A hush fell over the narrow alley as the two men locked eyes.
"You… You are—" stammered Alvaric, his voice barely above a whisper.
Emery blinked in disbelief. "Alvaric! I thought you were dead!"
"I was, I was," Alvaric replied, a soft chuckle rumbling from deep within his chest. There was warmth in his eyes—unexpected, almost fatherly. "But I heard the same of you, Emery."
A pang of unease struck Emery like a sudden gust of cold wind. He glanced over his shoulder. Had anyone seen them? Had anyone overheard? If word got out that he was here—alive—it would be dangerous. Fatal, even.
"I heard they took your life," Alvaric continued, lowering his voice. "Said you were the Death Dealer. But I suppose… the same miracle that brought you back must've touched me as well."
"What do you mean?" Emery asked warily.
Alvaric tilted his head, a cryptic smile forming. "The Death Dealer brought you back, did he not?"
"I guess so.. And what about you?" he then asked. "I must admit, I didn't expect to find you in such… a state."
Alvaric's once-fine garments were reduced to coarse robes patched at the sleeves. His boots had long since surrendered to wear, and his beard—unkempt, wild—spoke of years without a blade. Around him, the alley was damp and foul, lined with empty clay jugs and gnawed bones. A rat darted past, unbothered by their presence. This was not the life of a nobleman.
Alvaric's expression softened. "You see," he said, placing a hand over his chest, "the Alvaric you once knew… was killed by the Death Dealer."
Emery frowned. "What do you mean?"
"During the time i was dead, i reflected and reflected and reflected. On my life. On life itself."
Emery raised a brow. "And what conclusion did that bring you to?"
"That I am nothing, and in realizing that, I became everything. At which point, I opened my eyes, and I found myself here, among the living once more."
Emery could not hide the awe in his gaze. "I was about to say… You've not only changed in appearance, but in spirit too. I still can't believe I'm speaking to you, Alvaric!"
The older man laughed, open and genuine. "It is me, I assure you! I merely made a vow of poverty, nothing more. I found it the surest way to keep my pride at bay. And I chose to remain here, in Culogh, where everyone remembers who I once was… for the sake of humiliation."
"Humiliation?" Emery echoed.
"The pawn, the lowliest and least powerful piece on the board, can rise in status and gain great power. But even if it does, it should never overestimate itself, because at the end of the day, we are all pawns on God's board, Emery. Humiliation is like a reminder that i'm just a pawn."
Was this truly the same man? Could a person change so utterly?
"So you gave up your fortune? Your title?" said Emery.
"When the world thought me dead, they devoured what I left behind like vultures. My holdings were divided, my name erased from the noble rolls. But I saw that as a gift from the heavens."
Emery lowered his gaze. Despite Alvaric's serenity, a great weight settled on his own shoulders. He felt it keenly now—responsibility. Had he caused all of this?
"I… I'm not very religious myself," Emery said quietly, "But I'm glad you found something that works for you.."
"Everyone would have begged to board Noah's ark," Alvaric suddenly said slowly, "once they saw the flood was real."
Emery frowned.
"No one praised Noah, peace be upon him, for 'finding what worked for him.'"
The silence that followed was heavy. And then—
A sharp turn of boots against cobblestones. The clinking of steel. Emery's eyes darted to the mouth of the alley. A group of guards had turned the corner, heading their way.
"Alvaric—I must go," Emery said quickly, pulling up his hood.
Alvaric, already glancing at the same guards, gave a single solemn nod. "I understand. Farewell to you, young Emery."
"Please… don't speak of this meeting to anyone."
"Of course," Alvaric said gently, placing a hand over his heart. "God willing… you still have time, young Emery. Do not waste it. You still have time…"
Emery turned, vanishing into the shadows, his heart heavy with both guilt and wonder.
Behind him, the old noble—now a beggar, now a mystic—watched him go, and whispered into the stillness:
"We all do. Until we don't."
The wheels of the caravan creaked over the cracked and dusty road, its iron-rimmed spokes groaning under the weight of its prisoner. Leather reins snapped softly in the hands of Wilfred and Obe, seated at the helm, guiding the horses through the narrowing path. The skies were low with heavy clouds, and the wind carried the scent of distant rain.
Behind them, three riders flanked the wagon: Oswin, Wymond, and Ulric—armed, alert, and silent.
Oswin cast a glance toward the iron-barred cage fastened to the caravan. Inside, Batin lay slumped in shadow, his tunic stained with dried blood, one hand gone—cleanly severed. His remaining hand twitched once in his sleep, as if dreaming of pain.
Oswin's voice broke the quiet:
"I still cannot believe it... The Death Dealer had no interest in vengeance."
Wymond scoffed, eyes narrowed beneath his hood. "That's almost admirable," he said. "A man who doesn't care about losing..."
"He seems to prioritize his mission over his pride" said Wilfred. Ulric added with a raised brow: "Strange, isn't it? A man who acts less like a man, and more like... an idea. But perhaps that's what resolve truly looks like."
Their leader slowed his steed to ride beside the wagon. The Witch Hunter. Cloaked in dark leathers and silence, he had barely spoken since morning. Now, he turned in his saddle, his gaze falling sharply on the cage.
"And it is that same resolve," he said coldly, "that will be his undoing."
They reached a fork in the road, where the trail split like the veins of a leaf. Here, the party came to a halt. The Witch Hunter dismounted. His boots struck the earth with purpose as he gave his orders:
"We divide from here, as planned. Wymond, Ulric—you remain with me. Oswin, you ride with Wilfred and Obe. Head to Goltor. Set camp near the West Gate. Await our signal."
Oswin gave a respectful nod. "Understood."
"The next time we meet," the Witch Hunter continued, his voice low and absolute, "the Death Dealer shall be in chains." A tense silence settled, broken only by the soft whinnying of horses.
The men nodded, but doubt danced behind their eyes. A shadow of hesitation. Sensing it, the Witch Hunter raised his voice—not in anger, but with the cool fire of conviction.
"Remember! we got him the first time. He only got away because of our ignorance of the extent of his power. Now we know more, we know better! Let's put an end to his reign and let us rejoice in Victory !"
The riders gave a shout in unison: "YES, SIR!"
"And if there's one thing he prioritizes over anything else, it's being a coward. Let's get him now !" Then, they split—two groups riding in opposite directions, boots thudding against stirrups, hooves striking the earth like war drums.
The stone corridors beneath the palace were colder than death.
Cloaked in a robe of dark velvet, Chancellor Gerold descended alone, his boots echoing against the damp flagstones. The torches along the walls were fewer here, their flames guttering against the draft that hissed through the narrow hall. Dust clung to the arches above him, and the deeper he went, the older the stones looked—untouched by renovation, forgotten by time.
Just nerves. Or perhaps a sign of the times. The torchlight threw long shadows, and for a moment, he imagined footsteps—soft, trailing him just a breath too slow to hear. But the corridor remained still. His head snapped back more than once, eyes scanning the empty passage behind him. He paused at every turn.
Finally, he reached an unmarked wall—smooth, unlike the others. A faint click. He pressed his palm into a specific groove. Stone shifted with a grinding groan, and a hidden door creaked open to reveal a spiraling staircase carved into the bedrock itself. No torchlight here. Gerold lit a small lantern, and descended slowly into the deeper dark.
Ash, sweat, and blood.
The scent changed.
At the bottom of the stair, he entered a narrow chamber lit only by a single brazier. The flickering light revealed iron hooks in the walls, chains crusted with old rust, and a table stained dark with things best not named. The screams had long faded—but their ghosts still lingered in the air.
"That's enough for now. Return him to his cell." Gerold's voice was low and smooth.
A man stood over a broken figure slumped in a chair, head lolling, body barely alive. The interrogator wore no armor, only leather gloves slick with blood, and a cloth mask to hide his identity. The interrogator bowed his head and began unfastening the straps.
"Report," Gerold ordered, not looking at the prisoner again.
The man spoke as he worked. "I've extracted a confession from Salfur."
Gerold raised an eyebrow.
"He broke. Near the end." A pause. "He's dead now. Body gave out. But I got what I needed before he lost his tongue." The Chancellor's face twitched slightly. "Let's hear it "
The interrogator turned toward him, the brazier's fire illuminating the mask.
"He spoke of a relic. Old—ancient. Something he wasn't supposed to know about. He heard whispers about it from a Northern contact. Said he was warned never to speak of it again."
"A relic...?" Gerold nodded slowly.
"I want you to look into every report from the Northern borders in the last five years. Any mention of ruins. Disappearances. Secret excavations. Anything related to forgotten gods or lost magic."
"Understood."
Gerold turned away, his cloak dragging across the cold stone. "Let's see what they've been hiding… and who's been hiding it."