Three years.

  That’s how long it had been since Delacroix had seen the horizon.

  Valkarn wasn’t just a prison. It was a graveyard built on rock and sea, a place where men were exiled to be forgotten. The outside world did not exist here. The only ones who lived beyond its walls were the guards and their families, housed in a town that clung to the prison like a parasite—a town that did not welcome the men who left it.

  And now, Delacroix was walking out.

  The officer at the processing desk slid the duffel bag across the counter. "Sign here."

  Delacroix’s fingers curled around the pen. It felt foreign in his hand, like something he’d forgotten how to use.

  The officer barely glanced at him. "That’s all you had when you came in."

  Delacroix slung the bag over his shoulder. It was lighter than he remembered—because he was lighter than he remembered. The weight of a soldier had been stripped from him piece by piece. What waited in that bag? A folded uniform that no longer belonged to him. A knife he wasn’t allowed to carry. A pair of dog tags that meant nothing now.

  He walked forward.

  The last checkpoint.

  A steel door, thick enough to hold back the ocean if the island ever drowned.

  The guard hit the switch. The door groaned.

  Light flooded in.

  Delacroix inhaled sharply. His whole body went rigid.

  Even through the blindfold, the brightness stabbed into his skull, too much, too fast. His first instinct was to step back—his body rejecting the thing he had once craved.

  Instead, he forced himself forward.

  Outside was not freedom.

  It was just a different kind of cage.

  The air smelled of salt and iron, the brine of an unforgiving sea. The dock stretched into the water, small and functional—built for transport ships, not people.

  No one had come to see him off.

  But the guards watched. They lingered at the edges, pretending to be going about their business, but their eyes told the truth.

  They did not see a man. They saw something that should have never been let out.

  And then—a silhouette waiting near a black car.

  Princess Melianna Del Gallian.

  His mother.

  She was still, hands clasped before her, dressed in dark fabrics lined with gold. Even here, on this godforsaken rock, she carried herself with the quiet dignity of a royal.

  But when she saw him, the formality broke.

  She moved first, closing the space between them, and wrapped her arms around him.

  Tight. Unshaken. A mother’s embrace.

  Delacroix hesitated.

  His arms hovered—uncertain. Then, slowly, he brought them around her.

  A second too late.

  Melianna exhaled, a breath heavy with three years of waiting.

  "Let’s get you home."

  The drive from the prison dock to the Archgriffin’s private bay was silent.

  The car rumbled over the uneven roads, passing through the lifeless town that surrounded Valkarn. This was not a place where people chose to live. This was a place they were assigned to.

  And the people knew who he was.

  From behind curtains and through shop windows, they watched.

  Princess Melianna, the golden saint of Gallian, had come to pick up her son. The Butcher of Al-Miraj.

  Delacroix didn’t look at them.

  The car climbed up to the private dock, where the Archgriffin loomed over the sea like a waiting leviathan. A symbol of wealth and power. The same ship that had flown him to trial three years ago.

  The same ship that had abandoned him here.

  The driver stepped out first, moving to open the door for Melianna.

  Delacroix let himself out before anyone could do it for him.

  The driver hesitated, then reached for his duffel bag.

  Delacroix’s grip tightened. "I’ve got it."

  They boarded.

  Inside, the parlour was everything Valkarn was not.

  Soft carpets, gold and velvet furnishings, a world that had never known a prison cell. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the lounge, offering a clear view of the water.

  Delacroix stepped forward, setting his duffel down.

  Outside the window, the prison still loomed in the distance—a grey monolith against the water, unmoved by the fact that he had left it behind.

  It did not look smaller, even from here.

  Melianna's voice was soft. "Are you hungry?"

  Delacroix turned his head slightly. Considering. Then—

  "Whiskey."

  A pause.

  Melianna almost suggested something else. But then, she nodded.

  She gestured to the steward. "Just water for me."

  The steward turned to Delacroix.

  "Whiskey," Delacroix repeated.

  "Which kind, sir?"

  Delacroix exhaled. "I don’t care.”

  The whiskey burned smooth.

  Even after three years without a drop, Delacroix could still taste the notes—smoke, oak, and something almost sweet. It was a drink meant to be savored, the kind men swirled in crystal glasses, rolling the liquid across their tongues like a promise.

  He threw it back in one swallow.

  The glass hit the table with a dull clink.

  Melianna didn’t flinch, but she watched him. The way his shoulders sat too still, the way his fingers lingered on the rim of the empty glass—not with longing, but with calculation. Measuring what it had given him, and what it hadn’t.

  Beyond the window, Valkarn shrank beneath them.

  Delacroix stared down at it—the gray monolith, the coffin of steel and salt where they had left him to rot. The prison had not changed. It did not look smaller from up here. It did not look farther away.

  Silence settled.

  Melianna sipped her water—slow, deliberate. The kind of sip someone took when they were thinking. Searching for the words.

  But what do you say to your son after three years of hell?

  Delacroix saved her the trouble.

  "So," he said, voice flat. "Dad’s got duties again. That’s why he’s not here."

  A beat.

  Melianna set her glass down. Something in her hesitation changed the air.

  "A’noa is sick," she said, carefully. "Lung cancer. Late stage."

  Delacroix didn’t react.

  He just nodded, as if she had told him the weather forecast.

  "Okay."

  Nothing else. No change in his expression. No shift in his posture.

  Just okay.

  Melianna inhaled, fingers pressing lightly against the rim of her glass. "I know he wasn’t the best father. Or husband."

  Delacroix exhaled a quiet scoff. "Well, that’s why you got divorced, right?"

  Melianna let it go. She had learned long ago that her son’s sharp edges were not meant to wound her—they were just how he carried his own wounds.

  She tried again. "Regardless, he’s still your father. You should see him before it’s too late."

  Delacroix finally turned to her. His blindfold faced her directly—a barrier as much as a necessity.

  "That man put me on the frontlines," he said, voice even. "Sent me into skirmishes where I should have died."

  He leaned back slightly, rolling the empty glass between his fingers.

  "And when all that failed," he murmured, "he didn’t lift a goddamn finger when his own son got locked up."

  The words didn’t rise in anger. They came out like a fact, like something he had repeated to himself a thousand times in the dark.

  Melianna held his gaze, even through the blindfold.

  He let it linger. Let the weight of it settle before letting the next words slip out, quiet, almost amused.

  "So how ironic is it, then," he said, "that after all that, he dies first?"

  Silence.

  Melianna exhaled through her nose, the only sign of tension in her otherwise perfectly composed posture.

  Delacroix looked away first.

  He sighed, running a hand down his face.

  "Sorry," he muttered. "You don’t deserve my bluntness." A beat. "I just… need time to adjust."

  Melianna softened just slightly.

  "Of course."

  She studied him for a moment longer. Then, her voice dropped a fraction.

  "If you ever need to talk," she said, "you can talk to me."

  Delacroix didn’t answer immediately.

  Because what was there to say?

  Would he tell her about the bodies he dropped?

  The things he had done to survive?

  The beatings in the mess hall, the days he went without sleep, the things he learned about himself in the dark corners of Valkarn?

  Would he tell her that the last time he felt genuine respect was in a prison full of killers?

  That when he closed his eyes, he still heard the voices from Al-Miraj—not the screams, but the surrender?

  No.

  There was nothing she wanted to hear.

  And nothing he had to share.

  The sky was a deep violet by the time Leonidas came into view.

  The Archgriffin descended like a silver phantom, cutting through the mist, its engines humming low as it approached the royal air dock. Below, the city stretched out in a lattice of golden lights, streets slick from an earlier rain, reflecting the neon glow of shopfronts and tram stations.

  Delacroix watched the city pass beneath him, leaning against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

  Familiar streets. Familiar corners.

  But nothing about it felt familiar anymore.

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  They landed with the kind of grace only Gallian engineering could afford, the ship settling onto the tarmac as the royal motorcade pulled into place below. The same polished black car that had picked him up from Valkarn waited at the bottom of the steps, engine humming softly.

  The door opened. Melianna stepped out first, her gown moving like liquid gold under the terminal lights. A footman moved to retrieve Delacroix’s bag, but before he could touch it—Delacroix had already grabbed it himself, slinging the strap over his shoulder.

  The footman hesitated. Melianna just sighed. “Let’s go.”

  The drive through Leonidas was silent.

  Delacroix sat in the backseat, watching the city unfold past him.

  New roads. Construction crews tearing up old tram lines, laying fresh asphalt.

  Same streets. Same crowds, moving with that restless energy unique to Gallian nights.

  The Bishop’s Quarter loomed in the distance, the grand cathedral a towering spire of white stone and stained glass.

  Delacroix scoffed under his breath.

  "Still standing, huh?"

  His fingers tightened against the duffel strap. Araeius would’ve had something to say about that.

  Finally—Lion’s Keep.

  The castle gates swung open on silent hinges, the cobblestone driveway lined with servants in pristine formation.

  Delacroix ignored them.

  Once, these were the people who whispered about him behind velvet curtains, who turned their noses when he passed. Now, they stood with their hands neatly folded, like this was some grand homecoming.

  They were under orders. He knew it.

  They knew it.

  A butler moved to take his bag. Delacroix walked past him like he didn’t exist.

  He walked through the castle doors without a glance.

  The royal quarter hadn’t changed.

  The scent of lavender and polished wood still lingered in the air. The furniture was immaculate, untouched, as if the room had been frozen in time, waiting for its owner to return.

  But he wasn’t the man who left it.

  Delacroix stepped inside, scanning the space.

  Not as a man returning home—but as a soldier assessing terrain.

  His gaze stopped.

  A box near the couch. A black armoured case.

  His throat tightened slightly.

  Melianna caught up behind him, watching his reaction.

  "Everything is just as you left it." Her voice was soft.

  But Delacroix’s focus was locked on the case.

  "Those are your things from the Legion," she continued. "I wasn’t sure what to do with them. If you want, I can have them thrown away—"

  "Don’t."

  It came out sharper than he intended.

  Melianna blinked.

  Then, quieter: "Alright."

  Silence settled.

  Then—Delacroix turned.

  And this time—he hugged her.

  Not out of obligation. Not as a formality. But as a son.

  A mother who fought for him. A mother who never stopped.

  His arms tightened around her, his breath shuddered slightly against her shoulder.

  His eyes, hidden beneath the blindfold, were damp.

  "Thank you for everything."

  Melianna exhaled, stroking his back lightly.

  "I love you."

  "I love you too."

  He held onto her just a little longer.

  Then—he let go.

  Melianna lingered a moment, as if searching for something more to say.

  Instead—"I’ll let you settle in. Let me know if you need anything."

  "Of course."

  The door clicked shut behind her.

  Delacroix exhaled.

  Then—he stepped toward the black case.

  He set it on the coffee table, unlatching it.

  The scent of old steel and leather hit him first.

  Inside—his Legion armor, still bearing the scars of war.

  His hand hovered—then moved further.

  Cold metal met his fingers.

  He pulled out the MAG52 hand cannon.

  In his other hand, he reached into his pocket.

  Pulled out a small, crumpled slip of paper.

  An address.

  Merchant’s Quarter.

  The One Evans Park building stood tall and unchallenged, a gleaming monolith of power in the heart of the Merchant’s Quarter. The most prestigious address in the realm. It wasn’t just wealth that got you in—it was status. Influence. A place where kings without crowns lived like gods.

  The valet moved with trained efficiency, pulling the sleek black supercar into the front drive. The doors opened on their own, hydraulic whispers against the marble entrance. The staff moved in—ready to open doors, ready to bow, ready to serve.

  But Roland Thorne raised a hand. “Move.”

  He opened the passenger door himself, the leather seats creaking as she stepped out.

  Kairi.

  A vision in red. Hell on heels, her dress slinking over curves meant to ruin men. Every movement was deliberate, measured. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to let him look.

  Thorne could barely keep his hands to himself. Didn’t want to, either. His arm slid down from the small of her back… lower.

  The valet took the car. Thorne took the prize.

  They stepped inside. The private elevator awaited, empty and waiting just for them.

  The doors slid shut.

  Thorne turned, grinning like a man who’d already won. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  Kairi’s smile was soft, a slow thing. “You’re sweet for noticing.”

  Thorne leaned in close, hand tightening on her hip. “A queen deserves a palace.”

  Kairi tilted her head, watching him like a cat watches a mouse before it decides if it’s worth the effort.

  Thorne smirked. “And once you see mine… you won’t wanna leave.”

  The elevator dinged softly.

  They stepped out onto the 77th floor—one of three penthouse suites in the building. An entire floor, just for him.

  But something was wrong.

  The guards.

  Where the fuck were his guards?

  Thorne felt the mood shift instantly.

  His playfulness curdled into irritation. What the fuck am I paying these assholes for?

  They reached the penthouse door.

  It was open.

  Just slightly.

  Thorne’s blood ran cold.

  His jaw locked, hand instinctively moving toward the gun holstered at his hip.

  Kairi frowned. “Something wrong?”

  Thorne stepped in front of her. “Get behind me.”

  Kairi’s brows furrowed. “What’s going on?”

  Thorne’s voice turned sharp. “I said get behind me.”

  He drew his gun.

  The moment slowed. His training took over. Legion training.

  Step light. Move slow. Eyes first. Then the hands. Then the room.

  The door creaked open.

  The hallway was dark.

  But in the low glow of the city lights creeping in—he saw it.

  A smear of blood across the marble floor.

  Thorne’s pulse hammered.

  One breath. Two.

  Then, he hit the lights.

  The penthouse exploded into colour.

  And so did the horror.

  A massacre.

  His guards. Butchered.

  Bodies strewn across the floor, across the furniture—some slumped against the walls, some in pieces. Blood painted the white leather couch. The glass coffee table was cracked with a deep impact—where someone had landed face-first.

  Thorne’s breath hitched.

  And then—

  A shadow on the couch.

  A man sitting there. Casually.

  A blade in his hand, its tip dug into the marble floor, still slick with red.

  Delacroix.

  His head tilted slightly, like he’d just been waiting for him to get home.

  A greeting, spoken like an old friend.

  "Hello, Thorne."

  Thorne’s gun was up in a second.

  His voice came out rough, unsure. “Teorista?”

  A stupid question.

  Delacroix said nothing.

  Thorne’s eyes darted across the room, taking everything in. The bodies. The blood. The goddamn ease of it.

  His stomach twisted. Fear crept in.

  "What the fuck is this?" Thorne demanded. "Revenge?"

  Delacroix finally moved.

  Not much. Just enough to lift his chin slightly.

  "We’ll get to that."

  He turned the blade slightly, dragging the tip through the marble with a slow, deliberate motion.

  "But first… I want a question answered."

  Delacroix’s voice was calm. Too calm.

  "I’ve waited three years to ask it."

  Thorne gritted his teeth.

  "Who made me the scapegoat?"

  Thorne laughed, sharp and bitter. “Darkie, you serious?”

  Delacroix didn’t move.

  Thorne sneered. “It’s like they always said. You were born to fall on the frontlines.”

  A shift in the air.

  Delacroix’s grip on the hilt tightened.

  "Who."

  "Made me."

  "The scapegoat?"

  Thorne rolled his shoulders. “You did.”

  Delacroix’s breath stilled.

  Thorne smirked, licking his lips. “The Goddess did. The moment she made you born that way.”

  A heartbeat.

  Thorne’s finger curled tighter on the trigger.

  "You really think your blade’s faster than my bullet?"

  Delacroix tilted his head.

  "Of course not."

  Thorne grinned.

  "Then you’re not as dumb as you look."

  What he didn’t see—

  Delacroix’s thumb on the hilt.

  Click.

  A tiny detonation.

  A flash of light.

  The explosion rattled the room—a small one, nothing to collapse the building, but enough to shake it.

  Kairi let out a short scream.

  Thorne’s instincts snapped to the blast—just for a second.

  And in that second—

  Delacroix moved.

  A gunshot. Thorne’s hand exploded in pain.

  His gun hit the ground.

  Another movement—a blade slashed low.

  Thorne felt the cut rip through his thigh.

  He hit the floor, howling.

  Delacroix stood over him.

  "You’ve really built something for yourself after Al-Miraj."

  Thorne’s hand fumbled for the gun—

  The blade came down.

  Straight through his other hand.

  Straight into the marble.

  Pinned.

  Thorne’s scream was raw, ugly.

  Delacroix leaned in slightly, pressing a boot against the mangled hand.

  "Hurts, doesn’t it?"

  The pressure. The agony.

  Thorne twisted, trying to get loose.

  "Feels helpless, doesn’t it?"

  Delacroix looked past him, toward Kairi.

  A small, cruel smirk.

  "Guess that’s not the kind of penetration you had in mind tonight."

  Thorne’s breath came ragged, pain-sharp. “You—you won’t get away with this.”

  Delacroix exhaled softly.

  "I know."

  And then—he pulled the blade free.

  Thorne’s scream cut through the walls. His bravado finally gone. All that was left now was fear.

  "Wait—" Thorne gasped. "Wait, listen—"

  Delacroix tilted his head.

  "Listen?" he echoed, almost amused.

  Thorne nodded frantically. "I— fuck—" he stammered, "it wasn’t just me, alright? It wasn’t just me! It was bigger than that—bigger than any of us! You think this was personal? You were just—"

  A thing.

  A number on a ledger.

  A debt settled.

  Delacroix chuckled. But there was no humour in it.

  "People throw around the words—darkie, foulblood, Shadeborn—like we’re nothing. Like we’re just… trash to be used and thrown away."

  Thorne swallowed hard.

  Delacroix knelt, pressing his weight onto Thorne’s shattered hand.

  Thorne screamed.

  *"But a Shadeborn’s suffering starts the moment we take our first breath. The moment the light touches our eyes—" Delacroix flexed his fingers, testing the space between his hands and Thorne’s face.

  "—It burns us."

  Thorne thrashed weakly. "Please, please—"

  "Tonight, you’re going to understand what that feels like."

  His thumbs pressed against Thorne’s eyes.

  Thorne screamed—louder than he ever had in his entire life.

  The pressure built.

  His breath shuddered.

  The pain wasn’t instant. It was slow.

  Delacroix could feel Thorne’s heartbeat hammering under his fingertips.

  The eyes resisted at first, but the skull is a fragile thing, really.

  And when the first wet pop echoed through the penthouse—

  The screaming stopped.

  It turned into something else.

  A whimper. A gurgle. A raw, choking sound.

  Delacroix leaned in close.

  "Welcome to the dark, Thorne."

  Then—the second pop.

  And Thorne knew nothing else.

  The room reeked of death.

  The sound of wet, labored gurgles had faded.

  Now, there was only silence.

  Delacroix exhaled through his nose, his breath slow, steady.

  He lifted his hands from what was left of Roland Thorne.

  Dark, wet smears trailed down his fingers, warm and sticky. He flexed them once, feeling the faint tremble of spent adrenaline in his knuckles.

  Then, without looking down, he stood.

  His blade whispered against its sheath as he slid it back into place, the sound eerily crisp in the dead hush of the penthouse.

  His boots left red prints as he moved.

  He walked casually—no rush, no hesitation—toward the pristine kitchen. The contrast was almost comical. White marble countertops. Stainless steel fixtures. A window overlooking the city. A place built for a man who wanted the world to see his wealth.

  Delacroix turned the tap.

  Water rushed out, steaming slightly.

  He washed his hands slowly, deliberately.

  The blood came away in ribbons of red, swirling down the sink, disappearing into the drain. He scrubbed under his nails, feeling the sting where skin had split in the struggle.

  He dried his hands on Thorne’s monogrammed towel.

  Then—finally—he turned.

  Kairi stood frozen near the door, her breath shallow, her fingers curled tight around her clutch.

  She wasn’t screaming.

  She wasn’t crying.

  She was watching.

  Eyes wide, lips slightly parted—like she was processing something she didn’t quite believe.

  Delacroix regarded her.

  Then, he spoke.

  "I don’t know who you are." His voice was calm. Flat. Not cruel. Just disinterested. "Don’t much care, either."

  Kairi didn’t move.

  "But if you were really scared," he mused, tilting his head slightly, "you’d at least pretend to call the cops."

  A flicker.

  So small, most wouldn’t notice.

  A faint twitch in the corner of her mouth.

  A subtle shift in her shoulders.

  Like a mask slipping—just an inch.

  But Delacroix had already turned away.

  He wasn’t interested in staying to see the whole illusion crumble.

  He stepped into the stairwell.

  The air was colder here. Less suffocating.

  But the scent of blood still clung to him.

  His boots echoed as he descended.

  There was no rush. No panic.

  Just a long walk down.

  He could take the elevator—sure. But walking felt right. Felt safer. No chance of a camera catching his face. No risk of some wide-eyed concierge asking questions.

  Step by step, he moved further from Roland Thorne’s world.

  Above, in the penthouse, Kairi finally moved.

  She walked to what remained of Thorne, her heels clicking softly against the cool, blood-streaked marble.

  She crouched.

  Two fingers to his slick throat.

  No pulse.

  Not that she had any doubts.

  She sighed, barely a breath—then pulled out her phone.

  She dialed.

  The line clicked.

  "It’s done."

  A voice on the other end. Smooth. Expectant. "Wouldn’t be what you’d call clean, I take it?"

  Kairi’s lips curled slightly.

  "Clean?" She glanced at the ruined body beneath her. "No. But I never got my hands dirty."

  A low chuckle. "I look forward to hearing all about it."

  Kairi leaned back slightly, running a finger along the inside of her wrist.

  "You wouldn’t believe it if I told you."

  She cast a glance at the open door.

  The stairwell.

  The man who had walked out of here like he had just settled a tab at a bar.

  She exhaled.

  "I don’t quite believe it myself.”

  The night air hit him the moment he stepped outside.

  Fresh. Crisp. Cold.

  It had rained earlier. He could smell it.

  He didn’t take the front exit.

  Would’ve been too obvious.

  Instead, he moved through a service hallway, past a janitor mopping the floors. The man barely glanced up.

  At the end of the alley, a black van idled, headlights off.

  The rear doors swung open.

  Two men stepped out.

  Their suits were well-pressed, but their boots were scuffed. They weren’t corporate.

  They were working men. Soldiers of a different battlefield.

  One of them—a man with **shaved hair and a scar along his jaw—**tilted his head.

  "Teorista, we presume?"

  Delacroix let out a short breath.

  "Guilty."

  The man smirked slightly. "Figured." He gestured toward the van. "We need to go. Now."

  Delacroix didn’t move.

  "Who sent you?"

  The second man—**older, broader shoulders—**spoke this time.

  "Dean Braythar." A pause. "He’s associated with Mr. Chan."

  Delacroix actually laughed at that.

  A soft, dry chuckle.

  "Braythar." He shook his head slightly. "Life is full of ironies."

  The two men didn’t ask.

  They just waited.

  Delacroix exhaled.

  Then—**without hesitation—**he stepped forward, climbed into the van, and the doors slammed shut behind him.

  The vehicle pulled away, slipping into the neon-lit veins of Leonidas.

  Past the monuments to industry.

  Past the palaces of the elite.

  Past the city that had tried to bury him.

  It wasn’t until they reached the Port Quarter that Delacroix finally looked back.

  Through the fogged-up window, the skyline of Leonidas stretched out in the distance.

  The place he was born.

  The place he bled for.

  And now?

  The place he was leaving behind.

  For the last time.