Klaus arrived at the tavern after an hour.
The tavern near the Alliance office was already alive, full of subjugators like him when he pushed the door open.
Warm air rolled over him, thick with roasted meat, oil, and spilled ale. The door creaked—just enough. Conversations stuttered, then resumed, quieter in places. A few heads turned. More than a few lingered.
Near the center tables sat a group of subjugators, gear half-removed, cloaks draped over chairs. Their armor bore fresh scratches, their voices low and judgmental in the way only professionals could manage.
"…That him?" one muttered, nodding toward the entrance.
"The slouch?" another scoffed. "Yeah. Shieldbreaker's dead weight."
Klaus heard it. Of course he did. He did not react, instead he acted as if he was indeed what they thought.
"They say he naps during briefings," a woman whispered.
"Four-star rank, my ass," a man replied. "Shane carries that party."
"He's infamous for a reason," someone else added. "Always late. Always tired. Somehow still alive."
Klaus stretched lazily, as if loosening stiff joints, and continued forward.
"Oi," a slurred voice cut through the murmurs. "If it isn't Klaus the Slouch. How've you been lately?"
Mr. Brunken sat at his usual table, mug in hand, sword leaned in his side, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with drink and mischief. Klaus turned, smiling easily.
"Just slacking off, Mr. Brunken," Klaus said. "As always."
Brunken barked a laugh. "Lucky man. Shane still hasn't kicked you yet?"
Klaus shrugged. "He needs someone to vent, someone harmless."
A snort came from the table across. One of the subjugators shook his head. "Must be nice. Four-star rank and still coasting."
Klaus glanced their way, eyes half-lidded. "You'd be surprised how exhausting coasting is."
That earned a few chuckles. A few scowls.
The man opposite Brunken leaned in. "Heard there's a sand wyrm near the Crowvale–Pedleton route. A class S threat, they say."
Klaus blinked slowly. "That sounds troublesome."
"Aren't you lot going after it?" the man pressed.
"Maybe," Klaus replied, tone airy. "Shane decides. I follow orders and complain creatively."
Brunken squinted at him. "Well, hunt it or don't, makes no difference to us. Just don't end up eaten."
"I'll check that in," Klaus said.
He turned toward the stairs. The murmurs followed him.
"Can't believe Shieldbreaker keeps him."
"Must know something we don't."
"Or maybe Shane's just soft."
He offered them a lazy wave and headed upstairs.
The hallway above was quieter, the noise of the tavern dulling into a distant hum. Klaus stopped outside a familiar door. His hand rested on the knob—but he didn't turn it yet.
He listened.
Nothing.
He opened the door and slipped inside, closing it without a sound.
The room was empty. Sunlight filtered through the window, dust motes drifting lazily.
Klaus crossed to the window first, leaning forward, fingers braced on the sill. His gaze swept the street below, tracking movement, reflections, shadows that lingered a second too long. After a moment, he nodded to himself.
Then he sat.
The chair creaked as he dropped into it, all tension draining at once. He slumped forward and let his forehead rest against the table with a soft thud.
"Figures," he muttered to no one. "I arrived too early."
He meant to rest his eyes. Just for a moment. He even tried to keep his breathing shallow, the way he did when he wanted to fake sleep.
He failed completely. Sleep gripped him as soon as he closed his eyes.
The dream came fast and heavy.
The barren land of Aegulus burned.
The sky cracked open with spellfire, arcs of light tearing through clouds that churned like wounded beasts. Explosions shook the ground. Shouts overlapped screams—orders, pleas, prayers—all drowned beneath the thunder of war. Slaves ran, bodies falling where they stood.
Klaus stumbled backward through the chaos, feet dragging as though the ground itself resisted him.
Arms wrapped around his chest from behind.
"You can't escape who you are, son," a voice said softly. "Your promise. Your war."
Klaus froze.
Leopold stood behind him—blood-soaked his clothes, his face slack and ruined, eyes hollow and dark. Still, his grip was warm. Real.
"You can't run forever," Leopold murmured.
Klaus gasped—
—and jolted awake.
He sucked in a sharp breath, heart hammering, fingers digging into the edge of the table. The room was quiet. Sunlight streamed in through the window, warm and ordinary, dust floating lazily in the air.
"…What a dream," he muttered hoarsely.
He straightened and summoned his status screen. Habit. Reassurance.
His name hovered there, calm and merciless.
Leopold de Vedre
Status: Deceased.
Klaus stared at it for a long moment. Then he exhaled slowly.
"It's not that I forgot, father," he said under his breath, eyes drifting back to the blue sky beyond the window. "It's just that what you asked… takes time."
Footsteps reached him—measured, steady, almost soundless.
Klaus didn't turn.
The doorknob twisted carefully. The door opened without a creak and closed again with precise control. Whoever had entered moved with confidence, each step deliberate, economical.
Shane.
He wore a light blue linen shirt beneath a deep purple coat, black trousers pressed sharply. Rings gleamed on his fingers—some elegant, some plain, all purposeful. Sling bag hanging on his shoulder. He held a rolled parchment in one hand. His posture was straight, composed, the sort that made rooms quietly adjust around him.
He stopped a few steps in.
"What's that look," Shane said evenly. "Still daydreaming?"
Klaus kept his gaze on the sky. "I was wondering why you called me."
Shane raised a brow. "You're part of the party, last I checked. It'd be rude not to include you in a major meeting."
"Next time," Klaus said lazily, "send someone other than Maddy. Or maybe Shalotte. Kiel works too—he's bad at directions, but enthusiastic."
He sighed. "Is this about the sand wyrm?"
"Among other things," Shane said, "if you just joined the party, it would've easy for me to contact you. And I wouldn't need to send anyone to your house."
"I can't," Klaus replied simply.
Shane studied him for a beat. "You're too sentimental. Your father died years ago, and yet you don't want to leave his party."
Klaus finally turned, one corner of his mouth lifting. "If you were in my shoes, wouldn't you do the same?"
"No," Shane said without hesitation. "I'd probably be the first one to kick my father out of the party."
Klaus snorted. "You really hate your dad."
"Professionally," Shane said. Then he shifted the parchment to his other hand. "Back to business. Will you go out with me?"
Klaus squinted. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not into men."
"And I'm not interested in you, either," Shane shot back flatly. "I meant as a diversion."
Klaus leaned back in his chair. "Now you have my attention. Explain."
Shane's expression sharpened. "The authorities are cracking down on shadow thieves. Harder than usual. We need noise somewhere else."
"And you want me to make it?"
"Not alone," Shane said. "The party wouldn't allow that. Two of us is optimal."
Klaus folded his arms. "What about the sand wyrm?"
"Let them handle it."
"Can they?"
"Maybe not," Shane admitted calmly. "If it turns ugly, I'll order a retreat before anyone gets hurt."
Klaus hummed. "That sounds… plausible."