Ashlynn stands before me in a fighting stance. The rapier is held steady, its tip hovering just inches from my face.
"Are you going to scar the face of your own lover, Ash?" I ask lightly.
"No…" She lowers the rapier. Now it points toward my knee. "But I can make sure you never leave me again," she teases.
Suddenly, I pull my leg back.
She reacts instantly, swinging her rapier — but the arc is too wide. The momentum carries the blade too far off line.
I step in without hesitation, close the distance, seize her wrist, and twist. Lightly — but with enough precision to force her fingers open.
The rapier clatters to the floor.
"Ready to surrender?" I smirk.
"No!" She drives her knee upward.
I pivot sideways, dodging the strike, but the movement gives her just enough space to wrench her hand free from my grip.
Her eyes flick between my hands and the rapier on the floor.
I angle my body as well — not toward the weapon, but toward her.
And as expected, she darts for the rapier.
I lunge forward and catch her around the waist.
We roll once across the floor, sliding until my back lands with a dull thud.
She manages to grab the sword.
But the way I lock our bodies makes it impossible for her to swing it.
We end up on the floor — she seated in front of me, my legs trapping hers from behind, my arms pinning her wrists close.
"Let go!" she laughs.
"Foooooh."
I blow air against her neck.
She squirms. "That tickles," she protests between giggles.
The air turns to a slow lick.
Her body jolts. Her grip loosens.
The rapier falls again.
"Who is the winner now?" I murmur near her ear.
"You, Len."
"Good girl," I say, pressing a kiss to her neck.
We settle the fight right there. I'm not even sure I can call it a fight. But she makes it clear — whatever frustration she carried, she has released it.
Later, we return to bed.
We do nothing more.
We simply sleep in each other's embrace.
—
I return to my Abyss. Here, I can be myself.
Monsieur Abyss.
I look forward. Nothing.
I look to my sides. Nothing.
I look behind. Still nothing.
For someone like me, that feels wrong.
If I can pull a marked man into this place… perhaps I can bring an object as well.
I focus on my left eye.
It begins to pulse.
The Abyssal Eye awakens.
One object comes immediately to mind.
My bog oak throne.
I concentrate. I visualize it in detail — the weight of the wood, the curve of the armrests, the grain carved by time.
At first, nothing happens.
Then—
The water before me ripples.
It rises slowly, twisting upward as if guided by invisible hands. The shape begins to form. First the four legs. Then the seat. Then the armrests.
A throne emerges.
It resembles my own.
But it has no color. It is dark and translucent at the same time. Faint glimmers of light shimmer within it, like distant stars trapped beneath glass.
I sit.
I try to rest.
I try to feel comfort.
There is none.
I am seated, yet it does not feel like sitting. My knees remain bent as if they alone bear my weight. The throne supports nothing.
My Abyssal throne offers no relief.
It is shape without substance.
Form without function.
Power without comfort.
After I finish setting up my throne, I concentrate my Abyssal Eye once more.
The image of Mynar Valazam flashes across my mind.
At that exact instant—
Ripples fracture the stillness of the water before me. The surface splits. A body spills out.
He lands face down against the endless void, motionless for a breath.
"Rise," I command calmly.
He obeys immediately, pushing himself upright into a kneeling posture. His face lifts toward me.
"Monsieur Abyss. Your servant is here."
"Do you like my gift?" I ask.
"Yes, Monsieur. Thank you for killing my nephews."
There is no grief in his tone.
Only relief.
"Your loyalty is now mine. And mine alone," I declare.
Something shifts.
Not the water.
Not the air.
His heart.
It settles into alignment.
"Monsieur… may I ask something?"
"Ask."
"Are you the one they call Twilight Wraith?"
Silence.
This man truly believes I would give myself such a cringe name.
"Foolishness!" I thunder.
My voice is loud—
Yet it does not echo.
The Abyss absorbs even sound.
His body trembles in fear. He lowers his head, refusing to meet my gaze.
"Forgive me for being presumptuous."
"I forgive you."
"Thank you, Monsieur Abyss — the merciful and the magnanimous."
I raise my palm toward him, flat and steady. "I require one thing from you."
He lifts his face again, this time with hardened resolve.
"I want you to monitor Xandar."
"It shall be done."
I snap my fingers.
The water surges upward and swallows him whole.
He vanishes without resistance.
The surface stills.
I sit alone once more.
I have more authority now.
—
Good Monday.
Before the sun rises, I am already awake. The first thing I do is wake Ashlynn.
I tap her cheek lightly.
"Mmmmm…" she groans.
"Ash…" I tap her again.
She turns away, burying herself deeper into the pillow, refusing the world.
So I bite her arm.
"AAAAAAAAAAH!"
Her hand flies out on instinct. It hits me squarely, and I lose balance, tumbling off the bed.
She bolts upright, eyes wide. "Len! I'm sorry— I'm so sorry!"
"That's alright," I say, standing slowly and brushing myself off. "I was just checking on you."
She grabs a pillow and throws it at me.
I catch it too late. We both laugh.
We spend the rest of the morning in playful retaliation — pushing, dodging, laughing. The kind of lightness that exists only before responsibility returns.
Before I leave, I straighten my coat.
"Be sure to study my alchemical notes," I remind her.
"Okay, Len."
I pause at the doorway.
"Oh, one more thing. Don't let anyone know you're practicing anything related to alchemy."
Her expression shifts slightly, more serious now.
"I won't."
Satisfied, I leave the house and head to work.
I move through my duties as usual — building rapport with clients, assisting the community, making decisions that look effortless because they are practiced. Every word placed. Every smile measured.
Before the day ends, Gary summons me to his office.
"Good Monday," we greet each other as I step inside.
He taps a sheet of paper on his desk.
"This is your first independent duty."
"Independent duty?" I repeat.
"This person," he says, sliding the paper slightly forward, "is an alchemist."
I glance down briefly.
"I see. What do you want me to do about it?"
"I want you to determine whether he works for another Order."
"And if he does?"
Gary slowly raises two fingers and points them toward his temple. His eyes sharpen. "Bang."
I swallow — not from fear, but from recognition. I already know the outcome of such gestures.
"And if he doesn't?"
"That," Gary says, leaning back in his chair, "is the independent part. You decide whether he joins us as an initiate…" He pauses, then gives a small wink. "…or becomes a statistic."
So this is how it works.
Gary is asking me to evaluate a potential recruit — the same way he once evaluated me in that prison before I joined the Hearthlight Order.
Though he had not been there to recruit me specifically. Circumstances simply aligned.
Unfortunately for this man, I have other plans.
I pick up the paper and slip it into my pocket.
After a brief exchange of harmless small talk, I leave Gary's office.
Instead of heading home immediately, I stop by a florist shop.
Bright red roses catch my attention. Their color reminds me of her eyes — vivid, alive, impossible to ignore.
"I'll take that bouquet," I say.
With the flowers in hand, I hire another carriage and make my way home.
When I arrive, I open the front door quietly, closing it just as softly behind me. I step into the foyer without a sound.
I pause.
I listen.
A soft whistle drifts through the house, carrying a gentle melody. It comes from the kitchen.
I move toward it carefully, each step placed with precision.
The scent of simmering beef broth fills the air before I even reach the doorway.
She's already there, focused on cooking.
Without turning around, she speaks.
"Are you trying to bite me?"
"No."
"Then what is it?" she asks, finally turning.
I raise the bouquet.
Her expression melts instantly.
"Oh, Len…" She rushes toward me and wraps her arms around my neck. "Thank you so much."
She kisses my cheek and takes the flowers from my hands.
"This is so beautiful," she says, admiring them.
"Because it matches you," I reply.
She inspects the roses more closely, bringing them near her face to breathe in their scent.
Then she notices something tucked between the stems.
A folded piece of paper.
"What's this?" she asks, pulling the note free.
"Go on. Read it."
She unfolds it and reads aloud:
"Dear Ashlynn Rose, my beloved… Will you be my disciple?"