Chapter 5: Edge of the Hunt

Moonlight spilled through the shattered windows, casting long silver beams across the dusty floor. The shadows moved like ghosts across the wooden planks—one large, looming above, axe raised; another, smaller, trembling below.

The blade came down with a sickening crack.

The woman beneath him writhed, her voice escaping only in strangled blurts of breath and garbled sound. Her tongue was gone. Her resistance—fading.

But Viscount didn’t stop.

Again the axe rose.

Again it fell.

And again.

He didn’t want to hear her cries—didn’t want to be reminded of his choice, or the twisted game he agreed to play. He only wanted silence. He only wanted out.

Across the room, the boy sat on an old wooden chair, legs crossed casually, hands folded in his lap, watching as if the entire act were a performance in a cruel theater. His expression unreadable—calm, detached, void.

As the final blow fell, Viscount stood there, panting heavily, the axe slick in his grip, the metallic scent of blood thick in the room.

He turned.

“Where’s my medicine?” he growled, stepping forward. “You said—give it to me.”

The boy didn’t move.

“There was no poison,” he said simply. “Only your selfishness. That is your poison.”

Silence followed. Deafening silence.

Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.

Viscount stood there, stunned. Then, trembling fingers reached for the cloth still tied over his eyes. He tore it off—and blinked.

The chair was empty.

The boy was gone.

Confused, panicked, he staggered forward, shouting the boy’s name—though he’d never been given one. His eyes scanned the room. No one.

Only the body on the floor.

The blood. The woman.

Something in his chest jolted—a throb, sharp and deep. He knew that face.

No… it couldn’t be.

He stepped closer, knees buckling as the details came into focus. His breath caught in his throat. His legs gave out. He collapsed beside her, reaching with shaking fingers.

The woman he had killed—

was his wife.

And in that moment of horrific clarity, everything else crashed in at once.

The screamless body thrown into the river.

The blurred shape he had dragged and discarded in desperation to survive.

That was his daughter.

A raw, strangled cry burst from him as he stumbled toward the balcony. The night was cold. The wind bit into his skin. He leaned over the railing, staring down into the black river below.

The moon stared back.

Behind him, the room was a graveyard.

And Viscount sank to the floor again—his limbs weak, his breath ragged.

Everything was wrong.

Everything.

Boots heavy with urgency, coat fluttering behind him, he burst through the door with two guards in tow.

His breath caught.

The first thing he saw was the woman’s body, pale and still in a pool of red. Nearby, the axe—dropped, forgotten. And then—

Viscount.

Collapsed. Shaking. Broken.

Not by blade or poison, but by the unbearable weight of truth.

Noah didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

There was nothing left to say.

Only the wind whispered now, sweeping through the broken window as the moonlight faded, and the night remembered.

The criminal hadn’t taken Viscount’s life.
He had taken something worse.

He had shattered his mind.

In the dim, blood-dried room, Viscount sat hunched on the floor, his face hidden behind trembling hands, his eyes red and distant. A man’s broken breath echoed softly, barely audible beneath the heaviness of silence.

Then the silence broke.

“Where is she?”
The door slammed open.
“Where is she? She’s pregnant—where is my wife?!”

The man’s voice cracked like thunder across the hollow building. His boots slammed the ground with urgency, his eyes frantic, scanning every corner until they landed on the shivering wreck of a man on the floor.

Viscount didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

He sat frozen, lips parted, unable to form a single word.

Noah turned slowly. His eyes met the man’s, and something passed between them—regret, sorrow, and a silent understanding far too bitter.

“Search the river,” Noah said quietly.

The man blinked. “What?”

Guards moved quickly. Lanterns flickered. The air shifted, and then—

“I found something!” a voice cried out.

The river gave her back, but not in time.

She floated lifeless in the water, moonlight glinting off her skin, dress soaked, hair fanned like weeds beneath the surface. Her husband waded in without hesitation, clothes dragging behind him. He lifted her from the water, arms trembling with grief, and fell to his knees on the shore, wailing.

He held her like she was still alive.

And cried like he had died with her.

Back inside, the sound of that grief—raw, unfiltered—echoed through the empty halls. It pierced the marble, the silence, the sin.

Viscount flinched. He covered his ears with shaking hands.
He couldn’t bear it.
He couldn’t hide from it.

Not anymore.

Without it, a person cannot be human—only a shape, only a mask.

To suffer punishment should not be the fate of the poor alone.
It must be shared, even by the powerful.
Otherwise, justice would never stand.

That truth had lived too long in silence.

Not anymore.

Noah mounted his horse with steady hands. The sky had begun to pale in the east. He gave the order to the guards.

“Every road. Every forest. Every path,” he said.
“Find him.”

The chase began.

It didn’t take long.

A shout broke out in the woods. “There! Over there!”

The boy ran like a shadow across the clearing—faster than they expected. But Noah didn’t chase.

He didn’t need to.

He reached for his bow, notching an arrow. His fingers held calm.

One breath.

One aim.

Release.

The arrow flew like justice—and struck the boy’s leg.
He stumbled. Fell.

Alive.

That was the point.

Noah didn’t want him dead.

He wanted the world to hear the whole story.

Branches clawed at his face. Breath tore from his lungs. Every step screamed through his muscles—but he didn’t stop.

Then—a collision.

He slammed into a figure in the dark.

A strong hand caught him before he could fall.

“Follow me,” said a voice low and sharp.

Goth.

The bounty hunter’s eyes glinted like iron under the moonlight.

Behind them, the shouts of guards broke through the trees, drawing closer—arrows notched, feet pounding, dogs howling in the distance.

Noah was among them.

He rode fast, cutting through the brush, his long coat snapping behind him. His eyes scanned the chaos—then narrowed.

There. Up ahead.

He caught sight of them.

The boy. The bounty hunter.

“Again...”

Noah drew his bow. A flash of movement. A deep breath. And—

Thwip.

The arrow soared through the air, fast and true.

But Goth spun and deflected it with a single flick of his blade. Sparks flew as steel kissed wood.

Noah cursed and notched another.

Thwip.

This time Goth didn’t block in time.

The arrow grazed his arm, slicing a clean line through flesh. Blood followed.

The guards let loose a volley—half a dozen arrows screamed toward them. One embedded into Goth’s thigh. Another sliced past his side.

He staggered.

And then he changed.

Within moments, he moved—not like a man, but like a shadow. Like violence made flesh.

Steel flashed.

Three minutes.

That’s all it took.

When Noah arrived, the forest floor was slick with blood. Five guards lay still, their bodies slumped over branches and roots, faces frozen mid-scream. Weapons scattered. Arrows snapped.

And there was no sign of the boy.

No trace of the bounty hunter.

Just the silence of the woods.

And the weight of failure.

Noah slowly dismounted, breath misting in the cold. He walked among the bodies, eyes burning—not just from smoke or effort.

Its wheels rattled on the tracks, echoing into the dark valleys of Varethorn. Inside one of its dim passenger cars, Goth sat opposite the boy—Meteo.

The oil lamp above them flickered.

Meteo’s eyes were fixed on the window, watching the blur of trees rush by under moonlight. His hair danced in the draft from a cracked window, strands flicking like restless thoughts.

“Where are you sending me?” Meteo asked without turning.

Goth leaned back, his arms crossed. “To a safe place.”

Meteo let out a faint breath, almost a laugh. “There is no safe place for me.”

“She was the only family I had. When parents died, she cared for me like her own child. She always bought me whatever I wanted—never once thinking of herself.

The day she left, it wasn’t for her. She went away to earn more money—for me. But nothing happened the way we had hoped.”

Something in his voice made Goth glance at him more closely. Something that didn’t belong.

Then he saw it.

The boy shifted, and the sleeve of his coat rode up—a black mark inked on his wrist.

A tattoo.

Goth’s eyes narrowed. His breath caught.

That mark—he knew it.

The same one he’d seen long ago. The same one etched into the skin of monsters who wore smiling faces. The same one he bore.

He stared, silent, unable to hear what Meteo was saying now—until the boy’s voice cut through.

“A nun gave it to us.”

Goth’s voice came rough, tight. “Where did you say you got that?”

Meteo looked at the ink like it belonged to someone else. His eyes were hollow. “A nun. Wore yellow hooded cloak. She gave all of us the mark. Said it meant we’d been chosen by God.”

He chuckled, bitter and tired.

“She said with this, we’d have a new life. A new chance. A divine purpose.”
He looked at Goth. “Just another religious mobilization. Crazy nonsense.”

But Goth didn’t laugh.

He whispered, “It’s not nonsense.”

He felt it all begin to snap into place like bone cracking into socket. A plan. A design. He didn’t know how yet—but it was her.

His mind reeled back to the blurred fragments of childhood—a woman in yellow, her robes sweeping through mud and blood. A soft voice that dripped into the ears like honey but left rot behind.

Those marked by the tattoo are chosen by God. Through it, we’re reborn—given a new life, a new path. He walks with us. Always.

He remembered the screaming.

The blood.

The children turning on one another like wild dogs—until everything ended in smoke and ruin.

And yet… she let him live.

Why?

Why him?

Now, again, her mark surfaced. In high places—Henry. In the gutter—this boy.

What did she want? What was the end to this game?

Goth went to Velmora hoping to uncover something—about Henry, about the tattoo, anything at all. But the city gave him nothing. Only silence.

He turned, urgently. “Do you know where she came from?”

But when he looked at Meteo—the seat was empty.

Just the whisper of cold wind. The window was wide open.

“No—”

Goth lunged toward it—

But too late.

Below, the shriek of metal on metal filled the night, and the boy’s body met the rails in a blossom of blood and bone.

He was gone.

No answers.

No leads.

Only a dark, growing weight in Goth’s chest.

He lowered his head, the mark on his wrist suddenly feeling colder, heavier.

She was still out there.

And now she had left another message—written in blood.

The clock ticked dully above the filing shelves, and the air smelled of old paper and burnt coffee.

John sat alone in the main office, elbows resting on the polished wooden desk, the weight of too many unsolved nights etched into his features.

The door creaked open.

Noah stepped in, sharp in his uniform, a thin stack of folders in his hand. Without a word, he tossed one onto John's desk.

The folder landed with a thud.

“You know what happened last night?” Noah asked, voice low, almost disbelieving.

John said nothing.

Noah took a step forward, frustration rising. “Three people died, John. Not criminals. Faultless people. And the Viscount?” He motioned loosely. “He’s completely broken. Not mad. Not sane. Just… ruined.”

John looked up slowly, eyes tired.

“And that bounty hunter,” Noah continued. “How the hell was he involved?”

John rose from his chair. Quietly, he stepped around the desk and stood in front of Noah. His face was calm, but there was something boiling underneath—old regret, old fire.

“I asked him to help,” John said.

Noah’s eyes widened. “You did what?” “How did you know Meteo was the criminal?”

“I misunderstood the moment I first saw Meteo lying on Samuel’s bed. He looked so much like Emily—it was almost uncanny.

Then I went to his house. That’s when I saw the painting. The way he kept shading over the neck, again and again—it struck me. I’d seen that before. In the painting in William’s room. And again in Emily’s house.

That was when it stopped mattering to me whether he was a man or a woman.

He was the criminal.

My daughter paints, too. That’s how I noticed. That’s how I knew,” John said.

“You didn’t think this would end in blood anyway?” Noah snapped. “Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t know what the boy would do,” John said, voice even. “But I knew what would happen if we let the system handle it. Nothing. Nothing would happen. He’d be buried quietly, and no one would remember Emily.”

Noah shook his head, disbelief tightening his features.

“That’s not justice,” he said coldly. “That’s revenge. And you wanted revenge on the Viscount too. That’s why you did it, isn’t it?”

John walked slowly across the room to the window, his steps heavy. He looked out at the waking town—so ordinary from here, so far from the rot beneath its cobbled streets.

“Maybe,” he said. “But sometimes you have to bend the law to keep it meaningful. That’s what you aristocrats don’t understand.” He turned back to Noah. “The Viscount didn’t need a blindfold. His own selfishness did that for him.”

Noah’s lips tightened. “So what now? You going to hide the truth? Protect the criminal forever?”

“I don’t need to,” John said quietly. “He’s dead. Jumped from the train. Goth sent word.”

Noah blinked. “That bounty hunter again,” he muttered. “You two getting close?”

John didn’t answer.

Noah gave him one last glance, then turned on his heel and left the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

John remained still, watching the light shift across the desk.

The confessional was cloaked in shadows.
A man knelt, trembling, his fingers fumbling as he traced the sign of the cross. Between him and the priest, the wooden lattice cast a pattern of bars across his face, as though the church itself had already judged him guilty.

His voice shook as he began.
“Father… forgive me, for I have sinned. I… I was with a woman. I loved her, but not as I should. I gave myself to her outside of marriage… and she became pregnant.”

The man’s breath hitched. He pressed a hand to his face as though to hide from the words.
“I was a coward. I didn’t marry her. I left her alone with her shame. And today—” His voice cracked. “Today I was told she took her own life. Because of me. Because I wasn’t there.”

He broke into sobs, whispering between them.
“It’s my fault, Father. I destroyed her. I can’t live with it. I want forgiveness, Father. I cannot live like this. I must carry on… with my wife… with my children.”

The priest murmured something low, a prayer perhaps, words blurred by the heavy screen. The man bowed his head as if chains had been unfastened from his shoulders. When he left the church, his step was lighter, his chest unburdened. He almost believed the girl’s soul had risen into heaven, almost believed his sins had been erased.

That night, he slept in the quiet warmth of his home, his wife at his side, his children safe down the hall. Peace folded over him like a blanket—until a sound woke him.

Knocking.
Soft at first, then insistent.

He sat up, the darkness pressing in. His wife stirred but did not wake. Slowly, he went to the door. The hall clock ticked, each second louder than the last. He opened the door.

No one.
Only night. Only silence.

Then—a whistle. Thin, sharp, slithering through the air. His heart stuttered. He checked his children’s room; they were still asleep, untouched by the disturbance. Relief shuddered through him.

But when he returned to his own room—everything had changed.

The walls sagged with shadow. The bed no longer held his wife. Instead, she lay stretched across blood-soaked sheets, her body a broken canvas of horror. Beside her stood a figure.

The figure wore the garments of a priest, but the head—God help him—the head was not human. The head of raw sheet , torn flesh over his head, concealing his face like a mask of living horror,dripping thick trails of blood down the cassock. In its hand gleamed a hooked blade, curving like a smile carved in steel.

The man froze, unable to scream, only to watch.
The priest dragged the blade, tearing into flesh. His wife’s arm jerked, lifeless, as it was pulled away from her body. Already her head, her legs, and her left arm lay discarded on the floor, pale against the black.

“No…” The word slipped from his lips, cracked and useless. He crawled toward the bed, his knees weak, his hands shaking against the boards of the floor. “No, no, no…”

He lifted his eyes to the figure, choking on horror. “You… you…”

The priest turned, towering, dripping red. The hooked blade dripped too. The voice that came was calm, final, inhuman.
“Now your sins are clear.”

The man’s body stiffened. His crawling ceased. His face twisted, memory clawing its way back into his mind, something too terrible to admit, even here. Tears streaked down his face as terror hollowed him out.

Only God knew the truth.
And him.

But who—who was the thing in the room?

Three days had passed since the Viscount’s crime, and in that time John and Noah had not spoken a word to each other.

The city’s Bureau was quiet, without any pressing cases, and Noah had chosen to remain at his temporary residence. He filled the long hours with little distractions: writing letters to his father, King Theodore, or practicing his aim with bow and arrow in the garden. When those failed to occupy him, he amused himself by needling his servant—small irritations, offhand remarks—anything to stir a reaction, if only to break the silence of the house.

His servant, however, grew restless with curiosity. Each time he carried in a tray of food or gathered Noah’s discarded papers, he glanced at his young master with a question pressing at the back of his tongue: Why hasn’t he gone to the Bureau?

Noah himself hardly knew. Restless, he wandered from room to room, pacing past tall windows where the light shifted with the day. He stared at the neat stacks of documents on his desk and felt a wave of distaste. The Bureau meant endless writing, the scratch of pens, the rustle of paper—monotony dressed up as duty. It drained him more than it inspired him.

Now, the third afternoon, he threw aside his quill with a sigh.
“This is unbearable,” he muttered to the empty room.

But then, in the stillness, an idea came to him. Slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted. For the first time in days, Noah leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing with thought.

John had been at home for days, haunted by the case he had chosen to push aside.
Right or wrong, justice or not—it gnawed at him. Three people were dead. Their blood was not spilled solely by the Viscount’s selfishness, but in part because of him. That knowledge clung to him like smoke he could not wash away.

At last, restless, he decided to go to the place where the crime happened last night. He pulled on his long coat, set his hat upon his head, and reached for the door handle—when the door swung inward before he could touch it.

Noah stood there. Not alone. Behind him trailed a servant carrying trunks, and Noah himself clutched something peculiar in his hand.

John blinked, startled. “What is this?”

Noah’s face was unreadable, his voice clipped. “I’m moving into your house.”
Without waiting for reply, he stepped inside and directed his servant to set his belongings down.

John shut the door slowly, his expression tightening. “Why on earth would you want to live here?”

Noah looked at him, then ran a hand absently through his dark hair. “Because I don’t trust you to be left alone, I don’t want to drown in stupid thoughts without you telling me.”John gave a weary shake of his head. “No. You can’t live here.”

“Why not?”

“For one, I don’t have a perfect room fit for a high prince,” John said flatly. “And more importantly, I have no desire to listen to you whine like a child.” His eyes dropped to the object Noah carried. “And what in God’s name is that yellow thing?”

Noah lifted the glass bottle with a flourish. Inside, a golden fish swam lazily in a swirl of water.
“This,” he said proudly, “is a fish.”

“I can see that it’s a fish,” John muttered. “You carried it the entire way here?”

“Not the whole way,” Noah replied, setting the bottle carefully on a nearby table. “I saw it being sold on the road and bought it. I already have a golden owl in the palace, so why not a fish here?”

“I don’t care,” John said firmly. “But in my house, no animals. No pets. That is the rule.”

Noah arched a brow. “You’re so fastidious. And besides, they’re not just animals—they’re companions.”

“Oh, I’m fastidious?” John snapped, his patience thinning. “You marched into my home without asking permission and now you expect me to accommodate you and your menagerie.”

“It’s only sharing space,” Noah said smoothly, shrugging. “Not a big deal.”

John let out a long breath, rubbed his temples, and finally threw up his hands. “I’m done.” He snatched his hat back up and moved toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Noah asked, placing the fishbowl gently on the table as though daring John to object again.

“There’s a case,” John answered curtly, pulling the door open.

Noah and John stood in the dim room, the air thick with the copper sting of blood. The body lay sprawled on the floor, its stillness broken only by the faint flutter of curtains from the open window.

Noah pressed a folded cloth against his nose, his voice muffled. “I should not have come here…” His eyes darted from the blood to the shadows, unsettled.

John crouched low, his gaze sweeping the scene with practiced calm. The window frame was smeared faintly where a hand had gripped it. No lock was broken. No glass was cracked. Whoever had come through had done so without hesitation, without noise, without struggle. A clean entrance. A cleaner kill.

He spoke half to himself. “The killer didn’t waste time. Came straight in through the window, struck fast, and left the same way. No hesitation. No panic.”

The silence was broken by the hesitant voice of a young constable standing near the door. “Sir… her husband saw everything.” The boy swallowed hard before continuing. “But his mind… he’s not well. He’s been taken to the hospital. And the children—” his voice softened, “—they’re safe, for now.”

John rose slowly, adjusting his coat, eyes narrowing as the pieces turned in his mind. “Safe,” he repeated, though his tone carried little comfort.

His gaze lingered on the window a moment longer before he turned on his heel. “I’ll speak with the husband.”

Behind him, Noah lowered the cloth and glanced once more at the blood-stained floor. He shivered, then followed John out into the corridor, the echo of their footsteps fading into the heavy silence of the house.

The carriage wheels ground to a halt before the iron gates of the mental hospital. Its pale stone walls loomed high, the barred windows catching the gray light of afternoon.

Noah stepped down first, tugging his cloak tighter. His face twisted with disappointment. “Another psychopath,” he muttered. “Why is there never a normal case in this town?” He turned toward John, his tone edged with complaint.

John gave a small smirk as he pushed open the heavy front doors. “Because they’re drawn to you, Your Highness.”

Inside, the air smelled of damp and medicine. A guard stepped forward, eyes narrowing until John produced his Bureau card.
“From the Bureau,” John said briskly. “I want to see Barkman.”

The guard nodded once. “Follow me.”

They moved down echoing corridors, where the mad wandered like ghosts. One man traced invisible letters into the air with his finger, over and over, eyes glazed. Another sat rocking on the floor, humming tunelessly. A woman whispered to herself in a rush of nonsense, her voice rising and falling as though carrying on an endless conversation with the walls.

Noah wrinkled his nose, keeping his cloak close. “Every strange place I step into, I step into with you.”

John’s boots clicked steadily on the stone floor. “You said you wanted a good name, didn’t you?”

At last, the guard halted before a locked iron door. From inside came the sound of frantic muttering, the scrape of chains against wood. With a heavy key, he swung the door open.

Barkman sat hunched on the bed, his hands shackled with twin chains fixed to the wall. His eyes were wide, darting from corner to corner. He seemed not to notice them until, suddenly, he looked to the floor. His expression contorted in horror.

“No—blood… blood…” He scrambled back, pressing himself against the headboard, staring at the empty boards beneath him. His lips trembled. “It’s all your fault!” he shouted to the air. “Go away! GO AWAY!” He toppled from the bed, chains clattering as he writhed on the ground.

The guard’s jaw tightened. “He only says the word God ”

John stepped into the room, his voice steady. “Barkman. You saw your wife dead, didn’t you?”

The man’s head whipped toward him. His eyes were wild, whites gleaming, his face gaunt and soaked in sweat. “He is coming,” Barkman whispered, then shouted, “HE IS COMING! GOD IS COMING!”

Noah folded his arms, his voice sharp with impatience. “No god is coming. Speak plainly. Did you kill your wife?”

John threw him a warning glance but kept his focus on the prisoner. He crouched low, voice quiet, coaxing. “Tell me what you saw, Barkman. I know it’s hard. But you must try.”

The man’s breathing grew ragged. His chains rattled as his hands clenched. “It’s all my fault,” he wept. “God has taken my sins. We can’t run. None of us. He’s coming…”

John leaned forward, eyes narrowing, his tone cutting through the madness.
“Then tell me—what does your god look like?”

Outside the hospital, the late afternoon sun was fading, staining the courtyard walls with long shadows. The iron gates groaned shut behind them, and the noise of the asylum softened to a distant hum of murmurs and cries.

Noah walked a few paces ahead, a folded sheet of paper in his hands. He snapped it open and studied the rough charcoal lines, his brow furrowed. The sketch was crude—little more than a faceless figure with a draped sheet for a head and blood dripping down the priest’s garb.

“This is nonsense,” Noah muttered, holding the paper up to the light. “Who puts a sheet’ head over their head? It’s too absurd. He’s clearly acting.”

John, adjusting his coat against the wind, glanced over his shoulder at the drawing. “Can’t determine that yet. There was no weapon in Barkman’s house. Not a single blade.”

He lit a cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating the lines of fatigue on his face. “But the killer used a hooked blade. That much is certain. We can see it in the wounds.”

Noah stopped, lowering the paper with irritation. “So what then? Do we march into the church, hunting shadows? I don’t think that’s a wise idea.” His voice carried both sarcasm and unease.

John exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing toward the darkening street. “I know. We need another suspect.”

The paper in Noah’s hands fluttered in the wind before he folded it sharply, tucking it under his arm. Behind them, the asylum’s barred windows glowed faintly in the dusk, as though eyes were still watching.

John’s home was modest—neither too large nor too small. The door opened into a cozy room: a fireplace crackled gently ahead, a sofa rested to the right, and to the left, a bookshelf sagging under the weight of leather-bound tomes and scattered papers. On the hearth, a small fish tank glimmered, the golden fish inside darting through the water.

Noah stood beside it, sprinkling flakes into the tank. “Do you see that?” he asked, eyes following the little creature as it twisted gracefully through the water.

John hung his coat over a chair, brushing dust from his shoulders. “Yes. Barkman went to Mary’s church yesterday. But we can’t approach the priests directly with suspicion. We have to act within the rules, or the criminal could be someone pretending to be a priest.”

Noah’s lips curved in a wry smirk. “Or maybe a psychopath priest, too…”

John shook his head gently and placed the paper he had received from the father onto the table, his expression unreadable.

Noah turned back to the fish tank. “So… what’s for dinner?”

John let out a small laugh. “Are you asking me to make dinner for you?”

Noah flopped onto the sofa, stretching one arm behind his head. “You also make your own meals, right? Then do a little more—consider it practice.”

John moved into the kitchen. “If you return to your rest house in a week, I’ll fry that fish for you,” he called over his shoulder.

By the time dinner was ready, the table was laid simply but invitingly. A roast chicken glistened with a golden-brown crust, steam curling from the tender meat. A small pot of buttered vegetables sat nearby, the green of peas and orange of carrots bright against the dark wood.They sat across from each other at the table. The golden light from the fireplace flickered over their faces.

“I hear you used to be a loyal guard?” Noah asked, voice casual but probing.

John smiled faintly. “A long, long time ago.”

“Tell me… to whom? Who did you guide?” Noah’s gaze lingered on him.

John didn’t answer. He simply took up his fork and began eating.

“Let me guess,” Noah said after a moment, running a hand through his sleek black hair. “My father?”

John’s smile remained faint, inscrutable.

“Right?” Noah pressed, leaning back in the chair, eyes fixed on the dancing flames of the fireplace.

“It was a long time ago,” John said evenly.

Noah’s gaze drifted to the window, watching the streetlights blink on one by one as twilight deepened. “Why did you leave the royal job?”

John’s face stiffened, eyes narrowing. “There was a case… that happened.”

Noah leaned forward, curiosity sharpening his tone. “What case?”

John set down his fork, his gaze steady on Noah.
“This is… an unspeakable case.”

Noah leaned back in his chair, a playful spark in his eyes. “Come now. I am Your Highness—there’s nothing unspeakable before me.”

John hesitated, then shook his head. “It isn’t my decision. Your father decided that.”

The words landed heavier than he intended. Noah blinked, surprised. “Really? I thought you were joking.”

He let out a short laugh, though it lacked his usual ease. “Then tell me, how did he look at my age?”

John rested his elbows lightly on the table, studying the young prince’s features before answering. “Theodore? He was unusually active, sharp—mature beyond his years. He thought he could manage not only his country, but the world.” A small chuckle escaped him.

Noah’s expression stiffened. His eyes fell to his plate, then straightened forward. “So… the opposite of me, huh?”

John’s tone softened. “There is no rule that says a father and son must share the same mind, the same passion.”

The fire popped in the hearth, shadows dancing across the walls. Noah slowly ran a hand through his black hair, his voice quieter, stripped of jest.
“I don’t have passion. I don’t even plan for the day I wear the crown. Sometimes I want to run away from all of it—the glittering halls, the high laughter, the weight of expectation. But I have no choice, no place else to go.”

His eyes lifted, glassy in the firelight. “If I don’t accept the crown… what am I? Where would I even go? I don’t know.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Only the clink of cutlery and the low crackle of fire filled the silence between them.

It was the first time Noah had ever opened himself so honestly in front of a stranger. To most, he was selfish, proud, and brimming with confidence for the crown that awaited him. But John saw, in that moment, that the world’s image of him was not the truth.

Noah did not know what he should do, or even what was good for him. He was not a prince of steel and certainty—he was more like a restless hound, lost without guidance, yearning for someone to show him how to live.

John stared, surprised—and unsettled. The boy before him, only months away from becoming the King of Bucharest, was opening up raw doubts that no one else had ever heard. For the first time, John saw not a future ruler, but a boy drowning under the weight of a crown not yet upon his head.

“What is your dream?” John asked at last. His voice was low, careful. He knew this was not the right time to ask, not with the kingdom watching, not with succession looming—but curiosity stirred inside him nonetheless.

Noah did not look at him when he answered. His fork scraped gently against the plate, and his gaze lingered on the firelight flickering across the table. “I just want to keep a lot of animals,” he said quietly. “To live with them… peacefully.”

The words struck John like a blow. The cup of water in his hand slipped from his fingers, clattering against the floor.

Noah glanced up in surprise, a small crease in his brow. “Careful,” he said lightly. “You dropped it.”

But John knew it had not been an accident. His hand had faltered because his heart had jolted, quick and sharp, as though something long buried had been stirred awake. He stooped, picked up the cup, and placed it back on the table with deliberate calm.

Noah returned to his dinner, preoccupied with his own thoughts, chewing absently while the golden fish swam lazily in the tank behind him. He seemed unaware of the effect his words had caused.

John, however, sat in silence, glancing at the boy across the table. Thoughts swarmed, but no answers came. Because he had heard that very dream before—from someone else.

And that someone had not been Theodore.

The morning light did little to soften the horror inside the house.
John and Noah stood over another body—a woman, her form mangled and torn into pieces by the cruel sweep of a hooked blade. The wooden floorboards were drenched scarlet, a river of blood soaking into every crack.

In the corner, her husband crouched against the wall. His skin was ghostly pale, his eyes wide and unblinking. He looked less like a man and more like a husk hollowed out by grief.

John stepped closer, his voice steady. “Did you see the killer?”

The man’s lips trembled. “This is all… my fault.”

Noah exhaled sharply, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow. “Oh, shit… here we go again.”

John crouched and unfolded the crumpled drawing, holding it before the man. The figure with the sheet-draped head, the dripping cassock. “Was this him? Is this what you saw?”

The man’s body quivered. His eyes darted to the paper and he began nodding, frantic. “Yes… yes, that’s him. He knew my sins. He told me it was time to pay them back.”

John studied him a moment longer, then straightened. He folded the drawing, slipped it back into his coat, and walked out of the suffocating room.

Outside, the air was sharp with the smell of morning rain, the street still damp beneath their boots. John ran a hand down his face, his voice low. “God knows only our sins…”

Noah stopped beside him, his tone cutting. “No, John. A priest can also know—if he hears them in confession.”

John turned to him, eyes narrowing. A realization flickered in the silence between them.

“We have to check,” he said at last. “What church they went to.”

Noah glanced back at the bloodstained doorway, his jaw tightening. The fish tank and warm hearth from last night felt like another world.

While John and Noah busied themselves with the church case, Goth had his own hunt.
For days he had scoured every library in the city, searching for the meaning of the strange symbol etched on his hand—the one branded there by the nun in yellow. None of the tomes he opened spoke of it. None of the scholars had even recognized it.

That left only one place.
The Bureau Library.

He slipped toward its heavy doors in the late afternoon, the shadows stretching long across the stone courtyard. Just as he reached for the handle, a voice barked behind him.

“What are you doing here?”

Goth turned, face calm, voice steady. “Investigator John sent me. He asked me to find something here.”

The guard stiffened, then nodded quickly, almost apologetic. “Ah—I see. My apologies. Go on in.”

The great doors groaned open, and Goth stepped inside.

The Bureau Library dwarfed every other archive he had visited. The air was cool and heavy with dust, carrying the faint scent of ink and leather. Towering shelves curved in wide circles, rising so high that ladders were needed to reach the upper rows. In the center stood a cluster of long reading tables, their polished surfaces branching outward like spokes of a wheel. Oil lamps glowed faintly, spilling warm light into the cavernous space.

A few clerks moved quietly through the aisles, stacking volumes, their footsteps muffled on the thick rugs.

Goth approached the guard again, his tone polite, casual. “Where are the volumes on symbols?”

The guard pointed toward a cluster of shelves to the left. “Over there. What kind of symbol are you looking for?”

Goth’s lips curved into a small, unreadable smile. “It’s all right. I’ll find it myself.”

He drifted toward the section, running his fingers along the spines before pulling books free, one after another. He searched methodically, page by page, line by line. Thirty minutes passed, the sound of paper turning blending with the faint scratch of quills in the background.

Still—nothing. Not even a hint.

Frustration flared. He snapped a book shut, the crack echoing across the silent chamber. Several heads turned; even the guard looked up, startled.

Goth’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain this is everything you have on symbols?”

The guard was dusting a shelf, his tone apologetic but firm. “Yes. That’s the full collection. But… if it was erased from history, we would have no record.”

The words lingered in the stillness.

Deleted by history.
Goth’s jaw tightened as thoughts swirled. Was it possible? Could a truth so dangerous have been stripped from every record, leaving only this mark upon his flesh?

He pressed his hand against the table, feeling the faint throb of the symbol beneath his skin. His search was far from over.

{ CHAPTER - 5 END }