Klara's shoes clicked against the wet stones, carrying her down the winding backstreets of Backlund. She had her arms wrapped around herself, hugging tight as if she could squeeze the thoughts out of her chest. The gas lamps overhead cast pools of yellow glow that seemed to lean too close, stretching her shadow out thin across the cobblestones.
She was bothered. Bothered in the way that sank beneath the skin and curled in the marrow of her bones.
That damn man.
Adrian Bellacorte. The so-called Judge of Backlund. The Truthbearer.
The word alone made her shiver again. She tilted her chin down, lips pressing tight.
Did he already see through me? she wondered bitterly, her eyes narrowing at nothing. All my little masks, all the small lies I spin to keep afloat—did he strip them away already?
Her mind churned restlessly, spiraling between possibilities.
Was he sticking around because he hadn't figured her out yet? Watching, waiting for her to slip up, for the mask to crack naturally? Or worse—did he already know everything, and he was just… waiting for her to tell him herself?
That thought made her stomach twist.
"No." She shook her head sharply, muttering to herself. "If he wanted to know, he'd know. That's what his Pathway means."
Her boots splashed through a shallow puddle, scattering ripples. She couldn't shake the fragments of their earlier conversation, his voice replaying in her skull like a hammer on glass.
"Absolute truth."
The words echoed. A heavy gavel's strike, blunt and final.
She hugged herself tighter. "Ugh…"
Her thoughts drifted to little moments. Odd moments. Moments that didn't fit the picture of a paranoid, suspicious hunter.
Why had he gone along with her antics, humoring her teases and dramatic flourishes, instead of cutting straight to business? Why did he let her drag him by the hand through the crowded streets like some awkward partner? Why hadn't he pulled away?
If all he wanted was information, she thought grimly, why go through any of that?
Her lips parted as a memory clicked into place. His voice in her palm, the steady rhythm of morse code.
"You go get information from Meursault."
Klara stopped in her tracks. The gas lamps buzzed faintly overhead, the drizzle hissing against hot stone.
"He already knows I'm a Beyonder."
She whispered it aloud. Whispered it to make it real.
The knowledge made her shiver from scalp to toes. If he knew that… then what else?
Her jaw tightened. For a moment she imagined him, silver eyes gleaming across a mirror's surface, stripping her bare.
"Absolute truth," she repeated under her breath, bitter.
The sound left a taste like iron on her tongue. She exhaled shakily, pushing it down.
I hope he sees me as a friend at least, she thought. And the thought felt so fragile it made her chest ache.
Finally, she reached her door. Her hand lingered on the handle a moment longer than it should, fingers pale against the brass, before she managed to push it open.
"I'm home," she called, voice weak.
The warmth of the apartment was a relief, but it lasted all of two seconds.
Jonas appeared almost instantly, bounding from the living room in his new clothes. The shirt was crisp, the trousers neat, though the boy still looked like he'd been awkwardly stuffed into them.
His eyes were sharp, though, his voice urgent.
"Big sis, we have a big problem. While you were away I—"
Klara waved a hand weakly, cutting him off. She reached out and ruffled his dark hair, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Sorry, kiddo. I'm a bit exhausted. Let's talk about it tomorrow, alright?"
Jonas blinked, caught mid-sentence. His mouth opened like he wanted to argue. Then he stopped.
Because for the first time since he'd met her, Klara's expression wasn't playful. Wasn't masked. She looked… conflicted. Bothered.
Big sis Klara isn't even trying to hide it, Jonas thought, his chest tightening.
He swallowed, then nodded slowly. "...Alright. Good night, big sis."
Klara gave him a softer smile at that. "Good night."
She disappeared into her bedroom, the door clicking softly behind her.
Jonas stood there for a while, staring at the wood. His small hands curled into fists at his sides.
A sigh slipped out of him, heavier than a nineteen-year-old should carry. His eyes dropped, and for just a moment, the echo of a voice drifted through his memory.
"I will always love you…"
The words seared across his chest, twisting into something painful. He shut his eyes tight, shaking his head violently until it scattered.
No. He couldn't think about that now.
He turned sharply, forcing his body to move. To act.
First, the windows.
He made a quiet round through the apartment, sliding the latches into place, checking each pane twice. His hand lingered on the last one, fingers pressed against the cool glass.
His gaze darted once more toward Klara's closed bedroom door. For a moment, temptation burned in him — the urge to crack it open, to check on her, to make sure.
But he clenched his teeth. Shook his head.
"…The judge would come if it gets that far." He whispered the words like a mantra. Like a shield.
Finally, he left the apartment.
The street outside was wrong.
Minsk Street was normally lively even at this hour — neighbors closing their shops, couples strolling with umbrellas, the hum of late-night carriages rolling past.
But tonight, it was empty.
Not quiet — empty.
No footsteps. No laughter. No rumble of carriage wheels. Not a single lit window in the rows of buildings. The lamps still burned, but their glow felt sickly, thin, as though it had been drained.
Jonas exhaled slowly, the sound loud in the hush. His breath fogged faintly in the damp night air.
He tapped his cane against the ground once. The sound echoed sharp against the stone, bouncing farther than it should have, swallowed quickly by silence.
He rolled his wrist, checking the balance. The prosthetic was sturdy tonight, the wood and steel clicking into alignment. A faint grin twitched at his mouth — grim and sharp.
"…Alright," he muttered to himself. "If it's coming, it's coming."
He moved to the middle of the street and planted his feet. His lean frame bent slightly forward, weight angled, cane tucked at his side like an extension of his body.
Every instinct screamed that something was wrong.
But he'd stand here anyway.
Right in front of the building.
Waiting.
Then, the silence shattered.
A cackle, high and sharp, clawed through the air like steel dragged against glass. Jonas stiffened, whipping his head toward the sound.
There, strolling down the street as if he were picking fruit at a market, came a lone man.
Ronan.
His lazy wave felt almost mocking, his free hand digging at his ear as his grin stretched wolfish across his face. But Jonas noticed the difference immediately. The knives.
They were everywhere.
Dangling from his wrist. Strapped to his thigh. Clipped at his waist. Even tied to his boots. The faint gleam of metal caught the gaslight, winking like eyes in the dark.
His hair, normally a tangled wild mane, had been yanked back into a rat-tail, though several loose strands betrayed the attempt.
Jonas' fingers tightened around his cane.
"Color me surprised, little crime fella," Ronan mused, voice rolling smooth like someone already drunk on adrenaline. He stopped just beside Jonas, his shadow stretching long across the cobbles. "You felt the signs too, eh?"
Jonas only nodded. His hands quivered faintly against the cane, but he clamped down on the tremor with sheer will. His eyes darted across the empty buildings, scanning every corner, every shadow. Waiting.
Ronan chuckled at the boy's stiffness. "Right? The signs are wayyyyy so obvious. Like, it's almost as if they want us to know. Dumb bastards. Should've been quiet about it."
Two knives spun lazily between Ronan's fingers as he sighed, the clink of steel unnervingly loud in the silence.
Jonas swallowed. His voice was quiet, but steady.
"…Are they after big sis?"
That earned him a bark of laughter. Ronan's grin widened, sharp enough to cut.
"You too, buddy. Remember—you defected. So of course, as everyone knows in this whole, wide world that's completely fucked up—"
The air shifted.
"—bugs should be cleaned up!"
Ronan roared the last word as he blurred forward, a streak of leather and steel. His dagger bit deep into the knee of a masked man materializing from the shadows, just as the brute swung a hammer meant to crush Jonas' skull.
The sound of bone snapping was followed by a scream.
Jonas didn't think. He moved.
His cane cracked sideways against another attacker's head—the crunch of skull splitting beneath wood and steel reverberated in his arm. The masked figure reeled back, blood spraying, just as Jonas caught a flicker of silver aimed for Ronan's exposed back.
He didn't hesitate. He drove forward, shoulder slamming, cane whistling as he smashed it against the assailant's face. The man went sprawling, teeth scattering on the stone.
For a heartbeat, time slowed.
Ronan glanced back, a flash of wild glee in his eyes. Jonas met it, deadpan but sharp, both of them moving past one another in the same breath.
Two bodies hit the ground.
The silence shattered again—this time replaced by the scuffle of boots, the hiss of blades, the ragged breath of men crawling from the shadows. More of them. Dozens.
"READY TO HAVE FUN, CRIME BOY!?" Ronan howled, his voice manic, echoing like a beast unchained.
Jonas only rolled his eyes, adjusting his grip on the cane. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt, but he forced himself to focus. No fear. Not now.
"…You're insane," he muttered.
But he planted his feet. Ready.
The first wave hit like a flood.
Boots slammed the cobbles. Blades caught the moonlight. Dozens of hunters—faces hidden behind cloth, eyes burning with the fanatic sheen of Beyond—charged without hesitation.
Jonas grit his teeth, cane snapping up just as the first one lunged. Steel clashed against steel. He shoved back, twisted, and drove the blunt end into the man's chin with a sickening crack. Teeth rattled loose.
But before the body even hit the ground, Ronan had already planted a foot on Jonas' cane.
"LIFT ME, CRIME BOY!" he roared, laughter manic.
Jonas snarled, shoved up, and Ronan used the leverage to vault skyward. Knives exploded from his hands like silver rain, flashing arcs that punched through flesh and tendon. Screams tore into the night as six men collapsed at once, clutching bleeding shoulders, arms, and necks.
Ronan landed on one of them, blade-first, splitting the hunter's back open as he cackled. "THANK YOU FOR SEEING THE RONAN CIRCUS OF KNIVES!!"
Jonas didn't even dignify it. His cane hissed as he flicked it open, the blade snapping free in one smooth motion. He slashed low, carving through another man's thigh before pivoting, boot cracking into another's ribs. His prosthetic shuddered under the impact but held.
They kept coming.
He tore the blade back into the cane's body, snapped the latch, and fired point-blank into a hunter's chest. The shotgun blast tore the man off his feet, blood and cloth bursting like paper in a storm. The echo of the shot rolled down the street, but the attackers didn't flinch.
Not one of them hesitated.
Jonas spat on the ground. "Damn lunatics…"
"HEY!" Ronan's voice cut sharp as he darted past, knives flashing in his hands. He cut one man across the face, ducked a spear thrust, then drove another blade through a neck. Blood sprayed. "We prefer the term enthusiastic!"
Jonas didn't bother answering. His eyes locked on a figure trying to slip past him toward the building—toward Klara.
Not happening.
He lunged, cane slamming into the man's stomach before driving the butt end into his temple. The hunter staggered, dazed, but Jonas didn't stop. He slammed his prosthetic knee up into the man's face. The jagged edge of scarred metal and wood split flesh, and the hunter crumpled.
Jonas landed, leg groaning from the recoil, but he didn't let himself falter. He spun the cane back into guard, breath sharp.
Another hunter rushed. Jonas threw sand straight into his eyes. The man screamed, clawing at his face, just in time for Jonas' blade to slide neatly under his ribs.
"FIGHT FILTHY!" Ronan howled gleefully, backpedaling just enough to spin and slash the throats of two men at once. His laughter shook the air, echoing mad, shrill, unrelenting.
The two moved together almost without thinking. Jonas' heavy rhythm—measured, brutal, precise—was the anvil. Ronan's erratic chaos—knives, leaps, unpredictable spins—was the hammer. They rotated around each other, stepping into gaps the other left, a jagged rhythm of carnage that left bodies piling.
Another tried to flank. Jonas swung his cane high—missed on purpose. The hunter grinned, raising his dagger—just in time for Ronan to kick off the cane again.
This time he didn't vault up. He spun sideways, body flipping, knives spinning in both hands before slamming into the flanker's chest and stomach.
Jonas yanked the cane free, muttering under his breath. "Insane bastard…"
"THANK YOU~!" Ronan chimed, already carving through another.
Jonas fired another blast, the buckshot shredding three at once. His shoulder screamed, but he ignored it, reloading with quick, jerky motions.
They came in waves, relentless. Jonas fought with clenched teeth, sweat pouring down his temple, every muscle screaming—but his hands didn't falter. Every strike, every gunshot, every dirty trick, was another step that bought the building behind them more time.
A stray hunter broke off, sprinting toward Klara's window.
Jonas' chest dropped. "No—"
But Ronan was already moving. He ran straight up the wall, boots finding cracks, knives digging into plaster for grip. He flipped up, landing crouched on the sill, knives spread wide.
"NUH UH!" he barked, grinning down at the man below. "DON'T YOU KNOW IF YOU WAKE HER UP THEN YOU AND I WILL BE IN TROUBLE, YOU IDIOT!?"
Jonas froze mid-swing, incredulous. "…Ah, the judge.."
"EXACTLY!" Ronan cackled before launching both blades down into the hunter's skull.
The man dropped instantly.
Jonas rolled his eyes, parried another slash, and hammered his cane against a jaw. He fired again, the shot ringing in his ears, body vibrating with the recoil.
Blood, glass, steel, grit—the street turned into a furnace of violence.
Jonas' body burned with exhaustion. His leg ached. His arms screamed. But he kept going.
Ronan, by contrast, seemed ecstatic. The more they came, the more he laughed, a storm of blades and howls that blurred around Jonas like a shield of chaos.
Another wave pressed in, and Jonas found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Ronan, back-to-back as their circle tightened.
Jonas wiped blood from his cheek, panting. "They're not stopping."
Ronan giggled, licking blood from his teeth. "GOOD! Neither do I!"
They spun. Jonas' cane cracked ribs, his shotgun tore holes. Ronan's knives ripped flesh, his boots slammed throats. Together, they tore the hunters apart.
And then—
The street lit up.
A roar of flame exploded outward, fire spilling like a living beast. Heat slammed into them, pushing them back as tongues of fire licked across the cobbles.
Jonas raised an arm against the blaze, eyes widening as the hunters stepped aside.
A new figure emerged, slow, deliberate. Cloaked, hooded, hands wreathed in writhing fire.
The flames danced higher, painting the walls crimson.
A Pyromaniac.
Ronan's grin widened. "Ohhhh… finally."
Jonas swallowed hard, sweat sizzling on his brow. His hand tightened around his cane.