Stone steps spiraled into darkness, lit only by the flickering lantern in Thomas Dias' hand. The air hung damp and heavy with old magic and older secrets.
"Tell me, little fang," Thomas said, his voice echoing. "What did you do to make the girl poison you?"
Michael sighed and flared his cloak like a stage actor. "The usual. Sweet talk, light treason, and a jab at her tea-making. She wasn't amused."
Thomas chuckled. "Seventeen, aren't you? That age where heartbreak feels like death—and dagger-wielding girls become fascinating."
Michael scoffed, leaping down two steps. "If anyone believes you—mad Pope and mass murderer—are a sage in love, the world's worse off than I thought. And I'm not fascinated. I'm terrified. And mildly impressed."
"Yet here you are," Thomas said, "chasing her into the depths of a cursed Keep. Vengeance?"
Michael grinned. "Curiosity. If someone poisons you then vanishes into a haunted ruin, wouldn't you want to know why? Revenge is dull. Mystery's more fun."
Thomas laughed. "And here I thought books and pastries lured me along."
Michael glanced back. "Books, sure. But pastries? Please. You're just bored—and curious. A girl outwits Thomas Dias? You had to see for yourself."
Thomas smirked. "You see too much for your age."
"And you talk too much for yours," Michael said with a wink. "Now hush. If we want to surprise her, best not sound like clucking hens."
Thomas snorted. "Two fools, hunting a girl half your size."
Michael grinned wider. "Half my size—three times the trouble."
Their laughter echoed once, then slipped into the mist and stone below.
…
Beneath the castle stretched a vast, square-shaped hall—an ancient throne chamber lost to time. Its stonework had long faded into legend, yet faint light still shimmered from mana crystals embedded in the cracked walls. Their soft, cold glow washed the hall in pale blue, casting long, eerie shadows that clung to the forgotten corners.
The entrance lay at one end of the hall. At the farthest point, directly opposite the door, loomed the throne—an enormous stone chair, carved from a single slab of obsidian-hued rock. It rested high above the chamber, raised upon a staircase of twenty long, wide stone steps that climbed like a broken mountain toward power. Dust and time had not eroded its presence. Even in silence, it ruled.
In the center of the hall stood a great sacrificial altar, surrounded by four towering pillars, each wrapped in broken chains that looked strangely new—untouched by decay. Around them, encircling the altar like a ritual boundary, stood two dozen more ancient pillars. Many were half-shattered, but all were bound with new chains that reached inward, as though straining to hold something unimaginable in place.
It looked as if someone had once tried to bind a god here.
…
Joan knelt at the altar, brushing away layers of dust and dead insects with the hem of her maid's skirt. Her hands moved on instinct, but her gaze drifted upward—drawn to the massive stone throne looming at the far end of the hall. A shiver crept down her spine. Something about that empty seat felt... aware. Watching. Ancient. Patient.
Her fingers moved on autopilot, but her eyes kept drifting to the throne at the far end of the chamber. Massive. Empty. Watching. Perched atop a flight of cracked stone stairs, it loomed in the gloom like a relic waiting to be remembered. Something about it felt wrong. Ancient. Awake.
She tore her gaze away with a scowl and muttered a curse under her breath.
She wore the same maid's garb she'd used to sneak poison into Michael's cup—not that she regretted it. If anything, she still considered it a small gift to the world. What she did regret was the aftermath: two nights trapped in this reeking tomb of rats and shadows, wrapped in cold, silence, and the stench of bat piss.
…
A deep, groaning creak rolled through the chamber like thunder.
Joan stiffened.
The ancient doors at the far end of the hall were opening—slow, heavy, and dragging stone as if the castle itself protested the movement. No one should've been coming through those doors. Not at this hour. Not into this place.
Her hand flew to the dagger at her waist.
She ducked low, slipping behind the altar's far side, where the shadows were thick and deep. From this angle, she'd be hidden from anyone coming from the throne. Whoever it was, they hadn't come from above—but from the entrance.
It's not my brother, she told herself. He'd already been here, just an hour ago. And whatever else he was—arrogant, reckless, loud—he wasn't stupid. He wouldn't return.
So who had come?
She held her breath and peered through a thin crack between two stones.
Then she saw them.
A pair of eyes—dim, smoldering, red as coals—gliding forward from the shadows beyond the threshold.
Her heart lurched. For a moment, it stopped. Then it began to race, wild and hammering against her ribs like it wanted to escape her chest.
One name roared through her mind before thought even formed:
Benjamin Centarious.
The Azrael of the South.
The Angel of Death.
Even after poisoning Michael, this—this—was why she hadn't run. Why she hadn't tried to cut her way out and vanish. She hadn't feared the guards. Or the dungeons. Or even the Duke.
But him?
Everyone feared him.
Commoners called him the devil's warhound. Nobles named him butcher and blade. Her brother had once described him with a single word: untouchable.
And now he was here.
In the dark.
Without hesitation, Joan activated her magic—vanishing behind a veil of fog. She was a Mist Binder, able to summon and shape mist to conceal herself. As the name implied, Binders were trained users of new magic, born without bloodlines or blessings. Unlike Walkers, who inherited their powers through divine or half-blood ancestry, Binders drew their strength from training and discipline.
According to myth, the world was forged by two divine forces: the Maker, the cosmic father who created existence, and the Goddess of Night, the mother who gave it life. From them came two kinds of magic.
Old Magic, born of the Mother, flowed through the blood of Walkers—those born with ancient, instinctive power.
New Magic, born of the Father, was harnessed by Binders—those who formed a core by absorbing mana from the world around them, and learned to control the elements: fire, earth, water, air, even trees and mist.
Mist bloomed from Joan's fingertips, thick and fast, rolling across the ancient stone floor like a living thing. She didn't wait. Fear twisted in her gut as she dashed toward the towering throne at the far end of the hall, praying—to the Goddess of Good and Fortune, and anyone else who happened to be listening—that she would live long enough to regret her life choices.
Within five seconds, the great door's groan had faded, swallowed by fog, and the entire chamber was shrouded in silver haze. Then came the sound she dreaded: the echo of boots striking stone—calm, steady, and impossibly loud in the silence.
She slid behind the massive throne just in time, pressing her back against its cold surface, breathing hard.
Then a voice rang through the mist. Smooth. Teasing. Familiar.
"Where are you, my dear tea-maker? Hiding from me again, or still plotting with your precious nutmeg?"
Joan froze. Her heart stuttered. Then, slowly, her fear melted into something else—something far more dangerous.
A smile.
She was no longer hiding from Benjamin Centarious, the Azrael of the South.
She was hiding from him.
And she knew that voice anywhere.
Michael.