#webstory

“Does the view not excite you, dear?” she asked somewhat jokingly, though it seemed as though Ulysses was not in the mood. “We shall have plenty of time to see it again on our way back to the city,” he answered dully as his head stayed buried in his copy of The Trumpeter, one of House Angelmore’s many weekly papers. The headline on the front page read ‘THE END OF TYRANNY! TERRANCE MONTGOMERY MEETS THE GRAVE!” Which was certainly incredible news, especially to Ulysses, though Agatha had always considered her husband’s obsession with the Circle’s enemies rather unhealthy. “Perhaps you can put down that paper and we can revel in the joyous news together?”

“And how would we do that?” he asked, still thoroughly distracted. Agatha huffed, which somewhat amused Ulysses. She then looked around the train car until she spotted an attendant in a red uniform walking through the center aisle. “Waiter!” she yelled in a modest tone whilst raising her hand. Hearing her call, the young man began to walk up to them. However, before he could reach them, a passenger in a brown coat and bowler hat, sitting in the table across aisle from the Everton’s, stood up and blocked his way. The passenger, who appeared to be in his early sixties, glared at the attendant with the intensity of a strong youth as he kept one of his hands inside his coat. The attendant gulped uncomfortably as he kept glancing between the man and the Everton’s. “Stand down, Mr. Porter.” Ulysses ordered. “I thought I told you to not confront the staff.”

Mr. Porter nodded, and then proceeded to return to his seat and act as though nothing had happened.  Agatha rolled her eyes and Ulysses sighed, both partially embarrassed by the non-existent subtly to their guard. Yet despite what had just occurred, the attendant walked up to them with a nervous yet hospitable smile on his face. “How many I be of service, my lady?” he asked obediently. “Two cakes and two teas, lad.” Agatha replied with a smile. She then glanced at Ulysses. “The Baron and I intend to celebrate this great day, don’t we darling?”

Ulysses sighed, having both his wife and the train attendant looking at him made it very difficult to concentrate on the paper, so he had no choice but to capitulate. He folded the paper and placed it on the desk before facing his wife with a defeated yet somewhat cheerful grin. “Yes, indeed, my dear.”

He then looked over at the attendant, who gulped awkwardly when he saw his gaze fall upon him. “As you wish, my lady,” he said before nodding and walking away in the direction of the train’s galley. He then turned to Agatha. “Should we not tell our son about this? I imagine he would not appreciate being excluded from this ‘celebration’,”

“Let our boy sleep, Uly,” Agatha answered with a smile. “Besides, what he does not know, cannot hurt him. Not unless you tell him of course.” Ulysses couldn’t help but grin. “Worry not, my lady, for I shan’t tell him a thing.”

They both giggled at their mutual dishonesty towards their son. Ulysses the sat back and stared out the window, smiling at the gorgeous scenery as it whisked past them, which made Agatha feel quite satisfied. However, even though his cheerful exterior, she could still see a glimmer of sadness in his eyes, she was perhaps the only person who could see it. “Perhaps it is time we forget the past, now that it is dead and buried,” she sighed softly before placing her hand over her husband’s. “Maybe it is time we finally look to the future.”

Ulysses took a deep breath and sighed. He then turned to Agatha, leaned forward, and placed his other hand over hers. “Right you are, as always.”

He then looked back down at the newspaper as he leaned against his seat. “Of course, the future lies with this swine’s successor. Namely, his grandson,”

“And what is the name of this new Overseer?” asked Agatha, her eyebrow raised. “Timothy Montgomery, Prince of Georenberg,” he scoffed. Agatha chuckled. “Timothy, eh? That is…certainly a name.” she said with a smirk.

“I agree. But nonetheless, he is a scion of the House of Saint Geroge, and we must not be so foolish as to underestimate him.”

Agatha nodded, and seconds later, the attendant returned with a silver-plated tray floating beside him. “Your order, my liege and lady,” he said with utmost politeness before flicking his fingers and contents of the tray fly down onto the table. He then leaned down and poured tea by hand into their porcelain cups with a silver teapot before planting forks into their slices of sponge cake. “Enjoy!”

“We will indeed, lad” agreed Ulysses before reaching into the pocket of his coat, pulling out half a handful of coins and handing them to the attendant. “Please accept this as a reward for your impeccable service… and as an apology for the misguided actions of my callous security.”

The man’s eyes widened; his face turned a light shade of red as his lips flinched. “My liege, I…I cannot accept this!”

“Nonsense!” Ulysses assured, his hand remaining outstretched. “You know, it is a grave insult to refuse a Baron’s gift, now take it!”

“Best not test him, lad,” Agatha added. The man took a deep breath, nodded reluctantly and took the coins with a grateful smile. “Thank you, my liege.”

“Good man!” Ulysses exclaimed, smiling graciously. He then swiftly reached into his coat, took out his pocket watch, and glanced at it. He then once again turned to the attendant. “Now do us a favor and find Baron Morning, he was supposed to meet us here fifteen minutes ago.”

The attendant nodded obediently before walking away, leaving the Everton couple alone once again. Agatha grabbed her fork and began to dig into her cake. However, Ulysses did not touch anything on the table, instead he simply sat there, tapping his finger on wood, waiting and pondering patiently. Seeing that her attempt to take her husband’s mind away from their troubles was not successful made her slightly frustrated.

“You know, it would not kill you to enjoy yourself every so often,” she grumbled. Ulysses looked off to his side and sighed whilst stretching his arms against the table. “Well, how can I enjoy myself if you keep pestering me about how I don’t enjoy myself?”

“You should be thankful I do! Otherwise, we both know you would’ve worked and worried yourself to death by now.” Agatha replied before pressing her fork into her cake and breaking into several pieces. “Rarely do we get to have moments like this together anymore, and I don’t want you spending it thinking about those wretched princes or our business affairs.”

They both stayed silent for a moment. Though he was somewhat irritated, Ulysses knew that he had no real rebuttal to her statements, for it was all true. He took a deep breath and calmed himself, knowing that he couldn’t blame his wife for worrying about him. He then stared directly at Agatha’s eyes, grabbed her hand and pulled it closer towards him before covering it with his palm apologetically. “I’m sorry, my dear. Your right. Perhaps I should live a little now and then,” he said in the softest, most contrite voice he could conjure. In response, Agatha slowly took her hand back, placed it on his left cheek and smiled. “Thank you.”

She then patted the side of his face before immediately returning to finishing her cake. “Now, I suggest you drink that tea before it gets cold.”

She then picked up her teacup and took a sip. Ulysses was about to do the same until he saw someone come walking down the middle of the train car. He placed his teacup back onto the table and turned his head back, the first thing he saw was the train attendant, who was followed by shortly by a red-haired man who appeared to be his late twenties, wearing an impeccable dark gray suit. Once they were a few feet away from the Everton’s table, the attendant moved aside and let the man walk past him before bowing, turning around and walking away again. Ulysses shuffled to the far corner of his seat as the man approached, and once he reached them, he greeted them with a joyous smile.

“Well, if it isn’t the King of the Stage and his lovely queen!” he announced cheerfully before kissing Agatha’s hand. He then confidently yet politely sat down beside Ulysses. “Ulysses! Agatha! So nice to see finally see you both again!”

“The pleasure’s all ours, Wallace,” Agatha replied before returning to her tea.

“I apologize for being late to our engagement. I was preoccupied with subduing my engineers.” He rambled with an almost giddy excitement, which made Agatha giggle. Ulysses glanced at Wallace for a moment before looking down at the table. “How does one ‘subdue’ an engineer?” he asked with a grin, for he was genuinely interested in the topic.  

Wallace chuckled. “It’s rather annoying really, every time we expand our lines, I have these naïve upstarts come to me with their outrageous ideas about how to ‘revolutionize’ our operations!” he complained in an exaggerated tone. “Of course, I must carry the burden of being the one to smother their ambitions.”

Ulysses then noticed Wallace look down at his untouched piece of cake. “Hold on.” he excused before turning around and raising his hand in the air. “Waiter!” he began to shout. Seeing this, Ulysses, who had no intention of indulging himself in sponge cake, quickly pushed his plate over to Wallace. “No, no! Here, have this! I insist!”

“Really? Why? Does it not satisfy you?” asked Wallace, seemingly puzzled as to why Ulysses would so easily give up such a fine piece of sponge cake. “If so, I suggest you tell me now! I shall not have substandard filth served on my train!”

“No, of course not! I assure you your service is very much above standard! Ordering it simply wasn’t my idea.” He reassured as he gave Agatha, who was frowning at him disapprovingly, a side eyed glance. Wallace paused for second before grabbing the fork and plunging it into the cake. “Well, I see, thank you.” he said graciously.

“I assume Meredith and the children are well?” asked Agatha. Wallace nodded. “They would be here with us right now, though unfortunately Evelyn caught a bad fever yesterday and Merry simply could not bring herself to leave her side. She told me to send you her regards on her behalf.”

“Worry not, that is very understandable!” Agatha exclaimed before drinking the last of her tea. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be having two children who are both so young.”

“Indeed, Marcus was quite a handful at that age.” Ulysses added, chuckling with nostalgia. “Quite a handful.”

Wallace chuckled at their anecdotes, though he also sighed regretfully. Ulysses could see hints of longing behind his smile. “I would much rather be with them than here, in some far-off backwater no city soul has ever heard of! It feels as though on some occasions, the cost of answering duty’s call is too much to bear.”

Ulysses gave him an empathetic smile, for he too had faced predicament. The mere thought of it made him want to drink wine instead of tea. “Such is our curse,” he muttered whilst patting Wallace’s shoulder. “Worry not, my friend, it shall all be worth it one day.”

“Besides, it will get much easier when they get to Marcus’ age.” Agatha assured whilst coughing lightly, in an attempt to cheer him up. “We hardly ever leave our home without him.”

“He’s asleep in our roomette as we speak, so we decided to spend this rare moment of peace alone with each other.” Ulysses added. Wallace smiled and chuckled as he ate the cake. All of them seemed to be enjoying the moment, though it only lasted about half a dozen seconds. “Now, I suppose it is time we discuss business.” Ulysses began, feeling it was the appropriate time to change the topic of conversation to something more urgent. Naturally, Agatha wasn’t pleased, though she didn’t air out her gripes in the presence of Wallace, instead she limited herself to a frown.

“What’s there to discuss? We arrive at Rosefield tomorrow morning, I give you both a tour of the new station, you sign over the deeds to the land between Elsfort and the Everton border, and then we go my holiday lodge for tea.” he recited as he finished the cake and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Sounds like an ironclad itinerary, if you ask me.”

“Yes, yes that’s all well and good. But I have something else to tell you.” Ulysses uttered as he moved a little closer to Wallace whilst staring at him directly in the eyes, which made him realize the seriousness of what he was about to say, for his smile vanished from his face and he sat completely silent. Even Agatha slowly leaned over towards them, for even she didn’t seem to know Ulysses was talking about.

“I have reason to believe the Circle has been compromised.” Ulysses whispered. Though despite his lack of volume, the severity of his accusation seemed to strike both Wallace and Agatha like thunder bolts.

“Wh…what do you mean? Ulysses, that is a serious accusation!” Wallace gasped.

“Yes! And that is why I have come to you! I believe the key to proving it lies within the Rail Worker’s Guild I…” Ulysses began; however, he was quickly interrupted by Agatha. Who suddenly began to cough very loudly. Her hands then began to shake rapidly as her skin went pale and her expression turned to one of anguish.

“What’s wrong, darling?” asked Ulysses, frightened by what he was seeing. Agatha opened her mouth to speak but all that came out was the sound of choking. Ulysses leaned away from her in horror as she banged her hand on the table and grabbed the tablecloth. With her other hand, she grabbed her neck as blood began to ooze out from her nose and eyes.

“She’s been poisoned!” exclaimed a panicking Ulysses as he grabbed Wallace by his coat. “Go! Find help! NOW!” he ordered. Wallace nodded frantically before lunging out of his seat and running down the aisle. Seeing this, Mr. Porter got up from his seat and came over to the Everton’s table. However, before he could reach them, Agatha collapsed down onto her seat, dragging the tablecloth down with her. Ulysses quickly reached over and grabbed her before her head could hit the wooden frame of the seat. However, the plates and teacups all fell onto ground, filling the train car with the sound of shattering porcelain. Ulysses undrunk tea spilled all over the table as all the other passengers began to turn their head towards them, though he could not care less.

“Ag? Dear? Please stay with me. Please!” he pleaded as he moved his wife back into a sitting position. Agatha’s body shivered as though she were in a blizzard as the blood that flowed out of her mouth and nose began to stain Ulysses’ sleeves. However, despite her pain, she was still conscious. She gazed directly into his eyes, and she slowly moved her hand towards him. Ulysses swiftly grabbed her hand and held it has tightly as he could, his eyes on the verge of tears. “Please, stay with me.”

Mr. Porter then walked up behind him, his face riddled with shock and guilt. “My liege, please, allow me to assist you!” he asked, leaning forward towards Ulysses.

Ulysses then took a deep breath and wiped the growing tears away from his eyes. The more he looked at Agatha, the more his shock was replaced by fury. “No.” he uttered, his face brimming with anger. He briefly turned to the table and looked at the overturned teacup, this was a deliberate attack, one he should have seen coming. “Find me who did this, now.”

His orders made Mr. Porter’s expression change to one of relentless determination. He gave Ulysses an obedient nod before taking his gun out of his coat and marching away in the direction the train attendant had gone earlier. Leaving Ulysses alone with Agatha, who had gone completely silent yet was still shivering and gasping for air. Ulysses then took out a napkin from his coat and began to wipe the blood away from Agatha’s face, whilst pleading continuously under his breath.

“Just stay with me.”

Soon Wallace returned with the train’s doctor, who then had Agatha moved to the Everton’s roomette. Ulysses was confronted by the daunting task of comforting Marcus. For the rest of the day, neither of them left the roomette, which was as large as a regular train car. The hours seemed to go by as though they were minutes, and by the time dusk had arrived, Ulysses found himself sitting on a sofa near Agatha’s bed with Marcus huddled next to him, fast asleep after hours of anguish. The doctor, despite his best efforts, could not undo the poisoning. However, he was able to slow it’s spread. By the time the sun disappeared down the horizon, Ulysses found himself being forced to come to terms with the inevitable, though by at that moment, such a task seemed near impossible. The shock that he had felt when these events had first transpired had all but disappeared, and he had done his best to contain his sadness in front of his son. However, despite everything he was experienced, there was one desire that dominated the entirety of his mind, and he was going to see that desire satisfied no matter the cost.

Just as the sky began to darken, Ulysses heard a knock on the door at the back of the roomette. “Enter!” he announced loudly after covering Marcus’ ear with his hand. The door opened, and in came Mr. Porter.

“Are you ready, my liege?” he asked, standing firmly by the door, the white hair on the edge of his hairline shining like silver in the candlelight. Ulysses looked down at Marcus and pondered for a moment, asking himself whether he was ready to do something he could never reverse. He then glanced over at Agatha, who gave him the answer he was looking for. He slowly stood up from his couch, gently easing Marcus off him and onto the soft sofa, leaving him to rest by himself. He then walked over to Mr. Porter, whose expression was still riddled with grief and guilt. However, Ulysses did not blame him for anything.

“Stay with them.” he ordered, to which Mr. Porter replied with a determined nod. Ulysses nodded back, before stepping through the door, onto the platform between the roomette and the car behind them. The feeling of the wind helped clear his mind as he swiftly jumped the gap between the two cars and stood in front of the door to the other car. However, before he went inside, he wiped any remnants of sadness from his face with a napkin, patted down his attire and composed himself as best he could. He then opened the door walked through to the other side.

Inside the other train car was yet another large roomette, however, this one seemed to be made specifically for the House of Morning, for their symbol adorned everything from the curtains to the napkins. Inside these quarters was Wallace, who sat hunched over on a sofa, deep in thought whilst, a feet away, another man sat, tied to a chair by his wrists and ankles, flanked on both sides by two cloaked figures. His face was covered in bruises and streaks of red, and he moaned and wheezing in both pain and exhaustion. Yet despite his dire condition, no one even looked at him. Wallace immediately turned and stared at the door the moment he heard it open, and he stood up once he saw that it was Ulysses who had entered the roomette.

“Ulysses!” he called sympathetically before walking up to him and giving him a short hug. Though Ulysses appreciated Wallace’s concern, at that moment, his mind was almost entirely fixated on the tied man, whose face he recognized to be that of the train attendant who had served Agatha the poison-riddled tea. He slowly pushed Wallace aside as he inched closer and closer to the man. However, despite his brimming hatred, the sight of the attendant’s tearful and desperate expression made a feeling of doubt flicker in the back of his head.

“Are you certain this is the right man?” he asked.

“Absolutely!” Wallace replied. “I had my men question and search every member of my staff, and then they found this hidden in this man’s attire!”

He then reached over to one of the tables, picked up a small, glass vial and handed it to Ulysses, who examined it and saw that it had residue of a translucent, orange liquid. “It’s a poison! My men confirmed it! This wretch is responsible for Agatha’s suffering and the besmirching of the Morning name!”

“It’s not mine, I swear!” the attendant objected profusely whilst struggling to free himself from his bonds. “My liege, please! I would never betray you, my liege! Please I beg you to listen to me!”

Ulysses clenched the vial in his fist and stared down at the attendant as he pleaded in desperation. He then gave one of the cloaked men a nod, which signaled him to pull out a revolver and point it directly at the attendant’s head. The attendant shrieked in terror, yet Ulysses continued to look down at him coldly.

“Who do you obey?” he asked. The man shook his head frantically whilst sweat trickled down his cheeks.

“No one! No one! I would never betray my liege, never! Please, I am being falsely accused!”

“Answer the Baron’s question, lest you wish to die here you wretched traitor!” Wallace bellowed. Ulysses stared deep into the man’s eyes as he whimpered. The more he looked, the more his doubt began to weigh on his mind. A small part of him wished he had invited Hatlys to this outing, for they would’ve been able to prevent all this needless and unpleasant suffering. He knew he couldn’t live with ending the life of an innocent young man. Hence, he decided to apply more pressure in order to find the truth.

He then once again turned to the cloaked men. “Give me the gun.” He ordered, and the man who was pointing the gun at the attendant immediate obeyed and handed over his weapon. A move that Wallace didn’t fully agree with. “Are you want to do this?” he asked, frowning at the cold way Ulysses stared down at the attendant.

“Worry not, Wallace. I have experience when it comes to scum like him.” Ulysses reassured. He then took the revolver, opened its cylinder before turning it and letting all six of its bullets fall into his palm. He then took one bullet and held it in front of the attendant’s face. He then calmly loaded the bullet into the cylinder and moved it back into place. The attendant then watched with shaking lips as Ulysses spun the cylinder and pointed it directly at him.

“Now then, lad, let’s see how loyal you really are.” He uttered with a voice laced with disgust. “Who do you really serve?”

“No one, my liege! I swear only the Circle and the Great Houses!” the man pleaded; a click then echoed through the room as Ulysses immediately pulled the revolver trigger. However, the revolver did not fire, for it had not fired the chamber containing the single bullet. Despite this, the man yelled in fear as when he heard the hammer strike. But once he realized he was still alive, tears began to roll down his face. The more Ulysses looked at him, the more guilt he felt, yet his rage and determination still outweighed his remorse.

“I applaud your dedication to protecting your accomplices.” He admitted. “But they will not save you now.” He then slowly pulled the hammer back, making sure to lengthen the moment as much as possible. Behind him, Wallace watched, his face become increasingly more concerned with the way Ulysses was behaving, yet he remained silent whilst Ulysses continued with the interrogation.

“Now, let’s try something simpler. Who gave you the poison?”

The attendant instantly began to ramble. “I don’t know, I swear! I never touched any poison! I would never do anything to you, I swear on the Moor! Please!”

Another hollow click sound echoed from the room as Ulysses once again pulled the trigger, and the gun once again did not fire. The man yelled out in terror once more, only to once again realize that he was still alive. At this point, Ulysses’ humane side began to ponder as to whether he was, in fact, blaming an innocent man. But his desire for vengeance kept pushing him further. His patience had now run its course, and he knew that now was the time to employ his most intense methods.

“What’s your name, lad?” he asked, in the calmest way he possibly could. The sudden and situationally out of place nature of the question seemed to confuse the attendant. Even Wallace raised an eyebrow at Ulysses, seemingly unable to deduce his angle of approach. The attendant opened his mouth, only to pause and stutter before he could provide an answer or beg for mercy again. Ulysses continued to look him directly in the eye with his gun held steady.

“Its…John, my liege… John Bayfort.” He answered after a few moments of stuttering. And with that, Ulysses began his assault.

“Well, Mr. Bayfort. I assume you have a family?” he pried. John’s body stiffened, for he could seemingly sense where this was all going. Yet this despite this, he reluctantly nodded. Ulysses then leaned towards John until his face was mere inches away from his. “Tell me, what would your family think of you if they saw your corpse hanging by the neck in the square of the Hamlet that they call home?”

At that moment, the room fell silent. Wallace stood eerily still, perhaps imagining the gruesome scene Ulysses was slowly painting. Ulysses hoped that Mr. Bayfort was imagining the same thing, for he then placed his hand on the man’s head and pressed his thumb against his forehead. “There is no sin greater than treason, Mr. Bayfort.” He continued. “A man who bites the hands that feeds him shall find himself strangled to death.”

Mr. Bayfort began to shiver as though he was cold. His pupils then began to expand as his mouth hung open and he began gasping and whimpering. The scene in front of his eye began to melt away and become replaced by an illusion of Ulysses’ making. He kept pressing harder as he imagined the most nightmarish version of Mr. Bayfort’s tragic fate and sowed it into his imagination, bombarding his mind with visions of misery and pain.

“No, no, no!” he screamed, as he tried desperately to break free from his restraints. “Oh please! Have mercy! NO!”

Ulysses then swiftly too his hand off the attendant’s forehead, breaking the illusion and bringing him back to reality. He had achieved what he wanted, for how Mr. Bayfort was truly at his mercy. “I will give you one last chance, John. Or else I shall see to it that what you just laid witness to becomes reality.” he whispered into his ear whilst pulling back the revolver hammer and patting the side of Mr. Bayfort’s with his other fist, which was still holding the other bullets.

“Who made you bite the hand?”

“I don’t know!” Mr. Bayfort screamed, closing his eyes as tightly as he could. “Please, my liege, I don’t know!”

As expected, the sound of a click echoed through the room the moment Mr. Bayfort stopped talking. That sound was followed shortly by another click, and then another. Ulysses pulled the trigger four times in rapid succession, yet the gun did not fire even once. Once he was done, he pointed the gun away from Mr. Bayfort, who slowly opened his eyes again once he heard the room go quiet. Ulysses once again looked at him in the eyes before sighing, handing the gun back to the soldier and turning to Wallace.

“He’s innocent.” He announced with angry disappointment. He then faced Mr. Bayfort once again and held his other hand over his lap, slowly opened his fist and let the bullets fall onto Mr. Bayfort’s lap. Mr. Bayfort let out a startled gasp as the bullets bounced off his uniform.  Wallace was seemingly the first to realize what Ulysses had done, for on Mr. Bayfort’s lap were six bullets. Meaning that Ulysses’ threats had been nothing but a ruse, and his bullet nothing just another illusion.

“You have proven your loyalty to your people, and for that I commend you.” He complimented, his feelings of remorse now outweighed his rage, for he could not overlook the anguish he had inflicted. He then slowly turned his wrist, and within seconds the ropes around Mr. Bayfort’s wrists and ankles unraveled, setting him free. Though, by that point, he did not have the strength to stand up. Ulysses then turned around and began to walk towards the exit of the train car with Wallace hurrying right beside him.

“What was all that?” he asked with a bewildered expression whilst looking at Ulysses as though he were a stranger.

“I imagine it was a performance worthy of the ‘King of the Stage’!” Ulysses answered whilst smiling wistfully. Though that vague and indirect response didn’t seem to satisfy Wallace.

“How do know that man is innocent? He had the poison with him!”

“The poison was merely a ploy meant to deceive us, and it did just that I’m afraid.”

“But how do you know this to be true? Intuition?” Wallace pressed on, still doubting Ulysses conclusions. Perhaps he thought he was too overtaken by grief to think properly. But Ulysses was confident in his judgements.

“Wren Demon once taught me that a man’s eyes cannot hide the truth once he knows his kin shall suffer in the consequences of his deeds.” He explained with a sigh whilst placing his hand on Wallace’s shoulder. “I showed the direst consequences of his fate and yet he did not have a liar’s eyes, much less the eyes of a murderer.”

Wallace raised his eyebrows and gasped in outrage. “Pardon?” he bellowed angrily, only for Ulysses to shrug it off with a sigh.

“Yes, I know you may think it intuition. But I find it best not to question the methods of the old baron, they may appear rather unorthodox, but in my experience, they are very effective.”

He then huffed before turning and facing Wallace straight on. He glanced over at Mr. Bayfort, who was still sitting in his chair, and slightly tightened his grip on Wallace’s shoulder. “Now about that poor lad, I suggest you reward him for his dedication.”

Wallace, seemingly realizing that his doubts would forever remain unresolved, frowned before looking down at the ground and letting out a deep breath and calming himself. He then once again faced Ulysses and nodded. “Alright, what do you suggest?”

Ulysses pondered for a moment. “Perhaps a promotion, make him a director or a foreman or whatever it is you call them.”

“A conductor?”

“Yes! That and a year’s worth of wages as compensation ought to settle all of this, don’t you think?”

Wallace nodded in agreement, for he knew that Ulysses’ suggestion was the best way forward given what they had just done. Ulysses then faced the door leading back towards his own roomette as his weak smile began to vanish. Interrogating Mr. Bayfort had made him forget about the dire situation of he and his family were now facing, and now that the whole affair with the whimpering attendant had reached its conclusion, he was once again reminded of the cold, dark truth. He sighed, and his expression became a doleful one.

“Are you alright, Ulysses?” asked Wallace, noticing his sudden mood shift. Ulysses nodded and feigned a smile.

“Worry not, my friend!” he exclaimed with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, though it did little to fool Wallace. Still, Ulysses was determined to appear stoic in the presence of Mr. Bayfort and their guards. Yet with every passing second, the pain became increasingly more unbearable. Tears began to form on the edges of his eyes, but he wiped them away before they could even have a chance to run down his face. He sniffled as he felt the weight of Wallace’s worried expression on the side of his face. “I simply… need more time.”

“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”

Ulysses turned to the man he considered a protégé and smiled. “You’ve done enough tonight, my friend.” He uttered before walking towards the exit and a slow but consistent pace. “Do you have the papers I need to sign as per our agreement?”

Wallace let out a light gasp, seemingly surprised by the fact that Ulysses would focus on such a subject after everything that had unfolded. “Um…yes, I have them with me. But you don’t…”

“Have them brought to me first thing in the morning; I shall sign them before we make our departure back to Everton.” Ulysses instructed as he placed his hand on the doorknob. He then felt the wind in his face as he opened the door and stepped outside.

“And I want you promise me that you will not utter a single word about this to anyone!” He shouted as the sound of the wind and the train made his voice difficult to comprehend.

“What? But…” Wallace began, seemingly confused as to why Ulysses would request such a thing. However, Ulysses blank and serious gaze made him pause and realize that he must have a reason, even if he was unwilling to share. He then nodded reluctantly. “Alright.”

Ulysses smiled. “It seems we’ll be unable to visit you lovely lodge, and for that I apologize!” he said as he turned to face the gap between the train cars. “Goodnight, Wallace!”

 “Goodnight to you as well.” Wallace replied, smiling back despite his underlying look of concern and puzzlement.

The door to the roomette then closed shut. Days later, Ulysses found himself standing in front of an entrance to a stone chamber, staring at Marcus whilst he stood next to a marble coffin with the words ‘The Baroness Agatha Pembrook Everton’ etched onto its surface. Agatha had died in Rosefield, and he had had her body moved to the mausoleum complex of Phinsburg Estate, the ancestral seat of the House of Everton. Ulysses held his top hat over his heart whilst Marcus hugged the coffin with both his hands and rested the side of his face on the cold marble. Ulysses was worried about him, for he had not spoken in days, something that he blamed on himself. For, despite his best efforts, he had so far failed to make him feel better, he had simply been too distracted by his own grief.

He glanced up and saw that the sky above them was beginning to darken, a light breeze swept across roofless corridors of the complex, a storm was coming, he could feel it. He reached his hand out towards Marcus, who then slowly and reluctantly took his hands off the coffin lid and walked towards his father. He then held Ulysses’ hand as they both stepped outside the tomb. Ulysses held his other hand over one of his coat pockets and made a golden key come flying into his palm. He then swung his hand in the air and made the door to the tomb close before locking it with the key. He and Marcus then walked down through the five-century old complex until they reached the entrance, a grand gateway with marble pillars holding up a great slab etched with the words ‘HERE REST THE DESCENDANTS OF THE HOUSE OF PHINEAS EVERTON’ with the statement ‘NONE WHO DO NOT BEAR HIS NAME MAY PASS’ etched beneath it. They then walked down a small set of stairs until they reached the rear garden of Phinsburg Manor.

At the base of the stairs awaited the Captain of the Order of Ada, who joined them as they began walking towards the house. He walked beside Ulysses, his body covered by a black cloak of mourning and his face covered by mask with small branch-like horns.

“The men have finished escorting the Barons and their families inside the house, my liege.” He said, leaning close to Ulysses ear. “They’re all quite eager to see the both of you.”

“That is good, yes, very good indeed,” Ulysses mumbled after letting out a sigh. “We, of course, have much to discuss.”

“If I may, they appeared to be rather concerned about your state of mind.” The captain stated whilst looking off towards the trees and bushes. “Perhaps the young Baron Morning told them what truly happened that day, and now they assume war is on the horizon.”

“Worry not, my friend. For there will be no war.” Ulysses responded swiftly. “Wallace may be young, but he knows not to disobey my wishes. The concern of the others is well warranted, but I have faith that once I tell them everything, they will see that their worries were unnecessary.”

He then stared ahead at the sixteen-pane windows of the house, thinking about the conversations he was about to have. He wasn’t worried in the slightest, he was the oldest and most experienced of all reigning barons, they trusted him, believed in him. He knew them well enough to know that they wouldn’t doubt his judgement now.

As they approached to within a few feet of the manor’s rear entrance, he turned to the captain. “Once my discussions with the others have concluded, I need you to summon Baron Morning to my study. I wish to talk with him in private.”

The captain nodded. “Understood, my liege. And if I may, there is someone else who wishes to have an audience with you.”

Ulysses raised his eyebrow in confusion as he placed his hand on the doorknob of the rear entrance. However, it only took him a few moments to guess who the captain was talking about.

“Porter?” he asked as he opened the door. The captain nodded and Ulysses sighed, for he could already deduce why his trusted subordinate would wish to speak with him in private. “Have him see me once I’m done with Wallace.”

The captain nodded in compliance. He then stood by the door as Ulysses and Marcus both went inside, just as the sound of thunder rumbled in the distance. Ulysses then let go of Marcus as they both made their way through the house. They passed by the dining room, which was filled to the brim with wine and several courses worth of food. They passed by the library, which was filled to the brim with dust. They passed by what felt like an endless assortment of parlors, lounges and other such rooms. However, as they walked, Ulysses could hear indistinct voices echoing through the walls, getting progressively louder and louder. Finally, they entered the main hall, a large two-story tall room with a marble floor and a grand dual curved staircase. Inside were the barons and their families, talking and mingling amongst themselves. Their eyes all turned to the Evertons the moment they stepped inside the hall, and the sound of their chatter died down and left the room drowning in a deep, respectful silence.

The first person to approach the Evertons was Leonard, who came up to Ulysses with his daughter Lira in tow. Lira was the only child of the Great Houses who was close to Marcus’s age, and she was one of the few people outside of his parents who he was genuinely fond of. She was also the only other child in the room, which made Ulysses assume the others were either resting or had been kept outside the hall. He nudged his son forward a little just as Lira came up to him and gave him a hug. At the same time Leonard embraced Ulysses and patted his back.  

“Oh Uly! We’re all devastated!” He whispered sympathetically before pulling himself back. “Agatha, she was… she was the best of us.”

Ulysses looked down at Marcus. For a moment, he felt hesitation, for Inside, his mind was busy going over every detail and possible outcome of what he was about to do. Undenounced to anyone but his own soldiers, he had come to this gathering with the hopes of enacting a painful yet necessary plan. And that moment of hesitation was the last glimpse of doubt he had before he decided to take the risk.

He nodded and patted Leonard’s shoulder approvingly. “I know, lad.  I know.” He said in a soft, mellow tone.

“How could this happen?” Jeanette then asked demandingly, sounding incredibly distraught. “How could she pass so…suddenly?”

Ulysses slowly turned and faced her, for he knew Jean and some of the other baronesses had looked up to Agatha the same way Leonard and the other barons looked up to him, which meant her death had struck them particularly hard. Hearing her demand for answers saddened him, for part of him wished he could give her the true answer, yet, on the other hand, he knew had no choice but to do act according to his plan, for it was the only way to avoid a greater calamity. He then momentarily glanced over at Wallace, hoping to observe his reaction as he opened his mouth to speak.

 “I-it was…all my fault.” He began, sniveling and speaking in a somber voice that sounded as though it were riddled with guilt. “She was ill, she had been for quite a while. Our physicians warned her not to take journey to Rosefield, yet despite that she wished to accompany me, and I-I agreed. M-my ignorance and misjudgment are the reasons she is no longer with us.”

The room fell into a shocked silence. Ulysses could see Wallace’s eyes widen and his mouth open, seemingly from confusion and disbelief. He waited to see if Wallace would call out his well concocted fiction. However, he seemed too taken aback to say anything, a reaction that played into his plan almost perfectly.

Ulysses then paused for a moment and grabbed his chest, for it felt as though the mere act of lying had injured a part of his soul. In truth, part of his wished that Wallace would expose him, for no matter how much his mind tried to justify his actions, he knew that if his plan worked, he would have to forever live with the knowledge that he had denied the truth about his wife’s death.

“Agatha was ill?” Harold inquired, sounding as though Ulysses had just spat on him. “The Baroness of Everton was ill and yet you did not seek our aid?”

“Her condition was not severe, and she refused to let me bother you with her tiny coughs and headaches.” Ulysses explained calmly. “I’m afraid that, by the time we realized she was on death’s door, we were on a train and out of your reach. I’m sorry.”

Harold opened his mouth and then closed it, seemingly unwilling to accept the unwinnable circumstances of Ulysses’ story yet also finding it near impossible to dispute them. Ulysses then noticed several eyes turn to Wallace, which he had expected would happen yet still made him feel dread and nervousness.

“What about Morning then? Where was he during all this?” asked Amos, narrowing his eyes at his peer. “Surely he wouldn’t have let Agatha perish under his watch.”

“Watch your tongue, Amos!” Meredith replied aggressively as she stood beside her husband. “How dare you accuse him of letting this happen!”

“I would not imply such things if I did not think it reasonable!” Amos scoffed. “After all, it was your train, it was your physicians who took care of her during her final days. Perhaps they were all substan…”

“That’s enough, Angelmore!” Henry chimed in angrily. “Now is not the time to fight over who we think is to blame!”

Both Wallace and Meredith stared at Amos with seething anger, yet neither of them said anything. Amos huffed, seemingly convinced that their lack of retorts was proof that he was right. Wallace then looked towards Ulysses, who saw an opportunity to relieve the growing tension in the room and to cement his version of truth.

“Indeed, there is no need to argue or debate over blame, for there is no blame to assign.” He stated in most serious and commanding voice he could muster as he walked and gestured towards the Morning couple. “If there is, it must be assigned to me. Wallace did whatever he could to help Agatha that day. I have no doubt he would’ve moved mountains with his bare hands if it meant saving her. He owes me nothing, in fact, I would go so far as to say I owe him!”

He then looked Wallace directly in the eyes. “Wouldn’t you agree, Wallace?”

Wallace stared back at Ulysses with   and took a deep breath. His eyes were riddled with conflict, for a moment Ulysses doubted whether he would take the route he had paved for him and bury what he knew. However, a few second later, he tightened his lips and nodded. “You owe me nothing, Uly.”

Ulysses smiled, Wallace’s voice was hesitant, yet he knew that he wasn’t going to reverse his decision. And even though he had effectively turned Wallace into his accomplice, the knowledge that he had successfully averted the possibility of a catastrophe within the Circle greatly eased his mind.

He then reached out his hand and called Marcus, who waved goodbye to Lira as he ran and walked up and grabbed his father’s hand. Ulysses then turned to address everyone in the room.

“Agatha was my wife, yes, and the mother of son, but more importantly, she was the Baroness of Everton, and I have no doubt that she would agree with me when I say that we live in a time that demands that we be united. The Throne of Saints has a new master, and it is imperative that we face him together. The Circle must be strong, my fellow barons, strong!”

He then raised his fist and looked around with an expression of great determination. “The Circle must be strong!”

The room fell silent, yet his message had been heard loud and clear. He saw several of the others nod and exchange looks. Despite their external display of formal demeanor, Ulysses could tell that he had successfully rallied them. He then briefly glanced over at Carlyle and the Morrows, people he had considered as possible risks to his plan, yet neither of them spoke up, contradicted or even appeared suspicious of him, which meant that they trusted his story and he had done nothing to compromise the future, which once again reinforced his belief that he had done the right thing. So, with Marcus in hand, he began climbing up the stairs, only to turn back and look down at his guests once he reached the halfway point.

“Now then, I suggest you all get settled and help yourselves to the food and wine. There is a storm brewing over yonder and trust me, these country winds make city gusts feel like light breezes!”

Some later that evening, as the storm’s gargantuan shadow loomed over Phinsburg House, Ulysses found himself watching raindrops stick to the panes to his window as he stood alone in his study. The sound of the rain had no rhythm to it, yet he had always found it quite soothing. In his hands was a white letter sealed with wax, stamped with the symbol of House Everton. He ran his thumb along the letter’s surface, his mind deep in thought. Suddenly, he heard a knock on the door, he then swiftly stuffed the letter in his waistcoat pocket before turning to address his waiting visitor.

“Enter!” he shouted eagerly, he heard the doorknob turning, followed by the sound of footsteps as a figure, obscured by shadow, entered the room. Moments later, every unlit candle in the room came alight near instantly, revealing the obscured figure to be Wallace.

“You sent for me?”

“Indeed, I did, though I take it I didn’t need to.”  Ulysses chuckled, hoping to gauge what Wallace was feeling.

Wallace neither laughed nor frowned, in fact, he seemed distraught as he slid his hand across a nearby table. He paced uneasily around the room, his posture slightly drunken and unsteady, and looking off into the distance, gazing at the ancient and opulent trinkets and heirlooms that filled the study. Ulysses could tell from his worried expression that he had many questions, though he was seemingly at a loss as to how he should ask them.

“Thank you for siding with me before, you did the right thing.” He continued as he walked up to Wallace.

“Did I?” he asked weakly, appearing genuinely unsure of himself. Ulysses responded with a warm smile. He held out his hand, making the doors of a nearby cabinet open. From inside the cabinet a half empty bottle of whiskey and two glasses came flying out towards him. He then grabbed the bottle whilst the glasses floated near his hand and opened it. “Care for some?”

Wallace shook his head. “No, I’ve already had too much, Merry won’t let me hear the end of it!”

Ulysses chuckled as he grabbed one of the floating and glasses and filled it hallway with liquor. He then closed the bottle and sent both it and the remaining empty glasses flying back into the cabinet. He then stared down at his glass and sighed. “I hope you understand that I lied in order to protect the Great Houses.”

“I don’t think I do.” Wallace admitted with sadness. “I sided with you because I owe you more than I care to admit, and because I believed you had our best interests at heart.”

“And I assure you your judgement is correct.” Ulysses said swiftly. “If you have doubts, then make them known so I that I may dispel them.”

Wallace sniffed and gave Ulysses a glassy eyed stare. “That day on the train, you told me that the Circle was compromised. Yet today, you dismissed the idea in front of all the other barons. I just want to know why.”

Ulysses sighed as his expression darkened. He then drank his entire drink in one gulp before placing the glass on a nearby table.  “It is the only way to root out these traitors without risking the lives of the others.”

“You think these wretches scurrying around the shadows are a threat to the Great Houses? That’s impossible!” Wallace argued.

“They have already done the impossible!” Ulysses retorted loudly, his emotions seeping through his otherwise stern expression. “They murdered Agatha! And they nearly murdered me and left Marcus to become an orphan! All because I made the mistake of being too non-discreet!”

Wallace paused, his mouth stuttering, but Ulysses did not waste a breath as he continued his rambling. “I went seeking an end to the ghosts that have tormented me for so long, instead I have only added to them!”

He then looked down, took a deep breath, and calmed himself down only to look back at Wallace and see that his distraught expression has transformed into baffled confusion.

“What do you mean by that?”

Ulysses paused and sighed, realizing that he had slipped up and let his inner thoughts seep into his words. However, part of him felt relieved that he had, and he knew he couldn’t deny it in front of Wallace lest he risked losing the trust he had in him.

“These treacherous rats did not debut in Rosefield.” He said before sitting down on a wooden chair with scarlet cushions and ornate engravings. “Their roots are far, far older.”

“What are you saying?” asked Wallace intently as inched closer to Ulysses, his face now wide-eyed as his mind raced to figure out what Ulysses was implying.

“From what I have gathered from my years of searching, their ideology originates from a small group of rebellious Guildsman from the Hamlet of Avargrove who decided to spread their cancerous doctrine shortly before the war.”

“Avargrove? But isn’t that where…” Wallace began before pausing. His expression then went pale, and his mouth began to open in disbelief as the candles around him began to burn unnaturally bright, for he had realized what Ulysses was saying. “No.”

Ulysses gave him a nod. “Yes, it is likely that it was these same traitors who fed my House to the Order’s dogs all those years ago.”

Wallace repressed a gasp as he took a step back in sheer shock. He looked off into the distance as his mouth struggled to find the appropriate words to respond to such a revelation. Luckily, Ulysses wasn’t going to wait until he could find the words, for himself still had more to say.

He leaned back on his chair and rubbed his forehead with his hand. “Agatha’s death was all my fault.” He said whilst sniveling lightly. “I was a fool to think that I could undo the past.”

“No, Ulysses.” Wallace then said plainly as he turned back to face his wounded peer. He walked over to him and quietly knelt next his arm. “You were a doing the Circle a service like any baron would. The pursuit of justice is not a quest that is undertaken by fools.”

Ulysses let out a deep sigh, for he was hesitant to believe Wallace’s words, though Wallace himself seemed to have gained a strange sense of determination, perhaps understanding the importance of Ulysses’ work. He wrapped his palm around Ulysses’ fist as though he were swearing an oath. “That day you came to me seeking my aid, so allow me to aid you now.”

Ulysses eyes widened. For a moment he thought Wallace was making some sort of joke, however the serios expression on Wallace’s face told him otherwise. Then, strangely, he felt a sense of anger wash over him. For, amidst his bravery and good intentions, he couldn’t help but see ignorance. Wallace had yet to understand the suffering that his decision would likely bring him, thus Ulysses saw his words as misguided, and he was not willing to lead him down such a painful path.

“No.” he said with a cold stare. “You mustn’t get involved. You must stand with the others against Montgomery, he is still the greater foe!”

“Montgomery can wait.” Wallace uttered before letting go of Ulysses and standing back up. A ray of light illuminated one side of his face as he stared down at Ulysses with great conviction. “That day you told me that the secret to finding these wretches was with the Rail Worker’s Guild, those are my workers, my people! How can I go on knowing that there is evil hiding amongst them!”

“I can see how you may feel that way, but there is nothing you can do now.” Ulysses explained calmly. “They knew I was onto them, meaning they have likely already retreated back into whatever dark hold they crept out from, and seeing as they aren’t dimwitted imbeciles, whatever clues they might have been foolish enough to leave behind prior to their attack have likely been burned and buried.”

Wallace huffed in frustration, unwilling to accept what Ulysses saw as the reality of the situation. “Then there must be another way! There should be! No commoner can truly escape the eyes of the Circle!”

“I agree.” Ulysses agreed. “And if there is, I shall find it! That I assure you.”

Wallace let out an irritated sigh and grabbed both armrests of Ulysses’ chair. Ulysses knew what he was going to say next, however he had already made up his mind, therefore he decided to spare him the effort. “Think of what you can lose, Wallace, think about Meredith. I know what it truly costs to descend into hell, and I assure you, it will leave you broken and wishing you had not paid it!”

Wallace opened his mouth and closed it again, seemingly intimidated by Ulysses’ cold and dead serious glare. They gazed at each other for a few moments, both unwilling to relent as both thought they were actions were for the good of the other. However, Ulysses’ words proved too true for Wallace to deny, for he eventually backed down and took his hands off the chair. He then walked back a few steps and turned to face a nearby window, angry yet accepting of the truth.

“You’re right.” He sighed, his voice carrying an undertone of reluctance. Ulysses smiled and he got up from his chair and approached his friend. “Your passion is admirable.” He said whilst placing his arm on Wallace’s shoulder. “But you’re young, and you have more to live for.”

“You’re not that old!” Wallace retorted with a light chuckle before returning to his serious attitude. “And about Marcus, what if all this ends up leaving him an orphan?”

Ulysses took a deep breath. Wallace’s question was indeed a hard one to answer, and for a moment he hesitated to answer. He took his hand off Wallace’s shoulder and stared off into the distance as the words slowly came to him. “Indeed, I was about his age when I lost my family. However, unlike me, I know he shall be prepared to handle it, I will make sure to it!”

Then, for a brief moment, as his train of thought ran along it’s long and winding tracks, his mind caught a glimpse of an old memory, one of a life he lived before Agatha, a life he had hidden away deep in the hills where none would find it. However, within seconds, that memory faded as Wallace’s words entered his ears.

“I trust you.” He said plainly. “And despite my convictions I will side with you, both now and always.”

He then reached out his hand towards Ulysses. “May you vanquish your ghosts once for all.”

Ulysses then gave Wallace a grin as he grabbed his hand and shook it sternly whilst nodding with determination. “And may you complete your railroad! So that I may get a free ticket one day.”

They both laughed, their banter did little to ease the greater tension and uncertainty that surrounded them however, at that moment, neither of them seemed to care. Wallace then left the room soon after, and once he did the candles in the room all went dark, leaving Ulysses alone once again with nothing but window light and the diminishing sound of the rain. Though, his solitude was short lived, for less than a minute after Wallace closed the door behind him, Ulysses heard another knock.

“Enter!”

Yet again another man walked through the door and into the shadows of the room, however their silhouette alone was enough for Ulysses to recognize who it was.

“Vice-Captain Porter.” He greeted cheerfully as he sat back on his chair. “I heard you’ve been spreading rumors about your retirement.”

“They aren’t rumors, my liege.” Porter said sternly as he walked closer to his employer, his face wearier and more wrinkled than it had been a few days prior but given that the man was in his sixties it was no surprise. “I kindly ask that you grant me my leave.”

Ulysses stared blankly at his subordinate and chuckled, seemingly both dissatisfied and disappointed at such a request.

“So, what made you come to this decision, eh?” he huffed, his voice becoming increasingly angrier. “Was it fatigue? Old age? Boredom?”

“I am indeed old and tired. But I know you know that is not my true reason.” Mr. Porter said graciously as he looked down at the ground. “Please, my liege, do not trivialize my wishes.”

Ulysses clenched his fists tightly and frowned. He knew he had the power to reject his soldier’s wishes, however he respected Mr. Porter too much to resort to such a cruel and weak move. However, not having the upper hand and being on the verge of losing someone he felt he needed filled him with an uncomfortable feeling of helplessness. He then turned his gaze back towards the window, took a deep breath and calmed himself down.

“You know I consider you close to family, Jack.” he said somberly before taking a brief pause and speaking in a much angrier tone. “How many decades have you served me? How many times have we lost something in the pursuit of what is just?”

“A pursuit that I have failed to complete, my liege, I…” Jack began, raising his voice before Ulysses raised his hand in the air, which made him stop talking almost immediately.

“Please, do not address me as ‘my liege’ when you’re in my house, it is beneath you.”

Jack paused for a moment before nodding obediently, yet even such a high compliment seemed to do little to change his resolve. “Do you speak to her? Does she appear before you when you enter a room?”

Ulysses raised his eyebrows as his mouth opened slightly. He did not wish to answer such a question, for he knew his answer wasn’t the right one, but he knew his silence would only say that same thing.

“She wants to.” He muttered as he looked off to the side of the room. He raised his hand off the armrests, and suddenly another hand appeared out of thin air in order and grabbed it, the hand then began to expand until it formed the shape of a women, and within seconds Agatha was staring down at him, her face ghostly yet bearing a loving smile.

“I miss her.” He said, teary eyed with joy at the sight of the illusion. But his euphoria was short lived, for the cruel reality of what he was doing quickly set in, and he reminded himself of what was truly in front of his eyes, nothing. “But I learnt o accept that she isn’t coming back, none of them are.”

He let go of the illusion’s hand and waved his arms as though he was shooing away a fly, the illusion then vanished like smoke, still smiling, still happy.

“You’re in pain, Ulysses.” Jack stated, his old hands shivering. “Pain that I failed to prevent.”

Ulysses took a deep breath before rubbing his face with his palm. “No, you did not. I do not blame you for anything.” He expressed calmly.

“But I blame myself.” Jack replied swiftly. “I failed as your protector, I failed as the Vice-Captain of the Ninth Company, and what’s more, I failed as your friend. That is a sin I cannot overlook.”

“And your solution is to abandon your post? To leave me and all that you have worked for behind. Is that how you wish to atone for you so-called sin?”

Jack could seemingly sense the anger the in his friend’s voice, yet he replied with a nod, showing that he was adamant in getting what he wanted. “I can no longer serve you, yet I leave you in good company. I have arranged for Mr. Peyton to take my place; the captain has already approved it.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Ulysses replied, his tone brash and uncaring. “Because I refuse to condemn you to the misery of an underserved dismissal, and I refuse to let you abandon this house!”

Ulysses then stopped to take a deep breath, he could tell his behavior was bordering childishness, he was letting his emotions run wild, and so he silently collected himself as he waited to hear his friend’s reply.

Jack took a few steps forward and weakly pointed his finger at Ulysses as he did. “You are not the same lonely, orphaned boy you were when I first saw you, you do not need me now. I am unfit to aid you in the coming battles…”

“So then resign.” Ulysses suggested, cutting him off. “Take your belongings, take a car and leave these grounds! I assure you; no man here will stop you.”

“You know there’s no honor in that, lad!” Jack scolded, his voice sounding raspier the faster he spoke, his inner anger had seemingly boiled over as Ulysses’ suggestion made him feel insulted. “I shall not accept a fate reserved for cowards and traitors!”

“Then stay with me, damn it!” Ulysses said with a repressed shout whilst banging his fist against the armrest of his chair. Jack paused, stared at him with an enrage grimace. “No.” he replied coldly.

Ulysses sighed, realizing his hopes of retaining his loyal soldier were all but dead. He simply did not have the will to reject the wishes of his friends, yet he also had no intention of letting him go. Luckily, he still had one card up him sleeve.

“How about a compromise?” he asked, his answer seemingly taking Jack off-guard. His anger seemingly vanished as he looked down at Ulysses, confused yet somewhat intrigued.

“What?”

“If you no longer wish to serve the Order of Ada then so be it, but perhaps you will be willing to do your captain and I one last favor.” Ulysses explained as he got up from his chair and reached into his waistcoat pocket. He then pulled out the letter he had been holding earlier and handed it to Jack. “This is a Letter of Reassignment addressed to the Boroughman of Everton. I hope you deliver it and accept the assignment it contains.”

Jack opened his mouth whilst gazing at the letter he held with both of his hands, yet no words came out.  He already understood what Ulysses was asking of him, and the thought of being offered such a job had left him speechless.

“Granted, it is a significant demotion.” Ulysses continued to pitch. “But the job isn’t particularly difficult, and you are grossly overqualified for it…”

“Why, lad? Why would you give me this?” Jack interrupted.

“Because neither me nor the captain would trust anyone else with such a task.” Ulysses replied plainly. “And perhaps you shall realize that serving your friends provides more atonement than simply laying down your gun forever.”

He then placed his hands behind his back and assumed a formal pose. “Do you accept?”

Jack looked back and forth between Ulysses and the letter, thinking about the answer he was about to give. Ulysses waited quietly, restless and eager. Finally, after almost a minute of internal deliberation, Jack faced his former master and nodded.

“Yes, yes I do.”

Ulysses smiled and nodded, this may not have been the ideal outcome he was hoping for, yet he was still happy to have prevented his friend from making a decision that he knew would’ve caused him nothing but misery. He then reached out his hand and resummoned the bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“Seeing as this may be the last time we ever meet, why not have a toast?” he said cheerfully, trying his best to ignore the sadness that came with the first part of that sentence as he handed one of the glasses to Jack.

Jack chuckled. “Splendid idea, lad!” he exclaimed as he held out his glass and let Ulysses fill it with whisky. Once both glasses were full, Ulysses raised his hand in the air. “To beginning life anew, old friend!”

Sometime later, deep in the countryside, Wallace stood on the newly built platform of the Rosefield Train Station, watching workers hammer iron tracks into the ground with iron spike mauls. The noisy, chaotic sound of iron clashing filled the air, accompanied by the sound of stonemasons and sculptors building and etching what he considered as a work of art.

Wallace felt an immense sense of pride as he watched the project he had worked on for so long finally near completion. However, his happiness was undermined by a persistent feeling of paranoia. For, just a few weeks prior, he’d have regarded many of these workers has his own colleagues and close associates, yet now he couldn’t help but feel as though he were surrounded by vipers, all on the verge of striking him dead. He had lived the past few days burdened with the desire to find the truth, having no evidence and no one he knew he could trust. In the end, despite the promises he had made to Ulysses, he decided to that he couldn’t live that way anymore.

A door behind him then opened, and from it a Gratousy guard appeared. He walked over to Wallace and stood by his side whilst he leisurely pushed stone dust off the edge of the platform with his shoe. “My liege, there’s a man outside who wishes to have a private audience with you.”

Wallace turned to the man and raised his eyebrow. “Is that so? Who is this man?”

“A bookkeeper, my liege, says he carries with him the ledgers you requested.”

Wallace nodded before turning away and facing the rails once again. “Good, have the ledgers taken to my office and toss the bookkeeper a few coins for his troubles.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my liege.” The man then said, which prompted Wallace to swiftly turn back to him with a look of confusion.

“What do you mean by that?”

“We tried to take the ledgers from him, but I am afraid this bookkeeper insists that he speak to you personally.” The guard explained with a look of annoyance. “He claims he has something confidential that he wishes to disclose only to you.”

Wallace paused, intrigued by what his guard had told him, yet he was also conflicted. His mind craved the truth in order to ease his worries, however his pride begged for him not to break the promise he had made to Ulysses. He had tried to justify his actions by calling them a technicality, for he had no desire to find and vanquish the traitors himself, instead he simply wished to know whether the evidence Ulysses had alluded to was real, and whether his own people were guilty. And despite what his own pride said, he knew it was too late to turn back. He had given out the orders, now he had the truth knocking on his door, and he couldn’t refuse it now.

He then reached into his coat pocket and took out a pocket watch branded with the Morrow ‘M’. He glanced down at the clock face and saw that it was almost midday. “I see dinner time is nearly upon us.” He remarked. He then took a deep breath. “Let the bookkeeper pass, if he has something to say, then I shall hear it.”

The Gratousy guard nodded obediently before turning back and returning to the main station building. Wallace then placed his pocket watch back into his coat and instead pulled out a silver whistle, its surface was covered intricate designed and etched on it was an eight-toothed circle with a flaming torch in the center, the symbol of House Morning, along with the letters ‘R.M’.

The whistle had been a gift from his father, an old and precious family heirloom. Wallace placed the whistle in his mouth and blew it with all the air in his lungs. The sound echoed through the walls of the station, making every worker in the vicinity stop what they were doing. Wallace then watched as his workers put down their mauls and chisels before marching off the incomplete tracks, off to wherever they wished to have their dinner.

Silence soon descended on the platform, once every single worker was out of sight, Wallace’s four Gratousy guards stepped onto the platform, followed closely by another man carrying large book. The man appeared slightly younger than Wallace, with blonde hair and an orange necktie. The guards then halted the man a few steps away from the door as three of them began became searching his body for anything they deemed dangerous. Once they were done inspecting his attire, they stepped aside. making way for the man to approach Wallace alone whilst they returned to guarding their posts.

The man then walked up Wallace briskly with a cheerful and confident smile on his face and shook his hand eagerly. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir!”

“Good day to you.” Wallace replied with a formal tone. “I hear you have something of great importance you wish to tell me.”

“Oh indeed, I do! Though I wouldn’t describe it has something of ‘great importance.” The bookkeeper joked nervously. “But first, the ledger you requested!”

He then handed Wallace the book he was carrying, a large, brown, leatherbound tome labeled ‘Book of Accounts’. Wallace raised an eyebrow at the man’s odd demeanor, for he found it somewhat amusing. He then opened the book and began looking through the pages.

“I’m pleased to inform you that the records appear perfectly in order.” The bookkeeper said proudly. “Neither me nor any of my colleagues could find even a hint of inaccuracy!”

“Is that so?” he said plainly, his attention focused on the book.

“Indeed.” The bookkeeper nodded. “If I may, with all due respect, why do you wish to look over these accounts? Is there something…”

“I do not need a reason to ensure that my finances are in order.” Wallace answered bluntly, before realizing that a vague and rude answer like that might invoke further questions and suspicion. “I suspect that some particularly imbecilic employees of mine might be trying to rob me under my nose.” He added after a brief pause.

“I see, sir. Those are certainly reasonable suspicions.” The bookkeeper said in a subdued tone, seemingly convinced by Wallace’s story despite his admittedly lackluster lying. Wallace felt slightly more at ease, for he did not wish for anyone of his employees to even think he was searching for traitors lest he wished to make finding them even more difficult.

The bookkeeper then looked over Wallace’s shoulder, seemingly out of curiosity, as he examined the pages of the ledger. His eyes took into account every number he came across, his intuition insisted that any group willing to commit murder would surely be willing to commit theft, yet none of the pages he read seemed confirm his suspicion. Nevertheless, he was determined to keep looking, for otherwise he would have to return to living in paranoia.

“If I may be so bold as to inquire, sir,” the bookkeeper then began again. “What made you suspect such wrongdoing?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” Wallace deflected without looking away from the ledger, partly because he did not wish to answer the question and partly because the man’s questions were hindering his concentration. Suddenly, he noticed something in one of the ledger pages. At that moment, he felt as though he had found what he was looking for.

“Here!” he exclaimed, shoving the open book towards the bookkeeper and pointing to a specific page. “These expenses, what are they?”

The man took the ledger and examined the page. “These are petty expenses, sir, minor costs for things like ink bottles and stamps.” He explained.

“Really? And why are they so high?” Wallace pried, to which the bookkeeper gave him a confused and oblivious look.

“I don’t you mean, sir. These appear to be in order.” He insisted, which provoked Wallace’s ire.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he scoffed. “Look at this! Ten thousand Sorasy spent just in the past week! Surely that is far beyond what it costs to buy stamps and ink bottles.”

“Perhaps it is a simple miscalculation, sir.” The bookkeeper suggested calmly, seemingly determined to explain away this discrepancy. However, Wallace refused to believe such an explanation, despite the fact that he knew it was plausible.

“Well, if it is, whoever made the mistake and whoever failed to see it are both grossly incompetent!” he conceded, not wanting to sound biased or illogical.

“That I agree with.” The bookkeeper muttered, his voice having an undertone of anger. Hethen sighed, closed the ledger and turned to Wallace.

“I want every single one of those expensed retallied and justified.” He ordered, confident that his intuition was right and that he had uncovered the evidence that Ulysses was searching for. “Surely whatever they bought with all that money must still be in their possession.” He scoffed.

The bookkeeper then nodded and smiled. “It shall be done, sir. And if I may, that was quite a remarkable catch, seeing as both my colleagues and I failed to uncover it.” He complimented before bowing his head down. “For that I sincerely apologize.”

“Nonsense!” Wallace smiled. “I’m sure foul play is more likely than an educated man such as yourself making an error!”

“Very kind of you, sir, thank you.” The bookkeeper nodded. Wallace was beginning to like this man, he seemed open and honest, qualities that he very much appreciated. He realized that, sooner or later, the true intentions behind his search for ‘petty thieves’ will begin to reveal themselves, and if that were to occur, he knew he needed men he could trust in order to quell any unwanted questions that may arise. Perhaps this young bookkeeper could be one such ally, he wasn’t sure.

“What’s your name, bookkeeper?” he asked, for he knew getting better acquainted with someone who seemed trustworthy was a good thing.

The bookkeeper paused, seeming taken aback by the notion that a Baron would ask for his name. “Um…It is Caleb, sir. Caleb Riverton.” He said with a great joy. “Though I prefer to by what my colleagues call me.”

“And that is?” Wallace asked curiously.

“Mr. Cunnington, sir.”

Wallace held in a chuckle and nodded lightly as he looked off to the side. “Well, it appears your colleagues have a rather positive view of your character, Mr. Cunnington.”

“Indeed, they do, sir.”

“Now then, before we part ways, what was it that you wished to tell me? What information did you find so crucial as to demand a private audience?”

Caleb reached into his coat and took how what looked like a small paper parcel about two-thirds the size of his palm. He then paused and stared at the parcel, his smile wavering as though he didn’t want to answer Wallace’s question, which made a feeling of uneasiness wash over Wallace.

“Here, sir.” Caleb uttered before turning to Wallace and handing him the parcel. “I think this will make you better understand what I have to say.”

Wallace felt a deep sense of dread and confusion as took the parcel into his hand. His fingers felt something hard inside, something with a smooth surface and straight edges. With great caution, he began to unravel the worn package, and saw that it contained nothing but a brass nametag, similar to the ones issued to all mid-ranking employees of the Morning Rail Company. However, the moment he read the name engraved on the tag, his eyes widened, his body froze, and his skin went pale.

The nametag had to lines of text, one read ‘JOHN BAYFORT’ and other below it read ‘CONDUCTOR’.

“Its a shame, I had hopes that this situation need not come down to this. But I’m afraid, you left me no choice, sir.” Caleb sighed nonchalantly.

Wallace slowly turned his head towards Caleb, his smile now replaced with a look of hatred and disgust. “What did you do to him?”

Caleb shrugged. “We simply relieved him of his duties. After all, I think you’d agree when I say that he knew more than any regular commoner should.”

Wallace thought about summoning his guards and having this man arrested. However, he was stopped by the feeling that something was off. For Caleb, despite what he had just revealed, appeared calm, collected and frankly more confident that he had been when he first walked in. He didn’t run away or show even the slightest hint of fear or dread and Wallace wasn’t foolish enough to believe that his enemy was an idiot. Therefore, he assumed that there was a deeper plot afoot, for otherwise no sane man would confess his crimes so openly lest he had a death wish. If this assumption was true, then it would be unwise for Wallace to do the predictable and summon his guards, for it was likely something Caleb had already accounted for.

“So, Baron Everton’s intuition was right then? Bayfort was not one of your men?” he asked calmly, deciding to play along whilst slowly tightening his grip around the nametag, for it was the only sharp object he had on his person.

“I don’t have ‘men’, sir” Caleb replied as he walked away from Wallace, but instead of walking towards exit door he walked towards the edge of the platform where a large bronze bell hung from one of the metal poles that held up the platform’s roof. “My colleagues and I serve no man, for we are all brothers in arms.”

He then placed his hand on the rope that hung from the bell. “Unfortunately, John Bayfort was indeed not one of us, he was but an innocent distraction.”

Wallace was repulsed and unnerved by the lack of remorse in Caleb’s voice. He had many questions floating in his mind, yet he knew he didn’t have the time to ask all of them.

 “Why did you come here?” he asked, for it was Caleb’s motives that puzzled him the most. “You murdered a man and poisoned a Baroness. Such crimes carry fates far worse than death, and yet you come here and confess it all? What are you seeking? Relief? Mercy?”

Calebs swiftly turned his head and gave Wallace a piercing wide-eyed stare. “I do not need mercy from the wicked.” He stated bluntly. “And I had no intention of confessing anything to you, frankly I would have preferred to let you rot in your ignorance. But since you have shown that you would not learn from consequences the Baron Everton’s mistakes. I’ve deemed that it’s only fair to give you the truth before we part ways, sir.”

“A parting gift, eh? So, you’ve come here to surrender then?” Wallace scoffed, hiding his caution behind a façade of arrogant confidence.

“No, sir. I came here to test you, to see whether you would look the other way, and you have failed.” Caleb replied as his tightened his grip on the rope. “I cannot let you play this game any longer, baron.”

Wallace chuckled, he wasn’t used to being threatened and he found Caleb’s words to be strangely amusing, whilst he did not understand the true nature of his plans, he could not fathom any situation where his life was in danger.

“What made you think I would turn a blind eye? You murdered the wife of a baron! Even more so you did it on my train!” he shouted as his anger flared.

“Yet I have no doubt that the Baron Everton himself told you to stay away from us. You saw how he paid the price when he came after us knowing what we were capable of.” Caleb answered calmly. “I thought you would heed his advice, overlook this ledger and be on your merry way, but you refused.”

Wallace found Caleb’s assumptions hard to deny, and in his mind, he felt as though he should’ve heeded Ulysses’ advice. However, he would not run away from the consequences of his decisions, so shook his head in disbelief and smiled. “Clearly you underestimated my will.”

“Clearly you overestimated yourself.” Caleb retorted snidely. “For look at you now, in the same place he was.”

His smug condescending tone irritated Wallace, and his patient finally ran dry. He had heard all that he cared to hear. “Listen here now, Mr. Riverton, I shall not entertain this discussion any longer! You may have evaded Ulysses, but you made a mistake coming to me! My men shall have you arrested, and I shall personally see to it that you end up living the rest of you days in the vilest hole in all Hatlynshire!”

Caleb smirked ominously, completely unaffected by the news of the fate that awaited him. “My colleagues would prefer otherwise, sir.”

He then pulled the rope and rang the bell, filling the air with the sound of echoing bronze. Wallace flinched as he braced for whatever Caleb had planned. However, for the next few seconds, nothing happened. Wallace then looked around the platform with a confused look before turning his attention back to Caleb. He opened his mouth in order to mock him, however, before he could even utter a single word, the thunderous of gunshots enveloped him.

Behind him, the station windows that overlooked the platform shattered and sent shards of glass hurdling onto the hard stone floor, dust and pieces of wood then came flying out from the interior of the station as bullets ploughed into the walls and furniture inside. Wallace immediately hid behind of the walls whilst Caleb stood next to the bell with his eyes closed and his ears covered. After a minute or two, the bullets stopped, leaving behind a thoroughly desecrated station. Several worrisome sounds then continued to emanate from the building, however Wallace did not focus on those. For once he had overcome the initial shock, the sight of his project now in ruins made him bubble with immense anger.

“YOU!” he bellowed furiously, pointing at Caleb. He then placed John Bayfort’s nametag inside his coat pocket before balling his fist, a flash of blue then shone through his fingers followed by his hand erupting into orange fire. He began walking hastily towards Caleb, determined to strangle him to death with his bare hands.

“Let us not be hasty now, sir!” Caleb uttered, seemingly intimidated by the malevolent look on Wallace’s face. He dropped the ledger on the ground as he took a step back. “If it brings you any consolation, I did not intend for this to happen.”

Wallace did not bother to respond, with his burning fist he grabbed Caleb’s by the waistcoat and pulled him away from the edge of the platform, then as his waistcoat caught on fire and began burning away, Wallace used his other hand and punched him in the face. The burnt piece of his waistcoat that he was holding tore off immediately and sent Caleb falling to the floor, his torso still smoldering. Wallace dropped the blackened piece of cloth on the floor as Caleb frantically attempted to extinguish his clothes with his hands. At that moment, Wallace was prepared to grant this traitor a slow and painful death. However just as he was about to reach down and grab him by the neck, a man came running out onto the platform from within the station, gasping and grunting intensely. His appearance distracted Wallace, who looked at him and recognized him to be one of his own Gratousy guards.

The man floundered away from the door, his clothes covered in debris and blood as he bled from his shoulder and thigh. He then turned to Wallace whilst pointing his gun at the door.

“My liege!” he cried. “You need to run! They’re coming!”

Before Wallace could even process what the guard has said, the guard swiftly turned to the door and began firing into the building. He could only fire two shots before his gun ran out of ammunition, and within seconds of running out, another bullet came flying through the door and struck him in the neck, making him collapse onto the floor, twitching and squirming in pain.

 Taking advantage of Wallace’s preoccupation, Calbe swiftly held out his arm in the direction of the bell rope, making it reach out and wrap around his enemy’s neck. Wallace gasped and nearly slipped as the rope pulled him back whilst Caleb got back on his feet. Before he could choke to death, he grabbed the loop of the rope and once again summoned fire into his hand. He then pulled the rope away from his throat as it burned, making it easily break apart as the bell it was attached to rang without rhythm. That little stunt was enough to remind Wallace of who was behind all this carnage. However, before he could unleash his wrath upon the traitor in front of him, he paused when he saw another man came running through the station door.

This time the man was not a member of the Gratousy, yet he still came marching in with a revolver in his hand. His clothes were not covered in dust, and he wore a blue necktie similar in design to Caleb’s. He hastily looked down at the body of the Gratousy guard, who was now dead and motionless. Once he was realized that he turned his gun on Wallace.

“Surrender, baron!” he shouted as he marched towards Caleb, who then swiftly moved behind him. Wallace took a step back and reluctantly put his hands in the air. The last echoes of the bell then dissipated, and it was replaced by the faint but loudening sound of footsteps. Suddenly, men began pouring out of the station building and onto the platform, most of them wearing tattered clothes and carrying various tools. Many of them had guns, though they were less quick to point them at Wallace than the man who had walked in before them. Wallace recognized some of their faces, for he had seen them working on the railway less than an hour ago. Yet, despite his dire predicament, he felt strangely relieved. For the sight of his men revealing to their true nature to him made him feel as though his fears and paranoia were finally justified. He now knew that he might be living his last moments, however he did not let himself be consumed by despair, instead he sighed and faced the crowd with a blank expression.

“Just in time like always, Francis!” Caleb exclaimed with relief.

“Of course, wouldn’t do it any other way, Cunnington!” his colleague replied with a smile. “Apologies if we scared you, this wretch didn’t call his guards like you said he would!” he explained whilst gesturing towards Wallace.

“No, it is I who owes you an apology! It seems I may have miscalculated that particular detail; the baron here was a fair bit more talkative than I expected.”

He then walked forward and stood beside Francis before patting his shoulder triumphantly. “But don’t worry, it matters not that our execution lacked perfection, for our desired goal has been achieved!” he shouted to the crowd, to which the crowd cheered with great vigor.

“I see you both had quite the scuffle!” Francis remarked whilst looking at the hole Wallace had burned into Caleb’s waistcoat, to which Caleb laughed and shrugged.

“Oh, it’s nothing my neighbor’s sewing needle can’t fix! Frankly, I’ve suffered more damage just by falling asleep next to a desk candle!”

While the traitors were busy laughing at each other’s joke, Wallace found himself thinking hard about his next move. He was not willing to negotiate or plead for mercy, for he knew it was futile. Therefore, he determined that, if he was to die, he would die in valor. He was not a great fighter, even among the other barons, thus he knew needed a weapon. He eyed the guns of some of the common workers, for their grip seemed less firm and their reflexes less swift. He then turned his gaze towards his own coat pocket, where he had kept the nametag of the late John Bayfort. Despite his dire lack of favorable odds Wallace managed to formulate a plan that he thought would give him a fighting chance.

Whilst Caleb and his lot continued to celebrate, Wallace slowly moved his fingers, making the brass nametag float out of his coat pocket and slowly climb up his sleeve before exiting through his cuffs and sliding into his fingers.

“Are you finished yet?” he asked in a loud and bored voice. Caleb and the other traitors all stopped their chatter and turned to him, their faces bearing looks of hate and anger, which Wallace pretended he didn’t see.

“Ah I see you’re still willing to entertain conversing with us, sir.” Caleb smirked.

“I am not.” Wallace answered swiftly. “There is just one more thing I wish for you to tell me.”

Caleb raised his eyebrow, intrigued. “And that is?”

“Why do any of this?” he asked. “You know you and your treacherous lot could’ve disappeared when you first saw me coming. Yet you decided to pull this elaborate stunt and cause the deaths of your own peers, you risk bringing the full weight of the Great Houses down on you, just so you could tell the truth to my face Why?”

“You arrogant wretch, you stand there with a gun to your head and that is all you care about?” Francis bellowed in disgust. Yet, unlike him, Clabe chuckled. He placed his hand on Francis’ outstretched gun hand and took a step forward, his eyes looking directly at Wallace’s.

“A deer can only run for so long before the wolf catches up to it, sir.” He explained before turning around and raising his hand up towards the crowd. “In my opinion, it is better to strike the wolf head on and impale it before it has a chance to strike!”

The crowd of unruly workers nodded and muttered in agreement. Caleb then turned to Wallace, smiling as though the crowd’s approval of him was meant as a taunt. “So, you see, you may see all this as foolish and indulgent move, but it was necessary.”

“And now you shall face the wrath of the rest of the wolf pack.” Wallace replied coldly, indulging in Caleb’s overdramatic metaphor.

Caleb shook his head in plain rejection. “No, I don’t think I will.”

He then turned around and walked back to Francis. “Once Baron Everton sees how your disregarding of his wishes led to your fate, I doubt he would give the rest of your peers the chance to do the same. Moreover, I doubt he himself would raise his banners and come marching after us in the name of vengeance, given the age of his heir. All this is not even considering the new Grand Overseer, who I have no doubt would like it if the Great Houses became embroiled in civil strife.”

Wallace once again found Caleb’s boastful smugness hard to bear. However he smiled, genuinely impressed by Caleb’s observations and the depth of his foresight. He knew that, logically, he had very little he could use to argue against him, not that he would even bother wasting his breath in order to so in the first place. “I see you’ve thought this through quite well, I commend you.”

“Many thanks!” Caleb exclaimed, taking a bow of thanks. “And I must say, for what its worth, I respect your decision to uphold your dignity even in these dire circumstances. In fact, I bet on it!” he said before gesturing towards a specific portion of the crowd. “These fine gentlemen were convinced you’d beg for mercy, safe to say you’ve earned me quite the sum.”

Wallace continued to smile and nodded whilst rubbing his fingers against the nametag. “Alright that’s enough!” Francis suddenly shouted before straightening him aim. “This swine has dragged this discussion out for long enough, what’s say we end him once and for all now, eh?”

 Wallace paused before opening and closing his mouth several times whilst moving his hands back and forth. “Wait!” he then blurted out. “May I say one more thing?”

Caleb raised his eyebrow. “I say you’re on the verge of being dishonest, Baron. Delaying the inevitable would be a waste of everyone’s time, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Think of me what you wish!” Wallace replied swiftly as he began breathing rapidly, for Francis’s words had made the realization of his imminent death sink much deeper than it had previously. “But I know there must be a greater point to all this, some grand vision you all hope to accomplish by overthrowing the barons, is there not?”

Caleb once again gave him a look of intrigue. And, whilst he wished great misfortune on them, Wallace felt as though, for the sake of the Circle, he should try and make them see reason. “You must know that this is a mistake! If the Great Houses fall so too will the Circle! Montgomery and the Order of Man will lay waste to us all, and they spare neither you nor your children!”

Strangely, Caleb paused and did not reply. In fact, he appeared unable to find the words to do so. At that moment, despite his seemingly unshaken demeanor, Wallace saw a hint of hesitation in his expression, as though he were hiding something from his own men.

“Enough!” Francis shouted angrily in opposition. “I should shoot you at this very moment, you lying wretch!”

“No.” Caleb argued. He then paused briefly as He and Wallace then looked at each other one final time. “That is not what we agreed to, this plan may have gone awry, but he is still a baron, he deserves something more…formal, something befitting his title.”

He then turned and gestured to some of the men with his hand. “Make him stand in front of the wall.”

Strangely, that order made Wallace feel relieved, for it would make his plan easier to execute. He sighed and shook his head as two gun-bearing workers walked out from the crowd and approached him. “No, I refuse to die in such a manner.” He uttered plainly with a smile.

“Oh, really? Does my choice not satisfy you?” Caleb asked, amused. To which Wallace nodded.

“Indeed, I plan on dying on own terms.”

At that moment, one of the workers placed his hand on Wallace’s shoulder and began to push him towards the wall. At that moment, Wallace closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Caleb seemed to realize what was about to happen, for he reached out and opened his mouth in order to warn his colleagues. However, before he could say a work, Wallace took the nametag in his hand, which his fire had heated into an orange-hot piece of brass and stabbed it through the worker’s neck. The worker screamed as Wallace wrestled his gun out of his inexperienced hand. He then held the man by the collar as he swiftly turned pulled the hammer of the revolver, pointed it at the other worker and pulled the trigger. The worker was so taken off guard that he could barely point his gun before a bullet ploughed into his chest.

Wallace had predicted that Francis and the other workers would be slow to react, and he was proven right when, instead of firing in retaliation, many of the workers recoiled and stepped back in fear. However, Francis himself wasn’t so quick to fall back, for as Wallace turned in order to shoot him, he quickly regained his composure and, shot first. Wallce then grabbed the collar of the worker he stabbed and shoved his incapacitated body in front of him in order to take cover. However, Francis’s bullet narrowly missed the body of his colleague and grazed Wallace’s shoulder, leaving behind a torn coat and a flesh wound.

A sudden bolt of pain ran through Wallace’s arm as he staggered back a step, however Francis did not wait for him for him to recover, for he then began to rapidly pull back the hammer and shoot in quick succession. His bullets either missed or struck the body of the worker, yet his ferocity left Wallace no room to counter. Peeking over the dead man’s shoulder, he could see the rest of the crowd begin to take aim. It was at that moment that he, with a heavy heart, decided to make his final stand.

“I’m sorry, Merry.” He muttered under his breath, before shoving the battered body of the fallen traitor aside and stood proud and firm facing the traitorous horde. He tried one last time to shoot Francis however his enemy was once again faster, for he managed to shoot him the shoulder just before Wallace could pull his trigger, which directed his hand and sent his own shot flying towards the platform roof. Wallace stumbled back, his gun hand aching and unable to extend. Seeing this, the rest of the workers all rallied behind Francis, and began pointing their guns at Wallace. In his final moments, the only thing Wallace could think about was Meredith and his children. He closed his eyes and sighed, the final thing he heard was the sound of several gun firing at once.

Caleb covered his ears as the sound of the barrage made him feel as though his head was about to explode. He then watched as Wallace’s lifeless body fell on the ground with a thud. Once the air had cleared, he and the rest of the workers approached the bodies of the baron and their fallen brethren, and whilst the other workers lifted the corpses of Wallace’s victims off the ground and carried them away, Caleb and Francis stood over and gazed down at the vanquished baron.

“By the Moor, we did it, Cunnington!” Francis exclaimed proudly. “Never again shall we be oppressed by this wretched swine!”

He then kicked Wallace’s cold and lifeless arm gleefully, yet despite their victory Caleb could only frown, for he felt somewhat conflicted about what they had done. He held nothing but contempt towards any member whose veins ran with the blood of the Great Houses, yet his conversation with Wallace had thoroughly reshaped how he viewed these mighty figures. No more did he see a monolithic and unchanging statue that represented everything he despised, instead he saw nothing but a man, just like him, one whose life was as fragile as his was, a life he had just ended. And that realization made him feel sad, remorseful even. However, the shift in his overall feelings did not make him condemn his original goal, for he knew what he and his brothers-in-arms wanted was both just and necessary.

“How many did we lose?” he asked softly, for he was unwilling to join Francis in ridiculing his slain enemy. He had meant what he had said about his respect towards Wallace, and the way in which he chose to die only reinforced those notions.

Francis glanced over at his friend, confused by apparent lack of jubilation. “By my estimates about ten men, maybe more, even with the odds in our favor those Gratousy dogs took as many of us with them as possible.” He admitted reluctantly.

“And were there any witnesses? Any unfortunate passers-by?”

“None that we saw.”

Caleb sighed. He then placed his hand of his forehead and quickly thought about their next best course of action. “We cannot possibly smuggle so many bodies back to the city, therefore I say we bury them all before nightfall. It may not be what they deserve but it is the only thing we can afford to do.”

“What about him then?” asked Francis whilst gesturing towards Wallace. “Surely we cannot leave him here, should we put him in the ground with the rest?”

“No.” Caleb replied bluntly. “We leave him here; I have a feeling that Baron Everton will solve this problem for us.”

He then looked at the iron roof above him before glancing at the wrecked station building beside him. “We must proceed as planned, collapse this station and burn it all.” Caleb answered whilst still looking at the roof. “It is the only way to ensure that our presence here shall be truly erased.”

Francis grimaced as he looked down at the large and intricately designed building, knowing that their plan involved them departing from Rosefield before sunrise the next day. “If I may be honest, that part of the plan seemed simpler on paper.”

“Indeed.” Caleb admitted. “But there is no turning back now. What must be done will be done.”

He then turned around and began walking towards the exit. “We have no reason be here anymore, I suggest we leave before the stench of blood becomes too apparent.”

“Wait!” Francis shouted. He then reached down towards Wallace’s body and began rummaging through his coat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Caleb, turning around and seeing his friend dig through Wallace’s attire like a mole.

“I shot a baron, Cunnington. That is something I wish to never forget!” he replied as he pulled out every single item that Wallace had on his person. First, he pulled out his pocket watch, followed shortly by his whistle and some other random trinkets. However, only the pocket watch and whistle seemed to appeal to him. He held both objects in his arms, seemingly pondering as to which one to take, for taking both seemed rather over-indulgent. Ultimately, it was the whistle that he decided to keep.

“What about you? Do you want a souvenir? It’s not like we’ll ever be able to afford such nice things in our own lifetimes.” he asked as he turned around and holding the pocket watch up to him. To which Caleb shook his head, for he found stealing from corpses distasteful.

Francis rolled his eyes and placed the pocket watch back inside Wallace’s coat. He then followed Caleb out of the platform and out of the ruined station.

 By the time dusk began to loom over Rosefield, Caleb found himself standing in a flat field a few hundred yards away from the station. He watched his colleagues dig several holes in a row and lower the bodies of their deceased into them, their digging illuminated by the light of a large bonfire that they had lit a few feet away from the grave. Near the bonfire stood Francis and the rest of the bookkeepers, who kept feeding the fire with the torn remains of all the ledgers and records they had stolen from the station’s Bookkeeping Department. However, despite the busy scene that was unfolding in front of him and the sense of triumph that lingered in the air, the only thing that occupied Caleb’s mind was the warning that Wallace had uttered.

A few minutes later, Francis came walked up to him, panting from exhaustion, his shoes and the bottom of his pants covered in ash and his hair covered in charred bits of paper.

“We burned the last of the ledgers, neither the company nor the Circle will be able to find any of our names.”

Caleb nodded with satisfaction yet frowned as he continued to stare at the graves. He had something he knew he needed to say, something that he knew would undermine what they had just done, but something he knew they must do in order to achieve their goal.

Francis then looked in the same direction as Caleb, seemingly still unable to understand Caleb’s gloomy attitude. “So, what’s next? Now that we’ve proven that we mere commoners can slay even highest of high folk, I doubt there will be many who would not wish to join our cause. This could be the dawn of a new era!” he announced hopefully.

Caleb huffed, for that was precisely the topic that wished not to discuss, yet he realized that it was perhaps best if he expressed his thought now instead of later.

“Now is not the time for revolution.” He uttered sternly, his statement making Francis jerk his head and look at him with an expression of disbelief.

“What do you mean?” he asked, exasperated. “You want us to retreat when we are at the cusp of freedom?”

“We are on the cusp of being hunted.” Caleb replied. “Once news of the baron’s death reaches Everton’s ear, he will be looking for us.”

“But you said we were safe! You said Everton won’t come near us! What, was that all a lie then?”

“No!” Caleb exclaimed, pointing his finger at Francis, his anger flaring at the notion that he would lie about something so crucial. “I stand by what I said, Everton will not come for us directly, this I know!”

He then took a deep breath and calmed himself down. “The Evertons are a house of deceit and deception. He will likely use spies and informants in order to find us in where we least expect him, have us be doubting and distrustful! That is why we must keep to ourselves and grow our strength slowly. Cannot be brash and open, for that will be our downfall!”

Francis paused, seemingly understanding the truth in Caleb’s words and the reality of the situation they were in. For a moment, Caleb thought of ending it there, however he knew that if he did, he would only be postponing the inevitable, and if he wished to guarantee the trust of Francis and his other colleagues moving forward, he had to be completely honest.

“Besides, what the Baron Morning said was correct.” He sighed. “Even if we depose the barons, our victory will likely be short lived.”

Francis tilted his head and twitched his eye. “What he sa…did you think he was saying something worth listening to? He was trying to scare us! He was trying to save himself!”

“Maybe, but he was right.” Caleb said. “If we revolt now and let the Circle fall into chaos, the Order of Man will devour us! That is why we must wait, for we lack what is necessary to properly seize power and defend ourselves from the humans!”

“And what is it that we lack?”

“Worry not, my friend, for there is a key to our salvation.” Caleb assured confidently. “There is a secret hidden deep within the Treasury, a secret my father uncovered and the secret that they took his life over. I have no doubt that it exists, and that it is something so powerful that we can use it to bring down the Order of Man once and for all. We just need to get there and find it.”

“You want us to infiltrate the Treasury?” asked Francis, acting as though he had just asked them to turn stone into gold.

“No, I want us to control it. I want us to be at the top of the hill, and I know we can be.” Caleb replied, which just seemed to amplify his friend’s disbelief.

“Are…are you saying you think lowly company bookkeepers like us can become Treasurer of the Circle? Such a feat is impossible, and even if it wasn’t it could take years, Cunnington, years!” he pointed out.

“And so, then years we shall wait, Francis. However long it takes for us to gather our strength and our time to come.” Caleb uttered confidently with a smile as he placed his arm on Francis’ shoulder. “And believe me, our time will come.”

He then looked out into the distance as the last bit of the sun disappeared down the horizon. He could almost hear the sound of trumpets in the air, heralding the coming of new world. “And when it does, we will bring them all down.”

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    A domed ceiling loomed high above her, and for a moment her eyes got lost in the intricate work of the architecture, reminiscent of a mosque or cathedral. Her head was pounding, like someone was beating a drum behind her eyes, and with stiff movements Cyran pushed herself to a sitting position, shoving whatever objects were surrounding her around, fingers gripped them without even thinking and brought them up to her face for observation. A sweet scent filled her nostrils. White lillies, dozens up n dozens upon thousands of them littered the floor of the room, with Cyran herself at the center of them. Beautiful. 

    “What the…” Cyran’s thumb caressed a petal - 

-before abruptly collapsing her hands together, crushing the flora. “What the hell is this?!” Her voice was loud and echoed slightly through the chamber, Cyran pushed herself up to her feet, kicking any flowers that g0t in her way as if they had personally wronged her. She flashed through any possibilities that could explain the situation - some kind of a prank, a dream, amnesia of some kind - and she reflexively wrinkled her nose at each one, seemingly more outlandish and unlikely than the last. With a swivel of her head she surveyed the room in its entirety, searching for any hints as to how she might have ended up here. 

The floor itself looked like it was some kind of a mosaic, forming a series of circles and perhaps even words, though Cyran couldn’t parse what they said. She could make out enough to see that she had awoken in the center of the biggest, middle one, which seemed concerning. Coming off of the central circle were four other circles, each of which were empty- no, wait. Cyran squinted across the room. There, in the middle of one of the other, smaller circles was a… well, something certainly. Not more flowers - which seemed to be at their thickest where Cyran had woken, and ended about three feet from the edge of her own circle. Curiosity getting the better of her, and justifying her decision with the fact that the direction the strange object was in was the direction of the only exit/opening. Cyran stretched her neck out, hands tucked firmly into her sleeveless coat. The object was a light green color, and round, roughly the size of a basketball. 

    “Now just what are you…?” Cyran muttered to herself, but the words echoed through the chamber, amplifying the sound, and much to Cyran’s abject horror, the thing on the floor moved, seemingly roused by the sound of her voice. Two little tufts, kind of like ears, twitched up at attention and one large eye opened. 

    “The hell-” Cyran leaned backwards, but not before the thing managed to leap up with incredible speed, launching itself right at her face. She could feel what she assumed were its arms, wrapping themselves around her head, and adrenaline kicked in, every horror movie Cyran had ever watched telling her that whatever this thing was intended to eat her face clean off. She frantically clawed at it, pulling and yanking, until finally it came free. Ruefully Cyran threw it onto the floor, the creature bouncing once or twice upon impact before she managed to lock it in place with one of her feet, panting and red faced from exertion. 

    “What is your problem?!” Cyran shouted at it, feeling her adrenaline naturally giving way to anger. “And… and what are you?!” Now that the creature was clearly awake and wasn’t stuck on her face, she was able to get a better look at it, improbably anatomy and all. As far as she could tell it was 75 percent face/head, just one big sphere with a big purple eye and barely enough room for a small mouth. It only seemed to have two arms and no legs. They were long and flat, shaped like the petals of a flower, and much to Cyrans horror each one also seemed to have an eye, looking up at her. 

    “Hmmm…” A squeaky voice responded, the creature seemingly unaffected by her foot on its’ head/body, moving one of its’ strange arms/hands up to its’ mouth in thought. “I don’t know!” It admitted its’ ignorance almost gleefully, still beaming up at Cyran. 

    “Don’t know what?” Cyran demanded. “Don’t know what you are or don’t know why you attacked my face?” 

    “Not an attack!” The creature offered a bright smile. “A hug! Because we’re best friends!” 

    “What.” 

    Cyran gritted the word out through her bared teeth, making no effort to conceal her contempt at the idea. 

    “Well, I don’t remember much.. Anything really before waking up just now. But I do know two whole things, which I think is a lot! I know that my name is Phly, and that you’re my best friend in the whole wide world.” 

    Cyran flinched, as if the accusation had hit her, and it just fueled the furnace inside of her more. 

    “You’re dumb memory isn’t this problem - if you don’t know what’s going on your useless. And you must be stupid, because I don’t have friends.” She turned away for a minute, relenting and lifting her foot off of Phly, before turning back around to fix them with the the coldest glare she could manage. “-and if I did have friends they wouldn’t be stupid Mike Wazowski looking beach balls!” Cyran expected Phly to shudder or cry or something at her comment, but instead it just looked off to the side in a somewhat adorable manner and gave a small hum of thought. 

    “W… what’t and bike wowski…?” Phlys’ ignorance and refusal to fight back against Cyran’s anger just frustrated her more, and she turned away, unable to look at Phly , anger suddenly feeling misplaced in her chest, aching. 

    “Whatever. I’m getting out of here.” 

    “Good idea!” Before Cyran could get too far away Phly hopped up and wrapped themselves around her leg so that they were basically sitting on her foot. Cyran jiggled her foot around a bit, but Phly did not budge, just looking back up at her with their wide eye full of innocence, clearly either not picking up or choosing to ignore her anger. 

    “Fine,” Cyran let out a sharp breath through her nose, feeling as if she should be breathing fire. “...I’ll let you tag along. But just because I don’t have a crowbar to pry you off my leg. You’re lucky you aren’t that heavy.” 

    “Yay!”

    Doing her best to ignore the weight on her leg, Cyran pushed onwards to the only exit to the room, entering along hallway. While the room she had woke up in had been pretty well lit, seeming to have some kind of windows near the top of it’s domed ceiling that let in light, and the reflective filigree of the architecture helping to spread that out, the hallway was significantly darker, having no windows to let light in. Instead there was some kind of rock inlaid in the ceiling, speckled throughout the otherwise dark rock like stars, emmeting just enough light that Cyran could see that there were empty sconces on the wall, seeming to indicate that ideally the hallway would be better lit than it currently was. For a brief moment Cyran felt a little bit like Alice from the cassette tape she’d listen to before bed. Curioser and curioser. She found it getting the better of her. 

    “Hey uh, thing. Phly. You really don’t know anything about this place?” Interrogating the thing was really the least she could do considering it was currently using her as a bus. On her leg she could feel Phly shift around a bit and then tap their little fingers on the back of her calf in thought. 

    “No, I’m drawing a blank.” Phly said, frown easily heard in their voice. Cyran felt stupid for asking, Phly had already mentioned they had no memories, and asking might have been mistaken for her trusting it. “But…” Cyran was forced out of her train of thought as Phly continued. “...it does feel strangely familiar. Like Deja Vu, or I’ve been here before.” 

    The hallway ended in a room somehow even larger than the one Cyran had woken in, with three other entrances similar to the one Cyran came from. It was about as poorly lit as well, so while Cyran could tell that there were some kind of symbols at the top of each door, she couldn’t make out what exactly they were. In the center of the room was a spiral staircase that ascended upwards, towards… well, Cyran wasn’t sure. 

    “This is just getting excessive.” Cyran commented, the words echoing. 

    “Oh, thank goodness! Other people!” Cyran couldn’t stop herself from flinching slightly at the unexpected voice, echoing just as hers had done, and then emerging from the darkness of the hallways opposite of hers was the figure of a young girl, probably around Cyrans age, also with a strange, small creature next to her, which let out a small murmur of sarcasm that Cyran couldn’t quite catch both parties walked to meet in the middle of the room. 

    “Hi there, I’m Isla and this is Tif! It’s so relieving to meet you both.” The girl stuck out a hand - just barely managing to peek out of her oversized turtleneck sweater - and Cyran took a moment to size up the girl. She had dark skin - though a shade or two light Cyrans’ own, and long dark hair that fell into a pair of long braids. Tif - similarly to Phly - had a the anatomy of an anthropomorphized volleyball, although they were mostly covered in short black fur with little feet and two slitted eyes, topped off with a plume of red, heart shaped hair. 

    “Oh, uh…” Isla had been left hanging for long enough that she was getting nervous, slowly retracting her hand until it disappeared back into her sleeve. “...if you don’t wanna shake t-that’s fine. W-what’s you’re name-”

    “No.” 

    Cyran let the word fall out of her mouth, stopping Isla’s stuttering in an instant.

    “I don’t know where I am, or who you are, and you just appear out of nowhere acting all buddy-buddy?” Cyran snorted in disgust. “I don’t think so. I’m not that stupid. So no, I’m not going to give you my name, or let you in just so you can stab me in the back down to the road. For all I know you-re in-”

    “Her name’s Cyran!” A squeaky, cheerful voice spoke up from below, making the rest of Cyran’s words catch in her throat. “...and I’m Phly.” Cyran looked down to see that Phly had unwrapped themselves from around her leg and had an arm outstretched towards Isla for a shake. 

“Oh! Well it’s nice to meet you!” Isla had fallen into a crouch, reaching to return the handshake. Anger wrapped around Cyran quick and hot she snatched up Phly, holding them up so that she could look them in their eye. 

    “Who the heck told you my name?!” She was sure she hadn’t told the creature it earlier - had been careful and deliberate. She did her best to fix Phly with a withering glare, hoping to see then budge or breakdown or something. Any indication they were the least bit bothered by Cyrans’ anger, but instead they just continued to look at her with a small smile on their face as they had when she had yelled at them earlier. Seeming unphased and also oblivious to the idea that they had done anything wrong. 

    “I mean didn’t you already know Phly’s name?” Cyran and Phly both turned their attention towards Isla, who was still on the floor and had her eyes fixed down at Tif, teeth worrying at her lips. “When Tif introduced themselves to me after we both woke up, their name felt familiar even though I knew it was the first time I was hearing it.” Isla gave Tif a little pat on the head. 

    “Don’t. Touch me.” Tif hissed back in return, and Isla hastily retracted her hand, muttering out an apology. 

    Cyran frowned, trying to think back to when Phly had introduced themselves to her. She… she didn have somewhat of a feeling, she supposed. Like she knew how it was spelled even though it just sounded like the word fly. 

    “I… I suppose that-”

    “AHHHHHHHHHH!” 

    Cyran went silent as all four members of their little party directed their attention to yet another hallway as an ear splitting scream echoed painfully through the chamber. 

    “What is that?! We, we have to hide!” Isla’s voice had raised about twelve octaves, making it nearly as high pitched as Phlys, her hands shaking and Cyran could see the blood leaving her face a discolored gray shade, as if she was becoming sick. Below her Tif was baring their teeth, clearly annoyed. Cyran couldn’t stop herself from snorting derisively at her behavior. So inexperienced - she could tell. 

    “No.” Cyran said, stern and defiant. “Hiding, running - they’re useless. People always catch you, find you, and ultimately make the choice for you. Your only real option is to stay,” Cyran curled her hands into a pair of fists, squeezing them tight. From the corner of Cyran’s eye she could see Phly nodding along with her words. “...and fight!” 

Cyran turned to face the corridor where the shrieks were coming from, adapting her stance to something sturdier, lowering her center of gravity. Phly glanced up at Cyran a couple of times and did their best to replicate the form despite their lack of legs and really any proper body. Isla’s head continued to swivel around, clearly torn between ducking behind the spiral staircase for cover and staying next to Cyran, if for no other reason than being alone somehow seemed scarier than confronting the screams. There wasn’t too long to make a decision however, as the noise grew louder by the moment, Cyran’s form becoming all the more tense for it, and a being emerged from the hallway, the irritating noise reaching its’ final crescendo. 

It was a child, smaller by far than Isla or Cyran, arms outstretched in front of them in blindly, as their eyes were squeezed tight - doing nothing to stop the wave of tears that were streaming down their face. They paused ever so slightly as they found themselves in a new room, spotted Cyran and Isla, and instantly continued their mad dash in their direction.

“What the-” Cyran got out before the kid basically launched themselves at her, latching their arms around her waist and burying their face into her chest. This made it hard to get a good look at them, as Cyran could only really properly see their dark black hair, in what appeared to be a chunkily, poorly done bowl cut. “Oh gross. Who is this kid and how do I detach them?” 

Phly let out a small giggle at Cyran’s plight, as she kept her arms as far away from the child as possible, doing her best not to touch them, except to occasionally nudge them with a single finger in an attempt to get them to budge, which was not getting her anywhere. Isla let out a small hum and walked over, picking up Tif on her way, who let out a small grumble of annoyance but made no move to extract themselves from Islas’ arms. She crouched down to get just below the natural sightline of the child. 

“Hey there, do you want to do me a favor?” She cooed in a soft, practiced voice. The small child slowly turned their head away from Cyran’s now damp shirt to look at Isla. 

“AHHHH!” They let out another piercing shriek and tore themselves away from Cyran in order to put more space between themselves and Isla, crouching and curling in on themselves on the floor, letting out little sobs and hiccups. Isla look as if she had been struck, clearly not the result she had expected, mouth moving soundlessly. 

“Hey great work Isla!” Cyran said, throwing the girl a thumbs up, pleased to be relieved of the child. 

“Yeah good one.” Tif agreed with a smirk. 

“Are you okay?” Phly half scooted, half hopped over to the kid, giving them a small pat on their arm. The kid peeked out from their arms once, a hand whipping out and slapping Phly partway across the room before retreating back into their little man made shell. Phlys face mirrored the shock and despair of Isla at the blatant rejection by the child. 

    “Whelp, kids broken, I say we move on without them. Clearly they’re inconsolable.” Cyran said, and turned to start to face the one hallway that had yet to have someone arrive through it. 

    “Can you at least tell us why you’re afraid?” Isla ignored Cyran’s, suggestion, instead sitting a respectable distance away from the frightened child and continuing to speak to them in a hushed voice, like they were a small rodent that could be scared away. 

    The child flinched slightly, but they did to seem to relax, if only marginally, at Islas’  soft tone. They uncurled from themselves somewhat, but stayed in a more or less fetal position, hands still firmly pushed up to their face, over their eyes, though Cyran could catch the glint of tears streaming out. 

    “The… the monsters.” The reply was really more of a whimper with the idea of words in there somewhere. 

    “Oh you mean the-” Isla was cut off from her reply by the sound of something coming down the same hallway from earlier. It was hard to really identify what it was - it had the pattern of someone walking, but the only thing that Cyran could really compare it to was the wet slap of a mop on the ground, or maybe like someone repeatedly throwing spaghetti noodles onto the ground. Cyran couldn’t really bring herself to be afraid of whatever was coming, and a quick glance at Phly told Cyran that they were on the same page. She had a feeling they both knew what was about to emerge from that hallway. 

    Isla on the other hand was freaking out again, but this time trying to shield the child, holding Tif close to her body as if they could protect her. Tif just looked bored. 

    It didn’t take long for the creature making the sound to finally reach the room they were in, and yes, it looked about as ridiculous as Cyran had been anticipating, if not almost disappointingly more normal, as it appeared to be more or less just a giant squid or cuttlefish, colored bright blue and green. Cyran would have thought that it would get around like an octopus, sliding on the ground, but she supposed seeing how it was managing to move made more sense considering the sound they had been hearing. The little thing would steel itself for a moment, and then take a leap forward - never seeming to manage to land on its tentacles in a balanced way and yet causing the loud, wet slap that they had been hearing. It would then take the moment to reset and correct its’ posture for a moment before doing the whole thing over again. While this did manage to get it to move, it was exhausting just to watch. Ever impatient, Cyran walked over to meet it halfway, feeling pretty secure in the idea that it posed no active threat to any of them, and if it did it would be easy to just kick like a soccer ball across the room. 

    “Angel!” The thing cried between loud and laborious panting. Cyran reached down and grabbed it, hoisting it up to eye level. 

    “Let me guess, you woke up with no memories in a room with that kid?” Cyran said, voice deadpan, heading back over in the direction of the others. The squid monster was still huffing and puffing from the exertion it had expelling in its’ laughable attempt at running and took a moment before they could respond. 

    “Yes. He’s my… Angel is my partner. I think. I know I’m supposed to take care of him. But he. He keeps running away.” At that the creatures’ eyes began to water and their voice became thick with emotion, face welling itself up into a watery frown. Disgusted and unsure what to do at the display of emotion, Cyran dropped it down a few feet away from the kid - Angel - who was still sobbing himself and covering his face. Great. Two cry babies - really the last thing they needed right now. 

    “Hmmmm….” Isla had one of her sleeve-covered hands lifted up to her mouth in contemplation. “I, uh, I have an idea.” She whispered, lowering down her sleeve a little revealing that she was nervously biting her lip, glancing from Cyran, to Angel, to the floor, to Tif, and then back again. Cyran let out a small snort. 

    “Yeah, cuz your last idea worked so well?” Tif spoke up, and Isla seemed to shrink in on herself, somehow managing to make her already oversized sweater appear even bigger. A twinge of guilt run up Cyran’s spine.

    “Well, we don’t have any better ideas right now.” Cyran muttered. “So, uh, you might as well go for it?” Cyrans words, while half hearted, seemed to be enough to bolster Isla back up, as she gave a little nod to herself and then turned to Cyran, clearly trying to appear confident.

    “Follow my lead.” Isla said earnestly, and with a few shaky steps to crossed the room so she stood by Angel, hefting Tif into her arms. “Wow, Cyran, isn’t it so nice to have a little buddy?” She said loudly, in a very obviously stage voice full of faked enthusiasm. Cyran just stared at her, and shook her head slightly. Isla gestured for Cyran to come over, and with an obligatory eye roll Cyran eventually walked over, lightly kicking Phly so that they skidded across the floor to be closer, and then propping their foot up on their squishy body. 

    “Uh, yeah. It’s, um, it’s something. Great even, some might say.” 

    “They’re just the best! Anyone who’s anyone has their little monster buddy! But it looks like our group is missing something. What is it? We have a red one, and green one…” Isla cued Cyran.

    “A blue one.” She replied in her most dead pan voice. Isla to her credit didn’t let it bother her and just continued on, either suddenly emboldened or not even picking up on Cyrans’ lack of enthusiasm. 

    “A blue one! If only there was someone here who had a blue one, then we’d really be lucky.” Isla kept her words animated, face pulling exaggerated emotions even though Angel wasn’t even looking. The form of Angel remained stationary, save for the occasional sniffle, and after a moment Isla’s shoulders lowered in disappointment, the expressions on her face falling into one of simple defeat. Cyran couldn’t say she was surprised. 

    “...blue…?” The figure of Angel very slowly started to uncurl, showing a small face, red and blotchy from all the crying and screaming. Slowly he turned to look over at the squid thing, which was doing its’ best to stay still in an attempt not to scare Angel, but despite that they were still shivering. 

    Agonizingly slowly, Angel stuck their hand out and let it drift over to the squid, entire teeny tiny frame tense, hand shaking up and down. Cyran found herself holding her breath, along with everyone else in the room. After a few torturous seconds Angels’ hand finally came in contact with the creature, causing Angel to let out a small squeak of surprise and jump slightly, hand flinching away before they got a look on their face that can only be described as childish resolution and placed their hand on the squid again, holding it there for a second as if to see whether or not just touching the thing would truly hurt them. When a moment passed and nothing had happened their eyes widened with surprise, which quickly gave way to joy, and they scooched over to the creature, picked it up, and held it up to Isla’s face for inspection. 

    “Blue!” Angel said proudly, small mouth curving into a pleased smile. Cyran looked away, refusing to give the child any praise. She had seen videos before about people who pick up a baby duckling and it follow them around, mistaking them for its mama. Absentmindedly Cyran nudged Phly from his position on the ground. The last she needed was another creature to worry about. 

    “Oh wow! I think yours is the cutest of them all!” Either Isla held no such reservations, or was not as forward thinking as Cyran as she seemed more than willing to give Angel all her attention and praise, bending down and using that kind of exaggerated voice people only used when they were talking to kids, the kind that made Cyran’s lip unintentionally rise into a small snarl. At least from Cyran glance over there Tif was suffering more or less as much as she was, although they were making no attempts to struggle out of Isla’s arms they certainly seemed to be pouting. 

    While Isla continued to pander to the cheerful but still mostly silent child, Cyran slowly turned to survey the room once again, specifically looking at each of the hallways they had each come from, trying to memorize the strange symbols above each one. The one above Cyrans was some kind of a pointed oval with a square and circle in the middle of it, above Angel was a water drop looking form also with squares and circles within it, and above Isla’s hallway was some kind of a jagged diamond with three points facing up and several crossing lines along the bottom of it. Cyran stopped to face the last hallway, the one that none of them had come from, which had a hexagon with a circle inside of it. 

    Cyran turned to the other two after a moment, hands on her hips and expression serious. Isla was producing a bandaid from her shoulder bag and Angel had placed their squid buddy on top of his head and was fiddling with their gold locket thing.