"How can I believe you?" Alfred's voice cracked through the still air, sharp and furious.
He took a step closer to Nyros, fists clenched at his sides. "That girl on the execution platform told me my father was Gao. And now you're standing here, telling me some guy named Robert was my father? Who am I supposed to believe?"
His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, every word laced with disbelief and pain.
"I've known my father since childhood. He was a farmer... humble, kind. He died when Nicolo and I were still boys. You—" his voice faltered only for a second before rising again, "—you expect me to forget everything I lived through? Everything I remember? I don't believe you. I don't believe you at all."
His face was flushed with rage. The anger in his eyes burned bright, unshakable, and his trembling hands betrayed just how deeply this truth had shaken him.
Nyros, calm and unmoved, stared back into Alfred's blazing eyes—and smiled.
"You will know," he said softly.
Alfred blinked, taken aback by the strange calm in Nyros's voice. Then, he saw it.
Nyros's eyes began to shift, turning a deep, unnatural red—glowing with the same eerie light Alfred had seen once before. On that cursed ship. His breath caught. A cold mist began to curl around his legs, climbing up his body like invisible vines.
Suddenly, Alfred couldn't move.
His arms hung useless at his sides, his muscles frozen in place. His voice—gone. Panic surged in his chest as he realized: Nyros was using that power again. The same terrifying force that once gripped him like a puppet.
Inside his mind, Alfred screamed.
"So this is the power... of Arqui."
---
"So... you're awake."
The voice stirred Nicolo from the haze of his dreams. His eyes fluttered open, vision swimming as the world around him settled into focus. A sharp ache pulsed through his body, and dizziness clouded his thoughts.
He blinked, then rasped, "Who...?"
A figure stood nearby, regal and commanding, silhouetted against the golden morning light that filtered through the tent's opening.
"I am the King," the voice replied calmly.
At once, Nicolo's senses sharpened. He tried to rise but winced from the pain that gripped his limbs. Still, he forced himself upright and bowed his head weakly.
"My lord..." he murmured.
The King stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Easy, Nicolo. You've been unconscious for six days. We found you on the shore, barely breathing."
He paused, then asked with grave concern, "Do you remember anything? What happened out there—on that ship? What happened to the guards... and to your brother?"
Nicolo's breath caught.
The memories came flooding back, crashing into him like a violent wave.
He remembered the ship.
The fog rolling in like death itself.
A figure—shrouded in mist, dark and unearthly.
A sword… wicked and otherworldly, carved with symbols that seemed to scream. He had only glimpsed it for a second, but its shape was burned into his mind—its aura unnatural and terrifying.
Then… the attack.
He and Alfred had been overwhelmed. The guards were thrown aside like broken dolls. That man—whoever he was—had taken Alfred.
"That man…" Nicolo whispered, his voice shaking. "He came from the mist. He knocked us out… all of us. I saw him—just for a moment. His sword… it wasn't normal. It was like a curse forged into steel."
His hands trembled as the fear returned, crawling beneath his skin.
"He took Alfred," he said, eyes wide. "He kidnapped my brother."
A chill ran down Nicolo's spine, gripping his heart with icy fingers.
He remembered everything now.
And something inside him knew—
This was only the beginning.