The group settled awkwardly into the cramped living room. Nakamura and Becket sat at the dining table, staring each other down in a tense silence. Nearby, Stick knelt beside Shadis, carefully wrapping fresh bandages around the man’s wounds. Shadis lay motionless on the floor, his makeshift bed little more than two thin sheets spread over warped wood. The warm, savory aroma of pumpkin cream soup drifted in from the kitchen, its coziness at odds with the tension suffocating the room. Stick glanced at Shadis, noticing how painfully slow his Life Points seemed to recover.

  “Why is it healing so slowly?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

  “Well, he’s not a Berserker like the Prized Possession over there.” Becket nodded toward PP, who remained standing silently, arms crossed, ever watchful. “They have much better Regeneration than Knights.”

  “Right…” Stick said vaguely, not really understanding.

  His mind was too preoccupied with Shadis’s shallow breathing, the faint rasp of air in and out of his chest.

  Becket leaned back in his chair. “You’ve got a knack for getting NPCs killed, don’t you?”

  Stick stiffened, heat rushing to his face. For a moment, he considered snapping back, but he could feel PP’s eyes on him—cold, unblinking, like a weight pressing against his neck. Instead, he stayed silent.

  Becket leaned over the table again. “So, to what do I owe the honor of welcoming you to my home on my day off?”

  “That’s Praetorian business, Soldier,” Nakamura said coldly.

  Becket tilted his head, clearly unconvinced. ”Sure it is.”

  Stick shifted uncomfortably, then decided to speak. “We’re running… from imprisonment.”

  Becket arched a brow. “Why would you be imprisoned?”

  Stick opened his mouth to explain, but the warning look from Nakamura made him hesitate.

  “Because we broke out Sir Moore,” he blurted. It sounded clumsy even to him. “Can’t you see?”

  Becket narrowed his eyes. “Then why is he with you?”

  The silence that followed felt heavier than the room itself. Becket and Nakamura locked eyes, the unspoken challenge between them palpable. Stick shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to do, when a soft sound broke the tension. Priscilla entered the room quietly, carrying two bowls of steaming soup, one balanced carefully in each hand. Her baby rested on her hip, bundled tightly against the chill of the house. She moved with quiet precision, her gaze flickering briefly to the others before focusing on Becket.

  “This one’s for you, love,” she said softly, setting a bowl in front of him.

  Becket didn’t acknowledge her, his focus still entirely on Nakamura. Priscilla turned to Nakamura, setting the second bowl down in front of him with the same gentle care. She placed down a side of goat cheese and some slices of bread on the table.

  “Enjoy your meal, Sir,” she said politely before retreating toward the kitchen, her footsteps barely audible.

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  Stick watched her go, his brow furrowing. She hadn’t acknowledged him—or Shadis—or even PP. It was like they weren’t there at all. No one spoke until the soft sound of bubbling soup resumed from the other room.

  “Is there something you want to tell me, Soldier?” Nakamura asked, his tone sharp.

  “You didn’t arrest them,” Becket said, leaning forward. His face darkened as the shadow from the dim room fell over him. “Are you a fugitive too?”

  Nakamura didn’t answer immediately. Becket’s lips curled into a slight sneer.

  “Now, why would a lazy, good-for-nothing, spoiled brat like you throw away a luxurious life as a Praetorian guard inside Carnifex Castle to become a criminal?”

  Nakamura’s jaw tightened. “Don’t forget that you’re the one harboring fugitives right now.”

  “There’s nothing stopping me from turning you in.” Becket’s voice was low, menacing. “In fact, I could earn my promotion back. I saw how many guards are out there looking for you. You messed up. Big time. And it’s definitely not because of an NPC.”

  Nakamura turned his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. He seemed to wrestle with himself, but whatever he wanted to say remained unsaid. Priscilla returned with another bowl of soup, this time placing it in front of Stick. She didn’t serve PP. Stick looked up at her, confused.

  “Enjoy your meal, Sir,” she said politely before vanishing into the kitchen again.

  Stick glanced down and noticed, for the first time that day, the red Carnifex shirt he still wore.

  “So, I’ll ask again,” Becket said, his voice cutting through Stick’s thoughts. “Why would you be imprisoned?”

  Stick hesitated. He felt a sudden urge to be honest, to just say it, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  Finally, he forced himself to speak. “I overheard that the Blitz brothers were spotted somewhere.”

  Becket’s head snapped toward him.

  Stick stood, moving closer to the table. “I tried to follow the soldier who said it, but I ended up lost in the castle… and landed in the King’s Chambers. Sir Nakamura found me there, and when the guards found us, we were all arrested.”

  Becket leaned forward, his dark eyes scanning Stick like he was searching for cracks.

  “The King’s Chambers, huh?” he repeated.

  Nakamura shifted in his seat, the movement subtle but noticeable.

  Stick met Becket’s gaze, trying to hold his ground. “I’m telling the truth.”

  Becket’s eyes widened, his face a mixture of disbelief and grudging respect. “You’re honest to a fault.”

  “I’ve heard that one before,” Stick muttered.

  Becket’s expression softened. His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile returning.

  Stick turned to Nakamura. “Sir Nakamura, tell me about the twins. What do you know?”

  Becket’s interest visibly piqued at the mention of the twins. The atmosphere shifted, and all eyes fell on Nakamura.

  “That’s sensitive information, citizen,” Nakamura scoffed.

  “Please, I need to know,” Stick implored. “Varyan is my best friend.”

  Nakamura hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. After a long moment, he exhaled deeply.

  “Fine,” he said reluctantly. ”But you won’t like it.”

  “I’m prepared for the worst,” he said, though he wasn’t sure it was true.

  Nakamura lowered his head, his voice dropping. “There was a report. They were spotted traveling on foot from Pridtur to Cavon.”

  Stick’s clenched his jaw. “What happened?”

  “They were traveling on foot,” Nakamura repeated. “It was easy to catch them. Prye soldiers transporting slaves to the Blitz Estate had horses. It looks like they’re Lucio’s slaves again.”

  Stick felt his stomach drop. The words didn’t fully register at first—like his brain was trying to block them out. When they finally sank in, his hands balled into fists.

  “Our plan has failed,” he said quietly, the words like ash in his mouth.

  A faint, broken sound drew his attention. He turned and saw Priscilla standing in the doorway, her face pale and streaked with tears.

  “No…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  “Priscilla…” Becket began, his voice soft.

  But she shook her head violently and fled the room. The bedroom door slammed shut, muffling her cries. Becket stood slowly, following her to the door. He stopped short, his hand hovering just inches from the wood. For a moment, he seemed frozen, his hand trembling. But he didn’t knock. He just stood there, staring.

  Stick stared at Becket, wide-eyed. “What was that?”

  Becket turned, his face drawn and weary.

  “You’ll have to excuse the mother of my child,” he said quietly. “She’s Varyan Blitz’s fiancée.”

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