The bar wasn't just expensive: it was quietly ostentatious.
The polished marble floor reflected the warm glow of the crystal chandeliers, breaking the light into soft fragments that seemed to float beneath the patrons' feet.
The endless dark-wood bar stretched along the wall, its exotic bottles aligned with near-religious precision, like relics meant to be admired rather than touched.
There was no loud laughter, no shouting. Only low, measured conversations, carefully controlled, as if every word carried a cost no one wished to overpay.
Piano music drifted through the air—slow, elegant, perfectly restrained.
They didn't belong there.
Lux noticed it immediately in the stares: long, appraising, quietly irritated.
Well-dressed patrons pretended not to look, yet their eyes lingered too long on worn coats and scuffed boots… and lingered longer still on the double-bladed axe strapped across Lux's back.
The Labrys.
A few diners stiffened at the sight. A woman froze mid-motion, her glass suspended inches from her lips. A man frowned and murmured something to his companion without looking away from the weapon.
It wasn't fear—at least not openly. It was surprise, poorly hidden, as if a single object had violated an unspoken rule of the place.
Nero felt the weight of that silent judgment press against his shoulders, but he didn't slow.
Merlin went first.
He walked as though the bar belonged to him, as if it had been built with his arrival in mind. He didn't glance at anyone, didn't hesitate.
He moved straight toward the back, where a discreet passage—nearly invisible between decorative columns—led to the private restrooms.
"This place costs more than all our gear combined," Lux muttered. "You think they even serve normal beer here?"
"Shut up," Sunday whispered. "They're listening."
Before entering the hallway, Merlin stopped. Just for a moment.
A man leaning near the bar looked up. Impeccable gray suit. Gold watch. Bored expression.
Their eyes met.
There was no greeting.
Merlin passed him and, without turning his head, whispered something too low for Nero to catch, even from a meter away. The man stiffened slightly, as if something sharp had brushed the back of his neck.
Feigning a casual adjustment of his jacket, he slipped a thin, cream-colored envelope into Merlin's hand.
Merlin accepted it with the same ease as someone taking a drink.
No one noticed.
"What was that?" Kōri whispered as Merlin continued walking.
"Nothing meant to be heard aloud," Merlin replied.
The hallway was carpeted, and with every step the sound of the bar faded, muffled and distant, as if the world itself were being left behind. Merlin pushed open the door to the private restroom and entered, shutting it with little care.
The room looked less like a bathroom and more like a private lounge. White marble. Flawless mirrors. Porcelain sinks. Scented candles competing with the lingering aroma of expensive liquor.
Everything was pristine.
Too pristine.
Merlin stood before the central mirror.
"Lock it."
Sunday did. The click echoed louder than it should have.
"Now will you tell us why we're here?" Nero asked.
Merlin placed the envelope on the sink but didn't open it. His gaze remained fixed on his reflection—yet something about it felt wrong, slightly misaligned, as if the mirror didn't quite know where to place him.
"Because expensive places think they're safe," he said calmly. "And because certain forces move more freely here."
The light flickered.
"I don't like that," Lux muttered, adjusting the strap of the Labrys.
Merlin rested both hands on the marble. The distant piano warped, its notes stretching and slipping out of harmony. The candle flames trembled together, synchronized, as if breathing.
Then he spoke—not to the mirror, not to them.
"Between the wind, I stand. And by the wind, I pass."
The words didn't fade. They layered, echoed, folded over themselves.
Nero felt the room expand, the walls pulling away just beyond what should have been possible.
Sunday sensed a murmur like a prayer spoken without mouths. Kōri squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed.
Merlin smiled faintly.
The floor cracked open. Not pipes. Not earth.
A spiral staircase descended beneath them, each step floating freely, unsupported, suspended over a vast, endless void.
Merlin pointed downward, utterly bored.
His footsteps echoed as he descended, dull and heavy in the sudden silence.
There was no visible bottom. Only darkness.
Kōri's stomach twisted. The stairs hung in empty space—no walls, no railings, nothing to cling to. Her breathing quickened.
They exchanged glances and followed.
One by one, they descended.
When the last foot left solid ground, the bathroom floor sealed itself above them, pristine once more.
Below, there was nothing—until light appeared.
It had no source. It cast no normal shadows. Yet it was enough to see.
A chill crawled up Kōri's spine. She turned.
"My… my shadow."
It was gone.
Not just hers. None of them cast one.
"Keep moving," Merlin said, scanning the darkness.
They did.
Kōri leaned over the edge and froze. Her body locked, trembling violently, and she stumbled back.
Below lay heaps of skeletal remains, arranged in unnaturally even clusters, as if placed with intent.
They continued downward until the stairs ended.
Before them stretched a vast black expanse, silent and unmoving.
Merlin stepped to the edge.
"We have to jump," he said calmly.
Kōri clutched the last step, shaking. "I can't. I can't do this."
Lux glanced down and clicked his tongue. "You're serious?"
"Yes," Merlin replied. "You're jumping."
Sunday stepped forward. "That's not a plan."
Merlin shook his head. "It is. You're just afraid of it."
"Into what?" Lux demanded.
Merlin smiled.
"The wind."
"The wind doesn't hold people," Sunday said.
"It does," Merlin replied softly, "when it belongs to someone."
He said the name.
"Zephyr."
The word cut through Nero like ice.
His breath caught. His fingers curled slowly, his body remembering something his mind refused to surface.
Merlin didn't look at him.
"The wind doesn't ask," Merlin continued. "It carries—or it lets go."
"And if we refuse?" Sunday asked.
Merlin stepped forward until his boot hovered over nothing.
"Then it will pass you by."
Kōri shook her head, tears in her eyes. "I can't see it."
"You don't need to," Merlin said. "Just stop fighting."
Lux clenched his jaw. "You're manipulating us."
"Yes," Merlin agreed.
He extended his hand into the void, as if feeling an unseen current.
"Jump."
The darkness leaned closer.
And Nero knew, with bone-deep certainty, that they were not alone.
Merlin stepped forward.
He vanished.
The wind came.
Not a breeze—a violent pull that tore them from the stairs.
Kōri screamed. Lux reached for nothing. Nero felt the air seize him, spin him, drag him with a force that didn't hurt...
…but commanded.
The world spun.
Sound vanished first—ripped away as if the wind itself had swallowed it. Nero couldn't tell if he was falling, rising, or being dragged sideways through nothing.
There was no sense of direction, only motion imposed upon him, precise and merciless.
The wind wrapped around them.
Not violently, not gently—decisively.
It pulled them apart and forced them back together, twisted their bodies, stripped away weight and balance.
Kōri's scream was cut short, swallowed whole. Lux felt his grip fail again and again, fingers closing on empty air.
Sunday tried to orient himself, to think, but even thought felt delayed, as if the wind decided when it was allowed to exist.
Nero felt it then.
Not fear. Recognition.
The current brushed against him like a hand that already knew the shape of his bones.
His chest tightened. His breath refused to settle. For an instant—too fast to be memory, too sharp to be imagination—he felt the echo of something cold and absolute.
Then—
Stillness.
Their feet struck stone.
The impact was soft. Impossible. As if the fall had ended not because it should have, but because it was allowed to.
Air rushed back into Nero's lungs. Sound snapped into place all at once—fire crackling, fabric shifting, breath dragged in too fast.
Light bloomed.
Torches.
Dozens of them, mounted on tall columns of black stone, burned with steady flames untouched by wind.
Their light revealed a wide, circular platform suspended in open space, its edges fading into darkness beyond sight.
They rose slowly.
Kōri was the first to move, clutching her arms around herself, shaking. Lux straightened with effort, eyes already scanning for threats. Sunday was on his feet in seconds, posture rigid, alert.
Nero stood last.
A chill crawled over his skin.
Not from the cold.
From what waited ahead.
Figures in long, pale robes stood in a perfect circle around a symbol carved deep into the stone floor. The markings were ancient, angular, cut with deliberate precision.
The figures' faces were hidden beneath heavy hoods, their hands folded or raised in practiced gestures.
They were chanting.
Low voices, synchronized, forming a rhythm that pressed against the air itself. The words were unintelligible, but their intent was unmistakable. Each syllable seemed to push outward, making the torches tremble ever so slightly.
A ritual.
Merlin stood at the edge of the circle.
He hadn't moved since their arrival. He watched the robed figures with calm interest, as if confirming something he already knew would be here.
The wind stirred again.
Not strong. Attentive.
The torches flickered in unison.
The chanting grew louder.
And whatever the ritual was meant to awaken—
had already noticed them.