The dining room buzzed with a rare and easy liveliness that morning. Light from the overcast sky spilled through tall windows, catching in the polished silverware and gilded edges of the sprawling oak table. The air, often heavy with expectation, felt lighter, carried by the comfort of familiar voices rather than stiff decorum.
Andrew smirked over his coffee. "If the tower's chef serves us another gray stew tonight, I might honestly defect to the street vendors."
Caspian chuckled softly, poking at his plate, his gaze mostly fixed downward. "Maybe those rat skewers in the lower district aren't as bad as they look."
Camael snorted, throwing his arms wide, voice booming. "You two are hopeless. If you want food that fights back, you've got to know the right stalls. You amateurs wouldn't survive a week eating like that."
Alexander, relaxed at the head of the table, watched them with a warm, lazy grin. "Perhaps I should send you all to the slums for a month. See if you come back with some color in your cheeks."
Even Layla, perched at the far end, wore something close to a smile as she sipped her tea, her usual guardedness softened in the comfort of the company.
Andrew leaned in, flicking a glance at Caspian. "If I end up with food poisoning, Caspian, I'll personally blame you."
"I... I'll try to warn you next time," Caspian replied, a reluctant grin tugging at his lips.
Camael erupted into laughter, slapping the table. "Next time? You'd be lucky to get a next time eating down there."
The table fell into a companionable lull, filled only by the clatter of silverware and the distant rhythm of rain against the windows. The warmth in the room felt fragile, but genuine—a rare shared comfort they didn't need to name.
Alexander swirled his wine, gaze flickering over each of them with open amusement. "You're all in unusually good spirits today," he mused. "Almost makes me think you enjoy each other's company."
"Of course we do," Camael said, puffing his chest theatrically. "Without me, this table would be a funeral service."
Andrew smirked, draining his cup. "More like a carnival act."
Caspian merely smiled into his plate, offering no rebuttal.
Layla's gaze lingered on the rain-washed cityscape beyond the windows, her expression unreadable. Alexander's voice broke through the easy rhythm of their morning, but there was no sharpness in his tone—only the same casual ease he always carried.
"Layla," he said, lifting his glass, "since we're all being honest today... would you finally let Andrew check on you?"
She tensed slightly, the smile fading from her lips. "I told you. I'm fine."
Alexander arched a brow, undeterred. "Forgive me for saying you look a bit... worn down."
"I said I'm fine," she repeated, her voice sharper this time, though the edge was tinged more with frustration than real anger.
Andrew set his fork down gently. "Layla, it's not like I'd make you stay in the infirmary. It's just—"
"Enough," she interrupted, standing abruptly. Her chair scraped across the floor, not with violence, but a frustration that made the gesture feel heavier than it was. "I don't need a babysitter."
She walked out, the door swinging shut behind her without the theatrical slam.
A moment of quiet followed, more awkward than tense.
Alexander exhaled lightly, shrugging. "Some people can't take a suggestion."
"She'll cool off," Andrew said, brushing it off with a practiced ease.
Camael snorted, rolling his eyes. "She always does. She's more stubborn than you, Alexander. And that's saying something."
Alexander chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment."
He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. "What about the rest of you? Plans?"
Andrew adjusted his cufflinks. "I'm visiting an old acquaintance."
Alexander waved his hand dismissively. "Try not to let it bore you to death."
Camael stood first, stretching exaggeratedly. "Anything's better than sitting around this place all day."
They filed out into the rain-soaked streets, where the city greeted them with its usual barrage of noise, neon, and restless crowds. They hailed a battered taxi, the yellow paint chipped, the interior musty with years of stale smoke and oil.
Camael sprawled across the back seat without invitation, claiming more space than necessary. "Finally, something interesting. I thought I'd rot at that table."
Caspian pressed himself closer to the window, gaze fixed outside as if the streets might offer him some unseen answer.
The taxi rattled over potholes, the outside world blurring into a smear of rusted steel and dripping neon.
Caspian, after a moment of hesitant silence, spoke up in his usual, quiet tone. "How did they do it? The Blackwoods, I mean."
Andrew blinked, as if waking from an old, familiar fog. He glanced at Caspian, his expression softening slightly.
"They built their house on a graveyard," Andrew said, voice low, but carrying the weight of memory. "And they made sure the bodies stayed buried."
Caspian frowned faintly. "That's not exactly an answer."
Andrew chuckled dryly. "It's the answer that matters."
Camael leaned in, loud and grinning. "You want the polished story or the ugly truth, Caspian? Because we can make it entertaining."
Caspian's tone was soft, but resolute. "I want what's real."
Andrew's gaze drifted to the rain-slick window. "They rose when others fell. The old families bled themselves dry in purges, turf wars, petty squabbles over scraps. When the dust cleared, the Blackwoods were the only ones left holding the debts, the contracts... the blackmail."
He exhaled, his breath clouding the glass. "They didn't conquer this city. They bought it from the dead."
Caspian traced the raindrops with his gaze, following the streams down into the shadowed alleys.
"So they buried the old world beneath them."
"And made sure no one remembered where the graves were," Andrew finished.
The taxi pulled to a halt outside the ruined skeleton of the bar Julius had torn apart. The sign above hung by a single chain, groaning in the damp wind.
"Charming place," he muttered sarcastically. "Let's get this over with."
The tavern had been a wreck before. Now, it was a graveyard.
The rain thinned as they stepped from the taxi, but the air clung thick and sour, heavy with the stink of old smoke, damp wood, and something fouler beneath it all—coppery, pungent, unmistakable.
The place looked worse in the daylight. Shards of glass glittered on the slick pavement, the remains of windows that once tried to shut out the ugliness of the world outside. Now they only framed it.
Andrew moved first, boots crunching over the debris as he pushed open the splintered door. The hinges gave an exhausted groan. Inside, shadows stretched where sunlight could not reach, cast by the broken fixtures hanging from the ceiling like snapped bones.
They stepped into the wreckage cautiously, boots tracking crimson footprints over the blood-slick floor.
And then they heard him.
A wet, rattling cough, barely louder than a whisper.
Behind the bar, slumped like a discarded rag, was a man. His shirt, once white, was soaked a dark, sticky red, pooling beneath him in viscous rivers. He looked up as they approached, eyes clouded with pain, but still burning with stubborn awareness.
"Gregory," Andrew breathed. He crouched down swiftly, pressing two fingers to the man's neck.
A pulse—weak, erratic.
Gregory's lips peeled back in a grimace that might once have been a grin. "Look what... the cat dragged in," he rasped, voice shredded by agony.
Andrew cursed under his breath. "He needs a tourniquet, now."
Camael's voice echoed throughout the empty bar. "It's a waste of time, Andrew. He's bled out hours ago. Let him talk before he can't."
Gregory chuckled hollowly, a noise that bubbled in his throat. "Camael. Always a bastard."
Andrew ignored the insult, tightening the makeshift bandage around what was left of Gregory's arm. It looked like someone had hacked at him with brutal efficiency, as if the attack had been personal.
It was Caspian who finally broke the tense silence. "What happened here?"
Gregory's smile faded, leaving something hollow and bitter. "A bar fight turned massacre" he said grimly.
He coughed again, flecks of red splattering the counter. "He... walked in. Calm. Like he owned the place. Ordered whiskey... didn't even say a word. I didn't argue."
Andrew's jaw tightened. "And then?"
Gregory swallowed hard. "He complained about the whiskey... said it tasted like piss. Some fool in the corner heard him, insulted him back."
Gregory's eyes darkened, remembering. "That's when it all went to shit. Guy got up, came over to the man... called him all sorts of things. He didn't even look at him. Not at first. Then the guy attacked him."
Andrew's expression hardened, and he glanced at Caspian.
"Did he kill them?" Caspian asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.
Gregory gave a strained nod. "And the others. But it wasn't a fight. It was... something else. I don't know... he wasn't human. Didn't move like a man."
Andrew ignored the rising tension and turned to the back room. "Where are the bodies?"
Gregory gestured weakly toward the back, his breathing shallow. "Back there."
The pungent odor of blood grew stronger the further they ventured. They stopped at the threshold of the backroom, where bodies lay sprawled, like discarded sacks of meat. The blood was already starting to congeal, a darkened sea across the floor.
Caspian stepped closer, his gaze flickering over the carnage. He could feel his stomach twist, but he held it together, breathing slowly, methodically.
Andrew knelt by the nearest body and rolled it over.
Caspian's breath caught in his throat.
Carved deep into the chest of the victim was a symbol—a tattoo. No, not a tattoo, something far more horrifying. It was too raw, too visceral. A crude etching that bore the unmistakable shape of a child, a young boy, with an ice cream cone in his hand. Behind him, monstrous figures—demons—loomed in the shadows, their claws extended, threatening.
It was Julius's tattoo.
He knew this was Julius's doing even before he saw his handywork, this type of massacre fit his style all to well. However marking his kills was a little over the top, even for a man like Julius, who thrived on style and flash.
Andrew seemed momentarily taken aback, though he kept his expression neutral. He stood and wiped his hands on his pants as if to remove the sensation of death, of the tatoo, from his skin.
Camael, ever the arrogant one, moved over to inspect another body. "What is this? A goddamn game?"
"I don't know," Andrew muttered, his voice quieter than usual.
Gregory's eyes were clouded, but there was a weight to them, something knowing. "I don't... know what he was trying to say."
Andrew paused, and the air seemed to tighten around them. "What do you mean?"
Gregory's smile flickered again, this time more pained than mocking. "He didn't come in here to make some big statement about his power or even about Blackwood as most gangsters in the city do. He didn't care about that. He wasn't even interested in the people here, not really. He just... did what he did."
Andrew turned toward the door, his expression unreadable. "I think we're done here."
Outside, the rain had lightened, though the sky still hung heavy and bruised. The city loomed around them, soaked and tired, but unmoving.
Andrew's thoughts churned as they made their way to the taxi. There was so much they didn't understand. And the worst part? They didn't know how far this would go. How deep the darkness ran.
An intense storm ravaged Nimerath, the heavy rain pouring down in torrents that flooded the streets and rushed into the sewers beneath Main Street. Cars sped through the slick roads, tires hissing as they splashed through puddles. Pedestrians hurried along, their clothes soaked and umbrellas barely offering protection from the deluge. As the storm began to ease, the rain slowed to a steady drizzle, leaving the city damp and still. The air was thick with the scent of wet concrete as civilians trudged past the looming Blackwood Tower, its dark silhouette standing unmoved against the fading storm.
Down in the shadowed basement of Blackwood Tower, Julius stood completely dry, surrounded by the faint hum of distant machinery and the scent of cold stone. His movements were deliberate and controlled as he adjusted the final pieces of the explosive setup. Every wire, every switch, was in its exact place. He was almost finished.
The quiet buzz of his phone broke the silence. He glanced at the screen, then swiped it open, selecting the contact he had been waiting for.
The phone rang once before Lucille's voice answered, cool and sharp. "Did you do it?"
Julius's grin was subtle but unmistakable. "Of course. It's all set. The explosives are planted at the bottom of the Tower. Just a push, and it's over."
Lucille's laugh came through the line, dry and almost teasing. "Good. I knew you'd handle it. Everything's ready then?"
Julius tilted his head, his fingers brushing over the detonator. "Everything's ready. The foundation's set to go."
There was a brief silence before Lucille spoke again, her voice more focused now. "Caspian's doing his part, I trust?"
Julius couldn't help but chuckle, the sound laced with a sarcastic fondness. "Caspian's always doing his part. In fact, I'm surprised he hasn't gotten too attached to the idea of being more than just a tool. But he's proving useful. The boy's got a knack for this."
Lucille didn't seem fully satisfied with his casual response. "He's not a boy anymore, Julius. Don't forget that."
Julius smirked, unfazed by her sharp tone. "I know that, Lucille. But you have to admit, he has a way of being... unpredictable."
Lucille's voice tightened, though her irritation was masked with practiced indifference. "Just make sure everything goes according to plan. Caspian's role isn't optional. And yours is to finish this."
Julius's smirk only deepened. "Don't worry, Lucille. I've got it under control. The Tower will fall as scheduled. And when it does, it'll be the end of an era." He paused, allowing the weight of the words to settle. "And the beginning of something else."
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, as if Lucille was mulling over his words. "Just get it done, Julius. I'll take care of the rest."
"Of course," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "As always."
With that, he ended the call. The screen flickered briefly before he tucked the phone back into his pocket. He glanced one last time at the detonators, ensuring everything was perfectly in place. A small smile played on his lips. Everything was set. Blackwood Tower would soon be no more.
As Julius turned to leave the basement, the door creaked shut behind him. He couldn't shake the image of Caspian—team's little wonder boy. He was quite special indeed. They had given him a nickname some time ago. What was it again? The thought lingered, elusive, as he tried to recall.
A dark smile curled at the edges of Julius's lips, his mind lingering on the memory. He chuckled softly under his breath, the sound barely a murmur in the cold, dim air.
"The Blood-Soaked Moon," he whispered to himself, his voice carrying an odd fondness.
The door clicked shut, and the basement plunged into darkness once more.