Through the narrow window above the racks, Amadeus stood watching. His face was unreadable.

Abnet followed Lucian's gaze, then lowered his weapon. "Again," he said.

They resumed the drill, but the rhythm had shifted. Every motion felt careful now, deliberate. Lucian parried, stepped in, stepped back — but the air felt heavier than before.

When they finished the round, Lucian finally spoke. "Why'd he do that? Just stand there and watch?"

Abnet didn't look up from his stance. "He does that more often than you'd think."

Lucian frowned, spinning his staff once before catching it under his arm. "He could've said something. Given a word, a correction, anything. Guess he's too important for that, huh?"

Abnet's eyes flicked to him. "Still hoping he'll teach you himself?"

Lucian's grin faltered, but he tried to brush it off. "You're not a bad teacher, Abnet. It's just—"

"—you want to learn faster," Abnet finished for him, his tone calm but weighted.

Lucian didn't argue. They both knew it was true. Amadeus was an Arkspren — bonded to an Archean whose Arche had been shaped for mastery. How could Abnet compete with that?

A long pause hung between them. Lucian glanced toward the window again, though Amadeus was already gone.

He shifted the staff in his hands. "You said he's your adoptive father. Why don't you call him that?"

Abnet took his time before replying. "I lost that privilege long ago."

The silence that followed seemed to press against the walls. Lucian could still feel Amadeus's presence beyond the glass, like a shadow that hadn't left.

Abnet picked up his staff again. "Come earlier next time. We've got a lot to cover."

Lucian nodded and stepped aside, breathing harder than the drill should've left him. The training had ended — but the unease hadn't.

What did he see in me?

He left without another word.

— — —

Dinner had been quiet.

Vencian spoke little and left the table before the servants cleared the plates.

He entered his room with Quenya floating behind him. Her glow dimmed as the door closed.

He crossed to the far wall. The curtain covering it swayed when he pulled the cord. Behind it, the wall was covered with chalk writing and parchments pinned by dull nails. Threads of red, blue, and yellow crossed the surface like veins.

He scanned the board. English words covered it. That was intentional. Nobody else in the mansion could read them.

Quenya hovered near his shoulder. "You think you'll find any epiphany tonight?"

He stared at the section labeled Before Moonfrost.

"Maybe."

It has become a routine for him now to inspect each detail before and after his transmigration again and again. In the hope that maybe he'll get an idea in which direction he has to step his feet in.

His finger traced the words He lied to his mother about staying at the monastery before coming to the mansion.

He had written it weeks ago but still had no lead.

"After the break started," he said it more to himself than to Quenya, "and before he reached the Moonfrost mansion, he disappeared for several days. If he wasn't in the monastery, then where was he?"

Quenya folded her arms. "Could he have been preparing the ritual you found later?"

"Of course, that's the first guess. But I need evidence."

She tilted her head. "You're afraid the answer might prove he knew what he was doing."

He looked at her. "Wouldn't you be?"

"No. Fear wastes time. Focus on what connects those missing days with what came next."

He shifted to the next section. Chalk circles surrounded the words Three days locked in room after Caesor's arrest.

"Blood ritual," he read aloud. "Where did he learn it?"

Quenya's voice softened. "I think someone taught him how." He paused. "And that someone might still be alive."

He drew a line between Blood ritual and Moon pattern. The chalk scraped against the wall.

"The night I arrived, that pattern appeared on the moon. The dead demigod Erythareon said he led me to the cave, but he never said he created the pattern itself."

Quenya circled once in the air. "One thing that's for sure is that it wasn't a human work."

He stopped writing. "What else could it be? Another God?"

"Something older. Something that may have used your arrival for its own purpose."

He didn't like that answer. If I was planned by something beyond either of us, then I was never in control nor do I think I will be any time soon.

He turned to the next section, marked with a faded blue thread. "Father and Moses. Killed after their names were cleared."

"Revenge," Quenya said.

"Too easy," he replied. "Montaro would gain nothing. Ortega was under watch. Killing them after the trial risked everything."

"So what are you saying?"

"From the analysis done after witnessing the place they were killed at, at least it can be confirmed that it was an Arkspren's work. But they used their powers in a way, it's harder to track which Arche their Archean belongs to. One thing we can be certain about is that someone wanted them silenced, not punished."

She frowned. "That sounds the same to me."

He stepped back. "It isn't."

For a moment they said nothing. The ticking of the wall clock filled the pause.

He spoke again. "After that, there's nothing unusual. Then we reach Coriel."

He pointed to a list written in tighter script:

Fallen of the FatefulTemple in the dreamEspara'Your God'Taste of genesis

Each word made the air heavier. He'd already talked with Quenya about whether she knew if they meant anything. Especially the word Espara. That's what the demigod called her.

Quenya hovered close to the board. "These five. You think they link?"

"They must. But I can't see how."

"Maybe you're forcing it," she said.

He turned to her. "And maybe you're underestimating how organized this all looks. The god called me Fallen of the Fateful. Maybe it meant I was meant to fall, not chosen to."

Quenya's glow dimmed slightly. "Or it saw what you were already becoming."

He looked down at his hands. The mark on his palm faintly ached. "Then why brand me?"

"To keep you aware of it," she said quietly. "Not to remind you who you were—who you're becoming."

He was silent for a moment. "Then what am I supposed to do with that?"

Her tone stayed even. "Start with a better question."

He frowned. "What's the right one?"

"Why did he erase himself completely and spare you when he noticed you'd made a pact with me."

That silenced him.

He stared at the board again, eyes moving from the blood ritual note to the moon pattern, then to the list of phrases.

If all this connects, he thought, then I'm not tracing a murder. I'm tracing a design.

But saying that aloud would make it real.

Quenya watched him for a while, then said quietly, "You're thinking in straight lines again. It's no better than all the time we've gone over it again and again."

Vencian's eyes moved across the board again, tracing the web of chalk lines and colored threads that linked one mystery to another. His gaze followed the red line curving toward the corner where Coriel was written. That was where his thoughts stopped.

"Things started going awry once we reached there," he said. "Most of all, the timing."

Quenya drifted near the chalk marks. "Roselys picked the date."

"Yes. The festival of Solace. End of harvest." He rubbed the chalk between his fingers. "Coincidentally, that's when the villagers performed their rituals. If that was a coincidence at all."

He drew a small circle beside Festival of Solace.

"Then came the cult and the rogue Arkspren," he said. "Out of nowhere. They said they were after the chalice, but that raises one question."

"Why this year?" Quenya said.

"Exactly." He faced her. "If the chalice was always there, where were they before? Why attack only now?"

Quenya folded her arms. "You think Roselys triggered it?"

He shook his head and paused, thinking. The answer took shape slowly. Someone used her. The realization clicked, cold and sudden.

"No. I doubt that." He spoke. "She said she has some trusted sources. The one who gave her the lead to the village."

She tilted her head. "You think they're the same one the cult used?"

"Yes. If that's true, then that trusted source connects both sides."

"Which makes them the key to find more about the dotted pentagram cult." He tapped the chalk against the board, leaving pale dust on his sleeve. "And right now, only Roselys can tell me who that source is."

Quenya's tone turned cautious. "You're planning to use her again."

"I'm planning to survive."

"That sounds like the same thing."

He ignored the remark and continued. "Another conclusion. Seris is connected to that five-dotted group. The tattoo, the message on her desk, the timing. Everything fits."

She watched him think, her voice hesitant. "I know we talked about it before but let me ask again. Do you really think we should keep digging into this. You saw what happened in Coriel. That wasn't human."

— — —

Author's Note: Apologies for the inconsistent updates over the past few days. I've been dealing with some real-life issues, but I'll do my best to sort things out soon and get back on track.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.