.
The brothers groaned, sprawled across the dining hall—panting, bleeding, frustrated. Vincenzo stood at the centre, untouched. Not a hair out of place. His coat settled back over his shoulders like it had never moved.
He exhaled, as if waking from a dream.
"Well?" he asked, glancing between them.
"Do you understand now?"
No one answered.
He walked past Ragnar, slow and unhurried.
"I did say—use everything you had."
Ragnar clenched his fists, blood trickling down his chin.
Anthony slammed his hand against the floor, teeth gritted.
Varkis breathed in ragged intervals, chest heaving.
Levi just stared at the disassembled rifle, hands trembling.
Torren wiped his mouth and sat up, eyes dark with fury and awe.
Vincenzo turned at the door, his amethyst eyes gleaming in the morning light.
"I meant no offense, gentlemen. Only clarity."
He turned his back to them,
"Let's meet in the evening."
Then he vanished down the corridor, his footsteps echoing like a war drum retreating into silence.