Joan exhaled. Slowly. Softly.
The kind of breath you release when the universe gives you a second chance to make the same mistake—and you're still tempted to take it.
Of course it was him.
Michael Centarious. Poisoned but prancing. Seventeen and smug. Alive—and somehow still laughing.
Her fingers hovered near the dagger at her belt. The hilt was warm. Familiar.
She didn't draw it. Not yet.
Footsteps echoed again—closer this time. Deliberate. Unhurried. Like he was dancing with his own echoes.
"Nice place you've claimed, new maid. Real cozy—if your idea of comfort includes ancient blood rituals. "She didn't answer.
"Silent treatment?" he added. "Is this about the poisoning? Come on, I've had worse tea."
Still she waited—hidden in mist, crouched behind the throne. Breathing slow. Measured.
"I'm not mad," he continued. "Just... curious. You poison me, vanish into a cursed ruin, and what? Set up shop? Start a cult?"
Joan closed her eyes for a moment.
In any other place, she might've laughed.
Instead, she stood.
"Wrong," she said.
Mist unfurled from her fingertips as she stepped out from behind the throne, her silhouette forming slowly through the silver haze. She didn't rush. The fog moved at her will, veiling her features, parting only when she chose.
She walked in front of the throne and turned. With a steady grace, she lowered herself into the massive seat of black stone.
The throne embraced her like shadow swallowing light.
She leaned back—not regal, but relaxed. At home. Like she belonged there.
The mist coiled at her feet. Her presence filled the ancient hall, not with power—but with purpose.
Her gaze locked onto Michael—calm, cool, unreadable.
"You came alone," she said. "Or is this your way of testing how fast you can die?"
Michael tilted his head, eyes scanning the room like he might find a joke tucked in the architecture.
"What makes you think I came alone?" he said. "Might be a fatal assumption."
Joan leaned back slightly.
"My fog can feel everything that moves," she replied. "It's already filled the entire underground."
She let that hang for a breath, then added:
"Why do you think I let you talk so long? I wasn't entertained. I was listening."
Michael crossed his arms, tilting his head thoughtfully.
"Well, since you insist—tell me, how'd you find this place? I've lived here over a decade, and this is the first time I've even seen this room."
Joan didn't move.
"You don't actually expect me to answer your questions, do you?" she replied, dry as stone.
Michael shrugged. "Come on, if you're planning to kill me, might as well satisfy some curiosity first. That's just polite."
She leaned back against the black stone throne, mist curling at her shoulders like a living cloak. Then—reluctantly—she gave the faintest smile.
"Fine. Two questions. I'll answer two of yours if you answer two of mine."
"Perfect," Michael said with mock cheer. "You first."
She didn't hesitate.
"Why did that bloodhound of your family—Benjamin—return to the Blood Keep?"
Michael raised his brows. "Bloodhound? That's a bit rude. But alright. He was summoned by my father. Which, if you know how my family works, only means one thing."
She waited.
"The long war's ending," he finished.
Joan narrowed her eyes. "What makes you so sure?"
Michael smirked. "Do I take that as your second question?"
Her expression darkened, but she nodded slightly. "Go on. Your turn."
Michael took a casual step forward, hands behind his back.
"So tell me, why are you in the Blood Keep? You're not an assassin—at least not this time."
Joan burst into a short, sharp laugh. "Hah! You're sharper than you look, Centarious. But what makes you think I wasn't here to kill you? Maybe I'm just one of those 'stupid assassins' with better timing."
Michael pointed a finger at her. "Deflection. Classic. Answer the question, lady."
She tilted her head, the smile fading just enough to be dangerous. "I refuse."
Michael sighed theatrically. "And here I was hoping we'd finally be honest murder buddies."
Joan vanished from where she stood, her form dissipating into the swirling mist, the figure she had left behind on the throne now merging seamlessly with the fog. The entire hall was now completely engulfed—a thick, oppressive white haze that blurred every boundary, every familiar shape. The only thing that remained clear was Joan's presence, the mist flowing at her command.
She could feel everything in the hall, every movement beneath the fog—her senses sharp, even in the haze. Facing a five-seal Walker would be trivial for her. She had more than enough control over the mist to deal with such an opponent. But a Sky Walker? They were different. The ability to walk on space gave them freedom beyond anything a normal Walker possessed. If Michael managed to escape into the sky, the fog would lose its grip on him—and worse, she'd be left behind, exposed in the heart of the Blood Keep.
And if that happened, it wouldn't just be her failure to contain him. She would have to face Paul Luminath or Benjamin Centarious in open battle—two nightmares she had no intention of waking. The thought was enough to steel her focus.
She had waited long enough. The entire hall was covered. There was no escape for Michael—at least, not yet. She remained still, eyes scanning the swirling mist, prepared for whatever he might do next. For now, it was a game of patience. But when the time came, she would strike without hesitation
…
Michael was taken aback as he saw the figure of the maid disappear into the mist. The entire hall was now filled with fog, and then, suddenly, his attention was drawn to a hand reaching through the haze, a dagger coming straight at his face from above. He hadn't expected an attack from above.
But before the blade could strike, someone grabbed him by the arm—someone who had been standing quietly beside him the entire time—and pulled him to the ground. The dagger missed by inches.
Michael burst out laughing. "Ha! Hah! Almost died there! That would've been a hell of a way to go."
Joan, using the fog to sense everything in the room, froze. An old man—who had been standing silently beside Michael—was now the one who saved him from certain death.
"Who exactly is that?" Joan thought, narrowing her eyes. "Where the hell did he come from?"
Then, she heard Michael's terrifying voice, laced with amusement:
"Joan, remember when I said that thinking I came alone might be a fatal assumption?"