The Soul Reaper hideout was never quiet—its walls breathed with secrets; its corridors were soaked with unspoken sins—but Harlekin always managed to carve his own kind of silence within it.
He sat cross-legged on a cracked stone table in the corner of his chamber, juggling three jagged throwing knives with lazy, mocking precision. His eyes, covered by his jester hat. His mouth? Painted with that cruel grin. His knife reflected the dim torchlight. The room smelled faintly of old smoke and oil.
Harlekin (to himself, lightly): "Another day in paradise."
From the corner of the chamber, the shadows thickened unnaturally. A cold draft swept across the stone, dimming the flames. Out of that darkness stepped a figure tall and cloaked, his face buried in the void beneath his hood. His voice was deep; velvet stretched over steel.
The Voice: "Harlekin."
The knives stopped mid-arc; he caught all three between his fingers without looking.
Harlekin (mocking): "Ah, and here I thought I was the only one who enjoyed theatrics."
The Voice didn't flinch. He was a phantom of authority, the Schatten Syndicate's messenger, a bridge between underworld nightmares.
The Voice: "Your mission. From the higher shadows. It still is undone."
Harlekin tilted his head, mask glinting.
Harlekin: "Lucky me. What's the task this time? Kidnap a merchant? Burn down a house of cards?"
The Voice: "Emilia Bruma. You still have to kill her."
The words dropped like a guillotine blade. The torchlight seemed to bend around them.
Harlekin chuckled, shaking his head as he twirled a knife across his knuckles.
Harlekin: "Oh, her. Mist girl. Tempting, tempting. But you see…" He leaned forward, voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. "I simply have better things to do. Killing her? Boring. Predictable. And, between you and me, not worth dirtying my shoes for."
The Voice: "You will accept."
Harlekin leaned back, hands raised as if in surrender.
Harlekin: "Mm. No. But…" His grin widened beneath the mask, unseen but felt. "I've just had a much better idea. One far more entertaining. I'll take your mission, messenger—but I'll do it my way. A performance. A tragedy. A little twist of the knife."
The Voice tilted his hood, unreadable. After a long silence, he melted back into the shadows, vanishing as if he had never been.
The torches flickered alive again.
Harlekin laughed quietly.
Harlekin: "Oh, sweet Emilia. I'll make your death an art piece."
He rose, knives vanishing into his sleeves.
Arthur Morningstar leaned against the cold stone railing of the hideout's upper corridor, his silver hair catching the light from a torch. Alone tonight—Goliath had been dispatched elsewhere—Arthur felt the walls pressing in heavier than usual. He had grown to despise the silence here; it was never clean silence, only something rotten hiding underneath.
From the shadows below, Harlekin emerged, stepping lightly, almost dancing, as though his boots never quite touched the ground. He was heading for the exit.
Arthur (calling down): "Where are you going, Harlekin?"
Harlekin paused mid-step, tilting his head up like a puppet being pulled by strings.
Harlekin: "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. Always so curious. Hasn't anyone told you curiosity killed the—oh, never mind. Wrong joke."
Harlekin's smile widened.
Harlekin (sarcastic): "Where is your big papa? Did Nully send him away for a day? Are you sad that your big, big guardian isn't here to play catch or hide-and-seek with you?"
Harlekin started laughing maniacally.
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
Arthur: "I know you. You don't leave the base unless it's for trouble. What are you plotting?"
Harlekin's laugh echoed, sharp and unsettling.
Harlekin: "Plotting? My dear paladin, I am always plotting. It's part of my charm."
Arthur's hand rested near the hilt of his blade.
Arthur: "You're hiding something. You've been hiding something since the day we met. And for some reason I am part of your shenanigans."
Harlekin's grin widened under the mask.
Harlekin: "Oh, if only you knew how right you were. But your blind eye of honor can't even see the things he caused. Let me help you remember a little bit."
Without warning, he flicked his wrist. A cloud of black smoke burst from his sleeve, billowing like a curtain across the corridor. Arthur moved instantly, his blade singing free as he cut through the haze.
Steel clashed against conjured shadow. Sparks crackled in the gloom. Harlekin moved like liquid—impossible angles, dancing feet, knives flashing like crescents.
moons. Arthur countered, his strikes disciplined, each motion cutting through the chaos.
Arthur broke through. With one powerful but strong swing, he pushed Harlekin to the wall.
Arthur (gritted teeth): "Enough games, Harlekin!"
Harlekin (mocking): "But games are the only reason I breathe!"
Harlekin sprang up. Their blades rang once, twice, before Harlekin spun back, vanishing into smoke that slid between the stones themselves. His laughter lingered long after his body was gone.
Arthur stood in the empty corridor, chest rising with restrained fury. He sheathed his blade slowly, his mind racing.
Arthur (to himself, low): "He's hiding a side… something deeper. Something dangerous."
He turned, his silver eyes sharp with resolve.
Arthur: "And I'm going to find out what it is."
Outside, far beyond the hideout, Harlekin reformed from the shadows at the edge of the woods. The night smelled of damp earth and distant smoke. He tilted his head to the stars, his knife catching the moonlight.
Harlekin (softly, almost fondly): "Von Shadow… I suppose it's time to let the world remember the name."
He twirled a knife once, letting the blade hum in the night air before catching it. The mission wasn't just a mission anymore. It was a stage. And on that stage, Emilia Bruma's blood would be the ink of his masterpiece.
Meanwhile, Arthur Morningstar mounted his horse at the hideout's stables, his jaw tight, his hand never far from his weapon. He rode into the night, chasing smoke and shadows, chasing the truth about Harlekin.
The game between the two had begun.
And neither knew just how much of the world would burn in the fallout.