(Chapter 11)
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Brooke instinctively touched the cold metal of her revolvers, a shiver running down her spine.
Zeer finally spoke, his voice cutting through the lingering tension. "That one… is bad news. Not like the rest you've faced." His black-clad form shifted slightly in the dim light, but his gaze never left hers. "He hunts for more than coin. Remember that."
Brooke gave a small nod, smirk faint but her eyes serious. "Noted, stranger. Noted."
A few minutes passed in uneasy silence. The tavern resumed its low hum of conversation, but the shadows seemed thicker, more watchful. Brooke finally rose, drawing the attention of her crew. She stepped toward the counter, laying a few coins beside her mug.
The barman nodded, pocketing the tip with a grunt. Brooke turned, her expression tightening, eyes glinting with the sharp instinct that had earned her the moniker Huntress.
"My sense of smell for bad fish," she said, voice quiet but cutting, "is… strong. And that one smells rotten."
Her crew—Bruce, Bob, and the others—grinned, some chuckling nervously, as they gathered their things. Without another word, they fell in line behind her. Brooke led the way out, the tavern doors swinging closed behind them, leaving a lingering whisper of salt, smoke, and shadow.
Outside, the mist of Serian curled around them like a living thing. The city felt alive, watching, waiting. Brooke's steps were steady, confident, but her mind churned with the faint, bitter taste of an enemy yet to strike.
Somewhere in the darkness, she could almost hear the faintest echo of Gigaleon's laughter, a promise of chaos yet to come.
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Meanwhile, The Purge Knights walked along the bustling docks of Serian, the wooden planks creaking under their armored boots. Merchants called their wares, fishermen argued over prices, and gulls wheeled above the harbor, their cries blending with the distant toll of ship bells. The fading sunlight painted the harbor in amber and rose, the calm before nightfall.
Eldhar stopped, turning to the group. "All of you can go ahead and look for rooms for the night," he said firmly. "Me and Nilda have other matters to attend to. We'll be heading first to the palace to request an audience with King Helion of Arvalione. We need to inform him… the Apostles and the Trinity are moving within his waters. You can proceed without us."
One by one, the knights placed hands over their chests in acknowledgment, a silent promise of agreement. The ritual of discipline and respect ran deep, but even the most steadfast could feel the unease settling in as evening shadows stretched across the harbor.
Enix, however, said nothing. His gaze lingered on the horizon, the orange glow of the setting sun reflected in the restless sea. He seemed detached, lost in thoughts none could read, until something in the distance shifted his focus.
Brooke and her crew were crossing the dock, moving with that easy, confident sway only pirates could master. Their laughter and shouts carried faintly in the salty air. Azre's group noticed them in time to avoid collision, but the encounter drew attention.
As Brooke passed, her eyes locked on the knights. Her grin was mischievous but edged with warning. "If you're looking for inns to stay in," she called, her voice carrying across the harbor, "go straight! Make sure you lock up! And don't wander around at night!"
The knights froze for a heartbeat, staring at each other, unsure how to respond. The unusual directness—part threat, part advice—was foreign to their code of discipline.
Rowan broke the silence with a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Thank you!" he called after the passing pirates, his tone cutting the tension like a blade. The group relaxed, some snickering, some just exhaling, as the echoes of Brooke's voice faded into the twilight.
Enix continued to stare at the horizon, expression unreadable, while the others resumed their march toward the inns, the harbor now alive with the first hints of nightfall and whispers of coming storms—both literal and otherwise. As they made their way through the winding streets, the city gradually gave way to grander architecture, until finally the sea-stone walls of Arvalione's palace rose before Eldhar and Nilda as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Torches flickered along the terraces, casting long, wavering shadows across the high arched gates. Guards recognized them at once, granting swift passage as the scent of salt and polished stone mingled in the cool evening air.
Inside the throne hall, King Helion awaited, seated upon his towering chair of sea-forged stone. His silver hair caught the torchlight, and his eyes, sharp as ever, studied the pair with quiet intensity.
"You come with warnings," Helion said, voice deep but measured. "I can feel the weight of them already. Speak."
Eldhar stepped forward. "Your Majesty, the Apostles of Daath and the Trinity have entered your waters. Their presence is not idle. If left unchecked, they will seize artifacts of unimaginable power."
Nilda added, "We seek guidance, and—if possible—aid. We cannot fight what we do not fully understand. Knowledge is the only advantage we have against such forces."
Helion's gaze softened slightly, yet carried a weight of memory. "Knowledge… yes. I had a scholar who may assist you. Lylia, Arvalione's archivist, historian, and keeper of the old tomes. She has studied what few dare to touch."
A young woman appeared from the shadowed corridor near the dais. Her robes were pale, embroidered with silver script that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. Her eyes, wide and keen, darted between the knights, absorbing every detail of the room.
"Lylia," Helion said, gesturing toward her. "These are the Purge Knights. They have come to warn us of dark forces stirring once more."
The scholar bowed deeply. "Your Majesty," she said, voice calm but urgent. "I have studied the records of Daath's first war. If what you fear is true, then the dangers are very real. There are two known tomes tied to Daath's power. One is said to lie within the catacombs of Ragnafiore, as you already know. The second… is hidden far from mortal eyes, beneath the eastern sea of Arvalione."
Eldhar's brow furrowed. "The second tome… can it be reached?"
Lylia nodded. "It is not easily accessed. It rests in the ruins of a submerged temple off the southern-east coast of Lerian Island. The temple was built over the site of two hidden altars of Daath. One altar for ritual blood, one for the binding of spirits. Both were concealed to prevent mortals from awakening the darkness again."
Nilda's voice was sharp. "So if the Apostles reach it first…"
"They would have control over forces enough to rend the world," Lylia finished grimly. "The temple's location was lost to common knowledge centuries ago, recorded only in the scholar's archives and hidden maps, both of which are heavily protected. Even knowing it exists is dangerous."
Helion's fist clenched, the torches casting shadows that flickered across his resolute face. "Then the world teeters on the edge, once again. If these forces awaken fully… it will be chaos unlike any we have seen."
Eldhar exhaled, eyes hardening. "We cannot let that happen. Not while we can still move, strike, or gather knowledge."
Lylia leaned closer, her tone dropping to a whisper, as though revealing secrets to the wind itself. "If you intend to sail to Lerian, know this: the waters are not the only danger. Ancient wards and traps guard the temple, designed to punish intruders. Only those who understand the old magic may hope to survive."
Nilda glanced at Eldhar, a silent agreement passing between them. "Then we proceed carefully. We cannot risk alerting the Apostles before we understand the full extent of what they seek."
Helion's eyes swept over them, and for a moment, the weight of history, war, and loss pressed down upon the hall. "Very well. Prepare yourself, knights. If the Apostles are here, then Arvalione will not be spared. But with knowledge, strategy, and courage… perhaps we can hold the darkness at bay, at least for a time."
The young scholar Lylia bowed again, a faint glow of resolve in her eyes. "Time is short. The tides are shifting. And soon, nothing will be as it once was."
With her words lingering in the air, the Purge Knights moved through Serian as night fully embraced the city. Lanterns flickered along the streets, casting gold and shadow across the slick cobblestones, until they reached the tavern whispered of in the rumors—promises of safe rooms guiding their steps.
The heavy wooden doors groaned as they pushed them open, stepping inside to seek beds for the night and a brief respite from the unrest that stirred beyond its walls.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of salt, smoke, and old timber. The tavern was quieter than expected—most patrons had gone to their beds or lingered in small, murmuring groups. And there, sitting at the bar, was Zeer. His black armor gleamed faintly in the lantern light, his posture relaxed, yet his presence filled the room with a subtle, oppressive weight.
Zeer's cold gaze lifted slowly. "I wondered how long it would take you to arrive," he said, voice low, measured. "Serian is a city that swallows the unprepared."
Rowan stepped forward, hand resting lightly on her blade. "We come in peace," she said, voice firm but courteous. "We're here only for shelter tonight."
Zeer's eyes flicked briefly toward the ceiling, then back at the knights. "Shelter comes with choices. And knowledge." He gestured subtly toward the shadows in the corner. "Some truths are easier to ignore… until they're forced upon you."
Azre's brow furrowed. "And which truths do you mean?"
The black-clad adventurer didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, fingers tapping against the bar. The sound was a quiet warning, rhythmic and deliberate. "The one you seek, and the one that seeks you. Both are in this city tonight. Walk carefully, knights of Ragnafiore. Not all shadows are without teeth."
The knights exchanged uneasy glances, unsure if Zeer's warning was threat or counsel. Azre's eyes narrowed. "You know more than you reveal. Why remain here, in a tavern?"
Zeer's gaze softened, just slightly, as if a shadow of amusement touched his lips. "Perhaps I like to watch the pieces move before deciding which to take."
But then, finally he rose from the bar, the scrape of his armored boots against the wooden floor echoing softly in the quiet tavern. He moved with deliberate precision, each step measured as if the floor itself were a trap.
"Rest well tonight," he said to the Purge Knights, his voice low, almost a whisper of steel. "But remember this—what hunts in the shadows rarely waits for the dawn."
Without waiting for a reply, Zeer stepped out into the misty streets of Serian, disappearing into the night as silently as he had arrived. The knights exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of his warning settling over them like a cold fog.
Far above, perched atop the bell tower at the very heart of Serian, Gigaleon lounged like a shadow made flesh. The city sprawled beneath him, lanterns flickering like fireflies, streets winding like veins through the restless body of the harbor.
His gaze swept methodically over the tavern below, lingering on the Purge Knights who had just entered. Their movements, disciplined and precise, offered him all the amusement and information he needed.
And then, his attention shifted. Somewhere along the docks, moving like a storm contained in a human form, Brooke and her crew navigated the alleys and lantern-lit streets. Her laugh carried faintly in the wind, light and dangerous all at once.