Three years.

  Three years of seeing the sun as nothing but a sliver of gold through a slit of reinforced glass.

  Three years of breathing air so sterile it might as well have been recycled through the lungs of dead men.

  Three years of waiting—not for freedom, not for forgiveness, but for the world to forget he existed.

  It should have broken him.

  Maybe, in some ways, it had.

  But Delacroix had been broken long before they ever locked the door.

  He sat in the darkest corner of his cell, cross-legged, a book resting in his lap.

  The Theory of the Day-Night Cycle.

  His fingers skimmed the pages, barely reading, more out of habit than curiosity.

  "The artificial day-night cycle dictates that survival is contingent upon an uninterrupted source of illumination. Without it, the human psyche deteriorates, leading to—"

  The words meant nothing.

  Nothing compared to the first book he had touched in this place.

  The Scriptures of Elythea.

  At first, he had read it because he was bored.

  Then, because he was curious.

  Then, because he needed to know.

  He had spent his entire life hearing the same sermon, the same whispered condemnations:

  The Goddess hates you. The Light rejects you. The world would be cleaner without you.

  So he had searched.

  Page after page. Verse after verse.

  And he had found nothing.

  Not a single scripture cursing him. No holy decree marking his kind for suffering.

  So if the Goddess never said it—

  Who did?

  The sound of steel on steel.

  The cell door’s slot slid open.

  "On your feet."

  Delacroix didn’t move at first. He let his fingers linger on the pages for just a second longer—then he closed the book and stood.

  Without being asked, he stepped forward and offered his wrists.

  The shackles locked tight.

  The door slid open.

  "You’ve got a visitor."

  The halls of Valkarn Prison were monolithic and dead.

  Steel and concrete. Cold, lifeless symmetry.

  The guards led him through four steel doors, their footsteps a rhythm of unforgiving efficiency.

  Above them, past the iron walkways, inmates whispered.

  Delacroix Teorista Del Gallian.

  The Butcher of Al-Miraj.

  The last door buzzed.

  "Visitation Unit 04."

  The lock unlatched.

  And there, sitting behind the bulletproof glass—

  Araeius Braythar.

  A golden Inquisition badge sat on the table in front of him.

  Delacroix exhaled slowly.

  Of course.

  He could already feel where this was going.

  The guard nudged him toward the seat. He sat without resistance, shackles clanking as he reached for the receiver.

  Araeius did the same.

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  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Delacroix adjusted the receiver against his ear. His voice was quiet, almost indifferent.

  "I told you, you don’t have to keep coming here."

  Araeius exhaled through his nose. Adjusted the phone in his grip.

  "I heard you."

  Delacroix tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for something.

  Araeius cleared his throat. "How’ve you been, bruv? Last time I saw you was—"

  "Almost a year ago."

  A flicker of guilt crossed Araeius’ face. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Been caught up. But I’ve got some news to share with you, though."

  He reached into his pocket. Placed the badge onto the glass.

  The crest of the Inquisition.

  Delacroix didn’t react.

  Didn’t tilt his head. Didn’t acknowledge it.

  He just let the silence stretch.

  Then—

  "Inquisition, huh?"

  Araeius nodded. "Yeah. I’m a Templar now."

  Delacroix finally adjusted the receiver in his hand.

  "So what’s that mean exactly?"

  Araeius squared his shoulders. "My job is to identify and eliminate rogue magic users, apostates, and—"

  "That right?"

  The words were smooth, but the weight behind them made Araeius shift.

  Delacroix exhaled slowly, resting his forearms against the table.

  "Well, I’m happy for you."

  Araeius frowned. "You don’t sound happy."

  Delacroix gave a small shrug.

  Araeius let the moment pass. "What about you?"

  Delacroix adjusted his posture.

  "Not bad. My mom finally cut a deal. They’re releasing me next week."

  Araeius blinked. Sat up straighter.

  "Holy shit, bruv. That’s—" He caught himself. Exhaled. "That’s great to hear."

  Delacroix didn’t react.

  "You don’t seem thrilled," Araeius said carefully.

  Delacroix tilted his head, as if considering the words. Then, flatly—

  "What’s there to be thrilled about?"

  Araeius frowned. "You’re getting out. You can start over."

  Delacroix exhaled, slow.

  "I’m a darkie returning to a society that hates people like me."

  Araeius went still.

  Delacroix continued, voice smooth, clinical.

  "Where I’m at, the only ones I have to worry about are the guards. The other inmates?" He tilted his head. "They treat me fairly. Dare I say it, with respect."

  His head turned slightly, the blindfold catching the light.

  "Now why do you think that is?"

  Araeius had no answer.

  Delacroix could feel it.

  A slow smile played at the edge of his lips.

  "You ever ask yourself that?"

  Araeius clenched his jaw.

  Then, softly—

  "I read the Scriptures in here, you know."

  Araeius frowned. "What?"

  Delacroix leaned forward, the shackles clanking softly as he moved.

  "Not once did I find a passage that said the Goddess hates me. And yet, I’ve been hearing it my entire life."

  A pause.

  "Funny, isn’t it?"

  Araeius’ grip tightened on the receiver.

  Delacroix tilted his head.

  "You serve her now, don’t you?"

  Araeius clenched his teeth. "I do."

  Delacroix nodded slowly, like he had just confirmed something to himself.

  Then, he leaned in.

  "Call them what you will. Criminals, killers, outcasts. But at least they’re honest about it."

  Araeius didn’t move.

  Delacroix’s voice dropped lower, his tone sharp as a razor.

  "What do you call the men who sent us to kill an entire village?"

  A muscle in Araeius’ jaw twitched. "Don’t do this, Del."

  Delacroix ignored him.

  "You think your church is that honest?"

  Araeius didn’t answer.

  Because there was no good answer.

  Delacroix sat back, the ghost of a smirk curling at his lips.

  "That’s what I thought."

  Araeius’ fist slammed against the glass.

  Once.

  Twice.

  "Damn you!" His voice cracked with frustration. "I came to you as a brother! Not to be fucking berated!"

  Delacroix’s voice turned ice-cold.

  "You came here to make yourself feel good."

  Araeius inhaled sharply.

  Delacroix leaned forward again. "Three men stood trial for Al-Miraj. And only one was named a butcher."

  The words cut like a blade.

  Delacroix exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

  "Fuck you." His voice was almost soft. "Fuck your Goddess."

  Then, he placed the receiver down.

  And without another word, he walked away.

  Leaving Araeius alone.

  Delacroix returns to his cell. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Delacroix stood in the center of it, the weight of the moment settling over him like an old coat.

  Three years.

  Three years of concrete and steel. Three years of routine, of silence, of watching men come and go, buried beneath sentences longer than their lifespans.

  And now?

  One more week.

  Then, the world.

  He sat down on his cot, back against the wall. Exhaled.

  From the next cell over, a voice cut through the quiet.

  “Braythar again?”

  Delacroix didn’t answer right away.

  The voice belonged to Chan—a Fengjianese man with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. No one knew what he’d done to end up in Valkarn, and no one was dumb enough to ask.

  Delacroix sighed. “Yeah.”

  Chan chuckled. “Man’s got faith. I’ll give him that.”

  Silence.

  Then—Chan shifted, the sound of fabric against stone. Casual. Thoughtful.

  “Word is you’re getting out soon.”

  Delacroix leaned his head back against the cold wall. “That’s what they tell me.”

  Chan let out a low whistle. “Three years in the Vault. Surprised you’re not dead or mad.”

  Delacroix gave the smallest shrug. “Maybe I am.”

  Chan laughed softly. “Well, shit. Maybe we all are.”

  The silence stretched just long enough to mean something.

  Then—Chan’s voice again, smooth, easy.

  “So, back to the castle?”

  There it was.

  The unspoken thing.

  Delacroix’s fingers flexed. The words should’ve come easy—but they didn’t.

  He could say yes. Could lie. Could pretend the name Gallian meant something to him still.

  Instead—

  “I don’t know.”

  Chan made a small noise, like he’d been expecting that answer.

  “That’s a funny thing.” His voice was lighter now, teasing. “A prince with no throne.”

  Delacroix smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Not much of a prince.”

  Chan chuckled. “Not much of a throne either.”

  Delacroix let out a slow breath.

  Chan shifted again, voice turning conspiratorial.

  “Listen, since you’re out soon—” A pause. “If you need work, I can hook you up.”

  Delacroix arched a brow. “Oh?”

  Chan nodded, though Delacroix couldn’t see it.

  “I know people. People who could use a guy like you.”

  Delacroix leaned forward slightly, his blindfold catching the dim light.

  “The Butcher?”

  Chan didn’t confirm or deny. He just let the name hang.

  Delacroix didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t say no, either.

  Chan hummed.

  “Figured.”

  Another pause. Then, as if reading his mind—

  “Looking for someone?”

  Delacroix hesitated.

  Then, quietly—

  “Roland Thorne.”

  Chan let out a breath.

  Not surprise. Not curiosity. Understanding.

  “Figures.”

  Another pause. Then—

  “You know how it is, your highness. No free lunch.”

  Delacroix nodded. He’d been expecting that. “What’s the cost?”

  Chan leaned forward, and when he spoke, his voice changed.

  It was sharper, quieter, older.

  “You ever hear about the Rōnin Order?”

  The silence after was absolute.

  Delacroix’s head lifted slightly, like he was hearing his own fate unfold.

  And for the first time in three years—

  He had a direction.

  A reason.

  And when he spoke, it was with the certainty of a man already walking toward the dark.

  “…Tell me more.”