The air inside the room of warfare was cold, smelling faintly of an old parchment and the metallic tang of Lucifell's "curse."
Unlike the bright, ethereal halls of his former home in the Kingdom of Heaven, this office was a cavern of shadows,
lit only by the flickering glow of black candles that bled wax like slow, dark tears. The room is carved directly into the earth, featuring low, rugged stone ceilings and uneven rock walls that suggest a hidden bunker or a mountain stronghold. A thick, low-hanging mist clings to the cobblestone floor, swirling around the heavy furniture as if the room itself is breathing. The only light comes from clusters of black taper candles, casting long, flickering shadows that dance across the stone and give the space a somber, ritualistic energy.
Kestrel stood at the threshold, her hand resting briefly on the heavy iron door before she pushed it open. She was one of the few who could endure the crushing weight of Lucifell's presence without trembling.
At the center of the room stood the Chief War Commander. He was hunched slightly over a massive mahogany table covered in tactical maps of the borderlands. His casual uniform was the deep obsidian of The Mournvale Kingdom military, but beneath the collar, the faint, jagged scars of his "Fall" pulsed with a dim, sickly light whenever he moved.
He didn't look up. He didn't have to. He knew the rhythm of her heartbeat.
"The scout reports are finished, Commander," Kestrel began, her voice steady but carrying a hidden edge. She walked deeper into the room, her boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. She stopped just outside the circle of candlelight. "But I didn't come here to talk about troop movements."
Lucifell's hand, encased in a leather glove, froze over a wooden marker representing the Underworld's front line.
"Then you are wasting the Kingdom's time, Captain," he replied. His voice was a low, resonant baritone—the sound of grinding tectonic plates. It lacked the melodic grace of an angel, replaced by the gravel of a man who had felt too much earthly pain.
Kestrel took a breath, the kind of breath one takes before jumping into an abyss. "The Underworld is advancing. She is advancing. I saw your hand hesitate when you saw her crest on the intercepted seals."
She leaned forward, her shadow stretching long across the maps. "Do you still have feelings for her?"
The silence that followed was absolute. The flame of the nearest candle flickered and died, smothered by a sudden surge of Lucifell's heavy, suffocating aura. Slowly, he straightened his back, his spine popping with the sound of snapping winter branches.
He turned his head just enough for Kestrel to see a reflection flames on his mask from the candles that resembles the haunted by the memory of a sunlit Eden.
"Whatever ghost you think I chase from the past, it does not sit at this war table. My 'feelings' for Leinca are a diplomatic footnote—one that ended the moment her borders became our battlefield." said him as he He kept his gaze fixed on the strategic map. He spoke with the measured cadence of a man reading a treaty—devoid of heat, yet heavy with the weight of an ultimatum.
then she said, "What about her feelings?", and he replied, "Go back to your squadron Kestrel", said him to her
The words were cold. Final.
Yet Kestrel did not move, and her wolfie ears are pinned back.
The torches along the stone walls flickered as silence stretched between them, heavy as iron. Beneath the mask, Lucifell's gaze did not waver—but something unseen trembled in the air.
"…You've changed."
Kestrel's voice was low, almost swallowed by the vast hall.
No title. No formality.
Just the voice of someone who remembered.
Lucifell said nothing.
Bootsteps echoed faintly as Kestrel took one step forward, then stopped—as if crossing an invisible line would mean something irreversible.
"I heard the rumors," Kestrel continued. "About the Nightbringer. About what you've become."
A pause.
"…But I don't believe rumors."
For a moment, the flames dimmed.
And in that fragile silence, something old stirred—buried beneath armor, beneath command, beneath the weight of a kingdom.
A memory.
A child… falling from the sky.
Wings burning.
A forest howling beneath a dying light.
"Then don't," Lucifell finally replied.
His voice was steady—but quieter now.
Kestrel clenched her jaw.
"…Do you remember it?"
No answer.
"The Lycan Forest," she pressed. "The night we found you."
The air shifted.
Just slightly.
Enough.
"I remember," Lucifell said.
Two words.
Nothing more.
But it was enough to make Kestrel's chest tighten.
"Then why," Kestrel stepped forward again, unable to stop herself now, "why do you act like none of it mattered?! Like we're just soldiers to you now?!"
The question struck harder than any blade.
For a brief moment—
the torches flickered violently.
A faint, almost imperceptible crack glowed beneath Lucifell's neck… hidden beneath armor.
Then—
silence returned.
"Because it doesn't."
The answer came without hesitation.
Sharp. Clean. Merciless.
Kestrel froze.
"…You're lying."
Lucifell turned away.
That alone was an answer.
"The boy from the forest is dead," he said. "What remains… is what this kingdom needs."
A weapon.
A symbol.
A Nightbringer.
Kestrel lowered her head, fists clenched at her sides and her wolfie ears are still pinned back.
"…You're wrong."
Lucifell did not respond.
"…He's still there."
A long silence followed.
Then, without turning—
"Go back to your squadron, Captain."
This time, the title returned.
A wall rebuilt.
Kestrel stood there for a moment longer.
Then slowly… he turned.
But before leaving—
"…Old Man Garry would be disappointed."
The words were quiet.
But they lingered.
For the first time—
Lucifell did not move.
Did not speak.
Did not breathe.
And just as her body began to turn—
"...Kestrel."
A single word.
Soft.
Not a command.
Not an order.
Something else.
In that same fleeting instant—
Lucifell's hand rose.
The mask loosened.
Then—
it came off.
For the first time in years…
there was no Nightbringer.
Only him.
Silver-white hair fell softly over his forehead, catching the dim torchlight. His blue sky eyes—clear, tired, human—no longer hidden behind darkness.
A face Kestrel had not seen since childhood.
"…I'm sorry."
The words came with a quiet exhale.
Not sharp. Not cold.
Real.
He looked away slightly, running a hand through his hair as if the weight of everything finally pressed down at once.
"…My head is a mess right now."
A faint, almost helpless sigh escaped him.
"I just… need a moment alone."
Silence.
Then, softer—
"After all… I already promised you."
His gaze shifted back to her, not as a commander—but as the boy she once knew.
"That I'll come to the 12 Captain Campfire on Friday night."
A brief pause.
"…Happy now?"
The question lingered in the quiet.
For a moment, Kestrel did not move.
Her eyes remained fixed on him—on the face she had not seen in years. Not the Nightbringer. Not the commander.
Just… him.
The boy from the forest.
Something in her expression softened.
Then—
a single tear slipped free.
It traced silently down her cheek, catching the dim light before disappearing at her jaw.
She didn't wipe it.
Didn't hide it.
Didn't speak.
Instead—
Kestrel gave a small, quiet nod.
Not as a captain.
But as someone who understood.
Understood the apology.
Understood the burden.
Understood that he was still there… somewhere beneath it all.
Her lips parted slightly, as if to say something—
But no words came.
Only silence.
Then, slowly, she turned.
Step by step, her boots echoed against the stone floor as she walked toward the door.
She did not look back.
She didn't need to.
Because for the first time in a long while—
she had seen him.
And that was enough.
The heavy door creaked open.
Then shut.
And Lucifell was alone once more.
The mask still hung loosely in his hand.
Unworn