Kaelen let out a short, dry laugh—a sound that shattered the chapel's solemnity like broken glass. Even with his body throbbing and the awareness that the air around him was growing too heavy to breathe, the old Valerius survival instinct—that acidic humor that bloomed in the middle of disaster—rose to the surface.
— You talk too much, Arlan. Truly — Kaelen said, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his bandaged hand. — If the Inquisition paid you for every cheap metaphor you vomit, you wouldn't need to skim gold from the docks. You'd have bought half of Ostrava already.
The Bishop narrowed his eyes, his complacency faltering under the boy's contempt.
— You stand at the edge of the abyss, boy. A little respect would be appropriate.
— Respect? — Kaelen took a lateral step, circling the Bishop, keeping the white sword in a low but ready guard. He felt the weight of the shadow to his left. He couldn't see the assassin, but he knew he was there—motionless like a gargoyle, waiting for a command or a single mistake. — I learned from the Matriarch that respect is like your sacramental wine: cheap grape juice poured into a golden cup.
Kaelen stopped, his gaze locked on Arlan, his ears straining for the slightest rasp of fabric against marble.
— And about standing at the edge of the abyss… well, I've been beaten so badly these past few days that the abyss is starting to look like a comfortable place to take a nap. At least down there it probably doesn't stink of incense and corruption.
Bishop Arlan tightened his grip on the reliquary at his neck, patience finally wearing thin.
— You are a fool, Valerius. A fool carrying a dead name.
— And you're a target, Arlan. A target wrapped in a fat robe — Kaelen tilted his head, the sarcastic smile still carved into his face, though his eyes were ice-cold. — So what are we waiting for? A divine sign? Or is your friend in the shadows too shy to come out because his outfit clashes with the church décor?
High above, Nyx finally found a way in. She slipped through a side skylight, descending silently along the wooden beams of the ceiling. From above, the scene was clear: Kaelen stood near the altar, toying with danger while a Reaper of the See prepared to strike from behind a marble column.
— Idiot… — Nyx whispered to herself, nocking an arrow onto her black bow. — He's trying to make the assassin lose patience.
Kaelen felt a shift in the air. The killer in the shadows was growing impatient. His humor was a double-edged blade: it distracted the enemy—but it also forced him to act.
Bishop Arlan let out a loud laugh, the sound echoing through the chapel's vaults, turning Kaelen's sarcasm into something small and pathetic. He stepped forward, his face lit by a nearby torch, revealing a pleasure that was almost erotic in its cruelty.
— You're quick with words, Valerius, but slow with reality — the Bishop hissed, tilting his head. — Do you know why I'm not in a hurry? Because I already got what I wanted today. Your mother… Lady Valerius… she still carries that scent of nobility, even while she cries on Garrick's floor. I wasn't satisfied with just one visit. Once you're buried beneath this altar, I'll return to the Lupanar. There's much to play with before age ruins her completely.
Kaelen's world stopped.
The air in the chapel seemed to freeze, turning solid and razor-sharp in his lungs. The image of his mother—the woman who had been his compass of dignity—being defiled by that robed worm obliterated every last shred of control.
— You… you piece of shit… — Kaelen's growl was inhuman, vibrating with a hatred that transcended physical pain.
He didn't finish the sentence.
— Kill him — Arlan ordered indifferently, already turning his back. — Leave only the head. I'll take it as a gift to his mother.
In the same microsecond, the shadow between the columns exploded into motion. The Reaper of the See wasn't a man—it was a gray blur of lethal speed. The snap of steel cutting the air was the only warning.
Driven by pure, animal survival instinct, Kaelen twisted his body. The white steel of his sword rose in a desperate arc.
CLANG!
The impact was so violent his arm bones screamed. Sparks burst into the air as the assassin's obsidian blade collided with the white steel. The Reaper was stronger, faster, uninjured. Kaelen was hurled backward, his boots sliding across the damp marble, the force nearly tearing the sword from his bandaged hands.
The Spectator in the Shadows
Above, Nyx crouched on the wooden beam, her black bow fully drawn, the arrow aimed at the assassin's nape. Her fingers itched to loose the string. She saw Kaelen's sloppy block, saw fresh blood soak back through his wrappings with the effort.
But she did not release the arrow.
— Get up, Valerius — she whispered, eyes narrow and glacial. — If hatred for your mother isn't enough to make you kill that vermin, then you're useless to the Pale Rose.
She wanted to see whether the "knight" could embrace the monster Ostrava demanded he become. She would not interfere. Not yet.
Kaelen barely regained his balance, the Reaper's dagger slicing past his throat by mere millimeters in the next motion. He was trapped against a marble column, the assassin preparing the final strike—and Bishop Arlan calmly walking toward the exit, as if Kaelen's fate were already a forgotten conclusion.