The man known as “Eight” stood within the vast emptiness of the hall in the Royal Palace. His gaze lingered for one last second on the path Varian’s son had taken. The boy had vanished along with the Phoenix girl. Fate would decide whether or not he could accomplish the new goal set upon.

  Beside him, his attendant, Lucy, knelt over one of the corpses strewn across the floor. A long earring of ice dangled from her left ear, the spear-shaped jewelry catching the light that passed through the broken ceiling. It extended all the way down to her upper chest, swaying ever so slightly with every shift her body made. Her hair, ice blue and cropped just above her neck, framed her sharp features well.

  Her expression was fierce, eyes angled with frustration. Another might have found such a look intimidating, but Eight had long grown used to it.

  “This one’s alive.”

  Eight shifted his vision toward the body she was pointing at. Eight recognized the boy— a fleeting face in one of his old scouting reports. If he remembered correctly, the boy was a Dancing Blade. He had dismissed the boy many years ago, believing him to be nothing more than another unremarkable face in the crowd.

  Now, here he was, proving Eight’s initial expectations incorrect. He was half-dead, yet he still clung to his life with an impressive defiance.

  Eight watched him for a moment longer. The way the boy let his wounds remain open just enough to avoid suspicion, all the while tending to them just enough to keep himself from slipping into death’s grasp.

  Interesting.

  Eight stepped toward the boy. However, before his foot could land, the body stirred, the boy’s eyes snapping open frantically.

  “Wait, wait! I’ll do whatever you ask! Just don’t harm me.” The boy’s voice came out in trembling, shallow gasps.

  Eight smiled. Considering the boy had been conscious this entire time, he had already heard Eight’s conversation with Lucy. It was only natural that he would be afraid.

  “Tell me your name,” Eight said, keeping his voice pleasant to soothe the boy.

  “Wha—? Um, N-Neville, sir.”

  “You need not call me ‘sir.’ But you have heard too much. That presents a problem.” He crouched lower, leveling himself with Neville’s frightened gaze. Then, he held up two fingers. “So, I will grant you two choices. You may either work under me… or you may die here.”

  “I’ll work for you,” Neville blurted. There had been no hesitation in his answer.

  Eight clapped his hands together, letting the sharp sound echo through the hall. Neville flinched back, but Eight heeded it no attention.

  “Very good!” he declared.

  Then, with that matter settled, he turned his attention to another figure. Raven’s body was still, her chest barely rising and falling. He had noticed a while ago that she was alive, but he had deduced that she was too far gone to recover. However, with this boy’s healing prowess—

  Eight glanced back at Neville.

  “Heal her,” he said simply. “Then, we will depart.”

  He looked up toward a corner of the roof. “Did you hear that, Ten?” he called out.

  Lucy, who had moved to a nearby table to sit at, gave him an unamused look, her cheek resting on one of her hands. “Zachary left quite a while ago.”

  “Now now, don’t call him by that name. You know he hates it.” Eight sighed. The new guy seemed capable, but Eight didn’t like how freely he acted. He preferred to have a tight leash on his subordinates.

  Well, not like it mattered. That man was the same as him. But he wondered if the Devil had accounted for him changing the plans. He wouldn’t put it above him.

  “He’s here.” Lucy said abruptly, interrupting Eight’s train of thought. He looked down at Neville. “Are you finished?”

  “—I barely started.”

  “Then proceed with urgency. We are leaving.”

  To say Varian was in a foul mood would have been a grave understatement. The Iron Stag had not felt agitation this extreme for decades. The feeling gnawed at him, and he felt as if he might get devoured entirely by his own emotions.

  He had sent Ares and Joker after the children, but he could still feel them slip further from his grasp. Something was guiding them, there was something too deliberate about this situation. Varian had played this game longer than most had drawn breath. But this was different. For the first time in his life, he felt less like the master of the board and more like a piece within it. And that was something he could not abide calmly.

  Varian’s robes were soaked in blood, the crimson staining the pristine fabric. Some of it had dried, but most was still fresh to represent the last remnants of men who had died screaming by his own hands. Aaron and Daryun had met the only end they deserved as Draco’s dogs. He had brutally murdered them himself and after, he had taken their severed heads and placed them atop the Fortress gates. It was a display that should have brought him satisfaction, but it hadn’t.

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  He had also lost one of his First Division, Carmilla. Of all the warriors in his exalted group, she had been the weakest in battle. However, her ability had been more valuable than any amount of brute strength. But now she had died years before the Promised Day would even arrive, her soul taken by a duo of nobodies.

  His jaw tightened as he bit into his own finger. The sting grounded him, but it did little to lighten his mood. He prowled through the streets, his mind turning over every misstep. Most were engaged in other skirmishes across the Fortress but the few uninvolved he encountered didn’t dare cross his path, and those that did quickly shrank back.

  To them, he was a man who looked like he had lost all reason. A man dripping in blood, walking the streets with a madness barely held in check. But he had not lost his mind. Varian was thinking clearer than ever. And soon, he would have someone pay for this situation.

  As Varian made his way toward the Royal Palace, his fingers twitched, and in an instant, a massive spear of ice formed at his side. Without breaking stride, he flung it to his right. The weapon tore through the air, striking a nearby building with a force that demolished it completely. Someone might have been inside, but he didn’t care as he began to recount the current situation.

  The Chains were gone—he had seen to that himself. The Dancing Blades were likely still cooped up in their domain, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to engage while believing their plan had failed. As for the Marauders, their raid on the Goblet had collapsed under its own weight. He had no doubt most of them had been arrested or scattered.

  And yet, almost none of it had gone as it should have. Radahn was supposed to have ended the children’s parade before they got too close to the truth. Aran was meant to handle the situation at the Goblet, to ensure the chaos never grew beyond reach. But all of his expectations had been betrayed. And tonight, he had been made a fool.

  There were still two men left he needed to face—his greatest soldier, and the Emperor himself. One way or another, this forsaken night would have its conclusion.

  The halls of the Royal Palace were empty, stripped of the usual presence of attendants. Only silence greeted Varian as he moved forward, his boots clicking softly against the ice. Behind him, a streak of crimson marked his path, the smears a mark of those who had fallen by his hand.

  When he reached the throne room, he found the great seat shoved aside to reveal the gaping hole beneath. Without breaking stride, he stepped inside. He tried his best to ignore the crystals, their sickly pink glow creeping across the cavern walls.

  He walked for a minute before stopping. Serene stood still in the middle of the cavern. A cloth was tied over her right eye, no doubt to cover the wound Raven had inflicted in the fourth stage. Her father, the Storm Troll, sat slumped against the crystals, his body slick with blood. It dripped from his wounds, staining the ice beneath him.

  Varian’s gaze swept across the scene, lingering on the shattered bodies of the Marauders. The talented warriors now lay crumpled, undoubtedly deceased.

  Then his eyes landed on Radahn. His best man. His last true ally. He was split clean, his body severed at the waist, the two halves grotesquely slumped against the ice. His face was frozen in a final grimace, his expression caught mid-scream. It was an undignified end for one of the greatest Spears to ever walk the world. This should’ve been his breaking point, but Varian felt only an empty numbness.

  He turned his attention to Serene. She stood defiantly in the center of the cavern, her arms spread wide. She had positioned herself between him and her father, intent on blocking his approach. Varian’s eyes narrowed. He took a step forward.

  “And what,” he began, “do you think you can do with such a defiant action?”

  The tension in the air around the two increased tenfold. In an instant, ten spears materialized around the Iron Stag, floating in the air, poised to be launched. For a moment, the two of them stood locked in a silent confrontation.

  “Lower your arms,” he growled.

  Serene’s gaze did not falter. She stood there for a long moment, as if daring him to force her to move. But then, the fight seemed to drain from her. Slowly, she lowered her arms, stepping aside.

  Varian allowed his gaze to linger on her for a moment. Perhaps he could make use of her in the future.

  Varian stood before Bjorn in silence, his eyes scanning the broken form of the proud warrior. The man was past the point of no return. Spears had pierced his flesh, two of them lodged mere inches from his heart. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, each one more labored than the last. His eyes struggled to stay open, fighting to cling to what little life remained. It was a testament to Bjorn's willpower that he still drew breath at all, though it seemed he could not even process the world around him. His mind had already begun to slip away.

  Serene had been aware of Bjorn’s fate before Varian had even laid eyes on him. Her eyes were full of pain, and there was a silent plea in her pupils for Varian to do something.

  The Iron Stag ignored her.

  With a flick of his wrist, he formed another spear. Without hesitation, he sent it through Bjorn’s head, breaking through flesh and bone with brutal precision. The warrior’s body went limp, his suffering ended in an instant.

  Serene flinched, her face twisting with revulsion, but Varian didn’t spare her a second glance.

  He turned and continued forward, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the tunnel. He moved with long strides, leaving the grim scene behind him.

  Varian thought himself beyond emotion at this point. But as his eyes fell upon Lyra, strumming a soft tune on her harp of ice, his rage reappeared. He felt his gut twist as an insuppressible fury began to boil.

  He wanted nothing more than to rip that harp from her hands and smash it across her head. She was the source of Keilan's sudden change, the reason the boy had turned against him so easily. He had been an idiot to overlook her role in this play. And yet, as much as the anger seethed within him, he found himself unable to harm her.

  None understood Lyra better than Varian. It was his own fault for dismissing the quiet woman so easily.

  She spoke then, her voice too soft for the weight of the words she asked.

  “Do you feel satisfied?”

  Varian did not stop, nor did he turn to face her. He had already moved past her, and he had no intention of turning back.

  “Don’t talk to me,” he said simply.

  Then, he left her behind. Just as he always had.

  Several minutes later, Varian arrived at the entrance to the Emperor’s hideout. He tried not to look at the cage to his left. Between him and the door stood the Royal Guard, Aran and Flaren. Varian's jaw tightened, his patience fraying, but he forced himself to speak calmly.

  “Will you move yourselves, or must I move you?”

  Aran did not flinch. His expression was unreadable, and his eyes betrayed no fear. Worse still, there was no hint of remorse to his words, nothing to suggest he had even considered the promise he had made to Varian.

  The mere sight of him was a provocation. It took every ounce of Varian’s self-control not to let a spear fly from his hand and bury itself in Aran’s gut right there and then. But he held back, for now.

  “The Emperor has offered you an accord,” Aran said.

  “Absurd—”

  “It is not anything of that sort,” Flaren interrupted sharply.

  Varian’s gaze snapped to him, his brow furrowing. Flaren, of all people, was speaking to him now? For years, the former Spear had been silent in his presence. He had deserted the clan long ago, abandoning the true order to become one of the Emperor’s loyalists. It had baffled Varian then, and it baffled him now.

  Flaren continued without pausing, “The Emperor will die now. You know that better than anybody. With the departure of Keilan, he has no blood left within these walls. So he will die. He wants to live the rest of his life in solitude, and he will give the throne to you. But we, the Royal Guard, will remain loyal to the Emperor’s final wishes. We will accompany him until he dies.”

  For a moment, there was only the sound of Varian’s heavy breath. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel, striding away.

  A change was to come over the Ice Fortress.