The bells of the Cathedral rang twice across all of Edel-Füllhorn before falling completely silent.

  And when they stopped, the silence that settled in was not empty — it was heavy with expectation.

  It was the kind of quiet that exists only on the eve of something irreversible. Like the final breath before a vow, a blade, or a mistake.

  The rain had just passed. The stone ground still gleamed beneath the midday light, and the air carried a clean, earthen scent. As if the heavens themselves had washed the city in preparation for what was about to come.

  Guests crossed beneath the entrance arch, adorned with white and golden roses, their petals still damp. The distant sound of musicians tuning their instruments echoed through the Cathedral’s interior, reminding everyone — in a tone far too solemn to ignore — that two lives were about to intertwine.

  A union that concerned not only two people, but Edel-Füllhorn itself.

  Inside, the Cathedral was even more imposing than its fa?ade promised.

  The ceiling rose so high it seemed to possess its own atmosphere, swallowing sounds and thoughts alike. Every inch of stone had been carved with almost devotional obsession — a testament left behind by generations of artisans who, over centuries, had given blood, sweat, and faith to that place.

  Above, an enormous spiral fresco dominated the ceiling, narrating the history of the city according to the Dreizaschrift, the sacred scripture of Axis. From the Prophet’s Vision to the gathering of the Apostles. From the Great Pilgrimage to the founding of Edel-Füllhorn by the hands of Saint Arborirch.

  The seats formed a wide semicircle, cut through by a long golden carpet that connected the entrance to the altar. There stood the statue of the founding saint, one hand holding a loaf of bread, the other a sword — sustenance and violence in perfect balance.

  Behind it, a vast stained-glass window depicted the Silver Serpent in a circular position, its colored light surrounding the statue like a living halo.

  At the base of the altar, carved into ancient silver, rested the city’s motto:

  “FROM THE FRUITS, WE GROW.”

  For many, it was merely another social event.

  For others, an opportunity to show up and eat well.

  For a select few, a day of genuine pride — the quiet joy of seeing someone dear commit themselves.

  And for Micah…

  It was the day he would stand guard from dawn until dusk, beneath the hot sun, wearing a helmet that felt like it was cooking his brain.

  Breakfast and morning training had been brief. The assignments, simple:

  Dennisorfeu and Asáimon patrolled the Cathedral’s surroundings;

  Micah and Bartkuma guarded the entrance;

  Felipa and Thonathaniel protected the interior;

  And Lysandre oversaw the guests’ quarters.

  Or at least that was what the paperwork said.

  ...

  Last night.

  The watch office was almost completely dark, lit only by the low flame of an oil lamp and the pale moonlight slipping through the narrow window.

  Lysandre leaned against the wall, arms crossed, one leg resting behind the other. At first glance she seemed relaxed. But her eyes never stopped moving. They followed the flame’s flicker. The shadows across the shelves. The distant sound of the city preparing to sleep.

  Reblis stood before her, behind a desk cluttered with documents, maps, and broken wax seals. He was neither writing nor reading. He merely stared at a single yellowed paper spread before him as if it were an open wound.

  — Tomorrow — he said without lifting his gaze — Edel-Füllhorn will be too full for mistakes.

  Lysandre raised an eyebrow.

  — Weddings tend to be like that.

  Reblis let out a humorless half-smile.

  — I need to borrow your talents.

  He finally turned around. His face looked tired, but his eyes…

  Too attentive.

  — The rumors started early. And they started too correctly.

  Lysandre uncrossed her arms.

  — Correct… or carefully planted?

  — That is exactly the question.

  He walked to the window, looking down into the Citadel courtyard where guards changed shifts beneath burning torches.

  — If someone wants to bring Wanderson down, tomorrow is the perfect day. Too many witnesses to deny it. Too much chaos to trace.

  Lysandre tilted her head.

  — And where do I come in?

  Reblis looked at her directly now.

  He pulled a small map of the Cathedral and its adjoining chambers, sliding it across the desk.

  — During the ceremony, you won’t be watching the guests. — he said. — You’ll go to the Duke’s private quarters.

  Lysandre didn’t react immediately.

  — His bedroom.

  — Exactly.

  She inhaled slowly, feeling the weight implied by the order.

  — Is this already a formal investigation?

  — Not yet. — Reblis replied. — It’s a precaution.

  A polite lie. They both knew it.

  — I want to know if there’s anything there that shouldn’t be. — he continued. — Documents, symbols, correspondence. Anything that could be used… or forged.

  Lysandre ran her tongue across her teeth thoughtfully.

  — And if I find something?

  — You don’t touch anything. — he said sharply. — You observe. Read the traces. Then come straight to me.

  She gave a crooked half-smile.

  — Even if the traces scream?

  — Especially if they scream.

  There was a pause.

  — And Gunther? — she asked, too casually to be innocent.

  Reblis’s jaw tightened briefly.

  — Gunther is a soldier. — he said. — And soldiers make mistakes. Or lie. Or get used.

  Lysandre nodded slowly.

  — Understood.

  She pushed herself away from the wall and walked toward the door.

  Reblis was alone again.

  The paper on the desk fluttered in the draft.

  At the top of it, a broken seal.

  And beneath it, a name that should not have been there.

  ...

  Bartkuma continued glancing toward Micah. But it hardly mattered — the redhead barely had time to take his eyes off the guest list and the entitled faces who treated his hair like an excuse to treat him as a servant.

  The seats soon filled with nobles and high-ranking military officers. In the first row sat the royal family, consisting of an elderly emotional mother, several uninterested uncles, and childhood cousins catching up with Wanderson.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The King did not appear.

  But what could be more important than his own brother’s wedding?

  Regardless, the ceremony would proceed. The bishop prepared himself before the saint, wearing a mixture of red and silver.

  The Duke approached the altar shortly after, adjusting his golden suit with a gesture too rehearsed to look natural. The fabric reflected the light passing through the stained glass behind Saint Arborirch’s statue, tinting it in silver and green hues as he walked along the ceremonial carpet.

  A restrained murmur spread among the guests.

  Wanderson was not a ruler in the classical sense. In fact, he had never desired such a role. He had never sought power or influence — he had always been a simple man who enjoyed parties, good food, and sex, the epitome of hedonism.

  No personality. No depth. No will.

  He had simply been born into gold.

  And with time, he learned to embrace the correct persona.

  Now he sought a wife, as if that would change anything.

  He stopped beside the altar, turned toward the assembly, and gave a brief nod. Nothing theatrical. Nothing excessive.

  As if it were merely another stop along the way.

  Micah watched everything from the entrance, his body rigid within his armor. The helmet muffled sounds but not the weight of the moment. Sweat slid down the back of his neck, mingling with the strange sensation of standing somewhere he did not belong.

  Bartkuma stood motionless beside him, hands resting on the sword’s hilt, eyes scanning the Cathedral with the same cold attention as always.

  He didn’t seem interested in the ceremony.

  Only in what might break it.

  The musicians began.

  The side doors opened.

  Rebbeka entered.

  The reaction was immediate, almost involuntary: a collective sigh, restrained, as if the Cathedral itself had inhaled at once.

  She wore a white dress threaded with subtle gold strands — nothing excessive, yet carefully designed to appear simple. Reblis accompanied her, symbol of his support and approval of his sister’s decision.

  The translucent veil revealed eyes far too attentive for a bride about to be wed.

  Felipa noticed it first.

  It wasn’t nervousness.

  It was calculation.

  Rebbeka walked with firm steps, serene face — but her gaze… her gaze occasionally drifted away from the Duke, glancing toward the side columns, the distant benches, places where nothing interesting should have been.

  Lysandre was not there to see it.

  She was already moving through the inner corridors, invisible to the ceremony, following traces that did not belong to the present — yet screamed nonetheless.

  At the altar, Wanderson watched Rebbeka approach.

  For a moment — brief enough that no one but him noticed — his eyes softened.

  Not with love.

  But with relief.

  Like someone finally reaching the end of a long journey.

  She stopped before him.

  The bishop raised his hands and the musicians fell silent.

  He stepped forward, lifting the Dreizaschrift with both hands. His voice echoed through the tall walls, amplified not by magic but by architecture built to swallow and return words like doctrine.

  — We gather today beneath the gaze of Axis… — he began — …to witness a knot not only of flesh, but of destiny.

  The light behind the altar shifted.

  Micah felt it before he saw it.

  A shiver ran down his spine as if the air had grown denser, heavier. Bartkuma frowned slightly, fingers tightening on the sword hilt.

  Felipa held her breath by instinct.

  The Silver Serpent in the stained glass looked… different.

  The colors vibrated with an intensity too strong for the sun at that hour. The tail’s circle reflected light at strange angles, casting shadows that did not match the original design.

  — …you come here to unite your paths— the bishop continued, unaware.

  Rebbeka blinked.

  Her eyes darted quickly behind the statue.

  Wanderson noticed.

  — Rebbeka? — he murmured softly.

  She didn’t answer.

  The sound came like a dry snap.

  Crack.

  A fissure appeared in the stained glass, slicing through the Serpent’s body from center to edge. The sound echoed through the Cathedral like restrained thunder.

  Micah stepped forward without realizing it.

  — Guard! — someone murmured among the benches.

  Crack.

  Another fracture.

  The light exploded into chaotic colors.

  The bishop stopped speaking, looking up.

  And then, with a roar that swallowed every other sound—

  The stained glass shattered.

  Guests screamed, shielding themselves from the shards flying in every direction.

  They looked up.

  And then everyone saw the figure responsible.

  Floating in the air like a ghost on probation was someone dressed entirely in white, not a single inch of skin exposed. Heavy steel gauntlets covered his hands. A long hooded mantle draped his body, and a Bauta mask concealed his face.

  For a moment everything froze.

  — I-it’s— — IT’S THE SCARLET HOOD!

  And chaos erupted.

  People ran in panic, overturning benches and trampling one another like gazelles fleeing a lion.

  The masked figure landed atop the bishop with impossible weight, crushing him and spraying blood across the altar. He scraped the sole of his boot across the corpse as if crushing a cockroach.

  The killer looked toward the terrified newlyweds, covered in the priest’s blood as they clung to the wall. Rebbeka had begun to cry.

  Yet he ignored them.

  Instead he charged Felipa with almost animal ferocity.

  She held her breath.

  The Scarlet Hood stopped mid-approach, retreating several meters.

  Felipa seemed surprised, still holding the air in her lungs.

  — How does he know that…? — Thona muttered, raising his new hammer.

  — Well, whatever! — He hurled the weapon.

  The moment the masked man noticed the attack he grabbed one of the Duke’s cousins, using him as a human shield.

  The hammer stopped mid-air, returning to Thona’s hand like a magnet, staggering him backward with the force.

  — Shit.

  The cousin collapsed like a sack of loose bones, alive only by the assassin’s momentary whim.

  The Scarlet Hood tilted his head slightly, as if evaluating the entire scene — not people, not faces, but vectors.

  Distances. Heights. Angles.

  Then he stopped.

  Not out of fear.

  But recognition.

  — Step away from the altar. — a voice came from behind the columns, far too calm for the chaos around it.

  The Hood turned slowly.

  Reblis walked toward the center of the hall, rapier in hand, the thin blade reflecting the colored shards scattered across the floor.

  His steps held no haste.

  Nor hesitation.

  After two more steps, he ceased to be one.

  Two.

  Four.

  Eight.

  Reblis filled the Cathedral like a broken reflection.

  Each with identical posture.

  Each too real to ignore.

  Micah felt his stomach drop.

  — Clones…? — he whispered.

  — No. — Bartkuma replied, jaw tight while ushering guests out. — They’re all him.

  The Scarlet Hood attacked first.

  He launched forward like a human projectile, the stone floor cracking under the force of his leap. One Reblis was pierced by the masked man’s fist — and dissolved into light, dissipating like a mistake corrected by reality.

  Another clone attacked from the side, the rapier aiming for the exposed armpit.

  The Hood twisted and grabbed the blade with his hand.

  Metal screamed, sparks flying against the gauntlet.

  For a second it seemed he had won the exchange.

  Then the Reblis holding the rapier became too solid.

  Like a camera snapping into focus, all the other clones collapsed into that same space, forming a shockwave that blasted everything outward.

  The impact ran up the invader’s arm, dark blood staining his sleeve.

  He flew through the air, tried to soften the impact with levitation, floating backward until slamming into a column.

  — Interesting. — he murmured through the mask.

  The columns began to crack.

  The Hood tore an entire stone block from the Cathedral base and hurled it hard enough to pass through three Reblis at once.

  Two vanished.

  The third did not.

  The impact sent Reblis sliding meters across the floor, his shoulder snapping wrong.

  The blood was far too real.

  — He collapsed. — Felipa whispered. — That’s the true state.

  The masked man realized it instantly.

  He smiled behind the mask.

  He came down like a meteor.

  As everyone fled, Bartkuma drove his sword into the marble floor.

  His eyes glowed briefly as pieces of chalk materialized around the room. In a fraction of a second they traced vertices through the space, locking everything into a single cube.

  — In here, no one shall fly. — he said, his voice echoing impossibly.

  The invader lost control of his flight, crashing to the ground like an eagle with broken wings.

  Reblis seized the moment, raising the rapier with difficulty — then multiplying again, forcing the state to disperse before the final blow.

  The Hood rose with difficulty, his left arm broken.

  The Paladin attacked from every angle now, each thrust too precise to ignore. Some blades pierced the Hood only to ricochet away, deflected by brute force or impossible air movements.

  Others left marks.

  Cuts.

  Punctures.

  Fissures that didn’t close fast enough.

  The man in white answered by ripping benches from the ground and spinning them like improvised weapons, smashing clones through sheer saturation.

  Every strike was a probability test.

  Until he got the timing right.

  He grabbed one Reblis by the neck in mid-air.

  And held him.

  That one did not disappear.

  The Captain choked, feet kicking in the void.

  All the others froze for a microscopic instant.

  A mistake.

  The invader spun with Reblis and hurled him outside the shattered window space.

  Then he crouched and leapt with such force the marble floor burst like dry clay.

  He caught Reblis’s throat again outside.

  Using the suspended body as an anchor, he launched himself forward, slamming them both through the hall and into the statue of Saint Arborirch.

  The stone sword broke.

  The body did too.

  They landed against a Citadel wall.

  Blood spread between stained glass shards and stone bricks.

  The silence afterward was brief.

  The Scarlet Hood rose before him, lifting him by the collar.

  — So you bleed. — he said.

  Reblis smiled, teeth red.

  — Only when it’s worth it.

  Then, with the last thread of control, he pushed the remaining quantum state…

  Not into himself.

  But into the floor beneath the Hood’s feet.

  The stone stopped agreeing with itself.

  The ground collapsed with a sharp crack, and the masked man fell into the flooded catacombs.

  Reblis rolled free, planting the rapier to stand.

  The Hood burst upward from the underground water and stopped mid-air, his blood mixing with the dirty water dripping onto the ground.

  They stared at each other.

  Two predators.

  One using the world as a weapon.

  The other using his own existence as a gamble.

  And the wounded Cathedral seemed to watch — aware that this was not the end.

  The Scarlet Hood suddenly ignited in the air.

  Within seconds he turned to ash and scattered into the wind, leaving only his mask and blood-soaked cloak behind.

  His trademark.

  But for the first time,

  Soaked in his own scarlet.

  Micah approached the unconscious Reblis, so stunned his eyes trembled.

  He had never imagined seeing his Captain in such a state.

  He saw him not merely as a superior, but as a pillar of strength — his complete opposite in every way, therefore invincible.

  And there he was.

  At death’s door.

  As vulnerable as he was.

  — SOMEONE CALL A DOCTOR! NOW! — Felipa shouted, rushing to the Captain.

  ...

  Hours later. In the quiet of night.

  A sharp knock echoed at élise’s chamber door.

  She closed the final financial report on her desk and rose, irritated by the interruption. When she opened the door she found Rebbeka standing on the threshold, dressed in white, threads of gold embroidered through the fabric as if to remind her — and anyone who saw her — that she now belonged to the highest society in Luther.

  — Rebbeka? — élise frowned in surprise.

  — élise…

  — What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on your honeymoon with Wanderson?

  Rebbeka hesitated, her gaze wavering briefly as if the question had missed its target.

  — The honeymoon was postponed. You… must have heard about the incident at the Cathedral.

  — I did. Come in.

  She stepped aside.

  The chamber was spacious and comfortable: a large bedroom, a meticulously organized office, a private bathroom. Darkness dominated the room, broken only by moonlight through the window and a single lantern on the desk.

  élise sat in a nearby armchair, crossing her legs naturally.

  Rebbeka remained standing.

  — Would you like some tea? I could wake my butler if you'd like. — The tone was far too casual for the hour.

  — No, thank you.

  The silence that followed was brief but heavy.

  — Were you the one who sent that killer?

  élise showed no surprise. She merely folded her fingers in her lap.

  — Surprisingly, no.

  — He spared me and Wanderson… for some reason.

  For a nearly imperceptible moment, élise’s eyes widened.

  — Interesting… — she murmured.

  Then she smiled.

  — Even so, we should thank him. It only accelerates our plan.

  — Thank him? — Rebbeka’s voice trembled. — élise, my brother almost died.

  élise stood.

  The distance between them vanished.

  — But he didn’t. — she whispered, leaning close. — Did he die, my love?

  — No…

  She took Rebbeka’s chin, forcing her to lift her face.

  — Then all you need to do now is stay quiet — she said softly — and watch your husband’s house collapse.

  "Understood?"

  — Yes… — Rebbeka replied reluctantly, barely a whisper.

  — Good.

  Then élise kissed her.