A Mission in Peril

“Open your eyes,” the voice whispered.
A faint, insistent sound echoing in the dark.

“It’s time to wake up.”

The words pressed into his mind, and Ayan’s eyes opened to the dim morning light spilling across the wooden ceiling. For a moment, he lay still, letting his breath steady before sitting up on the edge of the bed.

The small room around him — a single bed, a desk worn smooth by years of use, and a lone portrait of his father watching from the wall — stood in stark contrast to the grandeur of the Halden estate that stretched across hundreds of acres. Yet this modest space was where Ayan found his peace.

But this morning wasn’t peaceful.

Not because of the familiar voice from the recurring dream — he had grown used to that — but because of one word.

“Angel.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the morning air cool against his skin. “But… why angel?” he murmured, searching the question for meaning.

His gaze lifted to the portrait. Lucan Halden’s calm eyes seemed to meet his own.
Time solves everything, his father’s voice echoed in memory.

“Let’s leave it to time then,” Ayan whispered, and the unease softened from his face.

Out in the courtyard, Blaze stood beneath an oak, her sleeveless black tunic fluttering, belted with crimson cloth. Fitted trousers and laced boots completed her form, an ordinary sword sheathed at her hip. Her blue eyes fixed on a scroll as she untied it from a Starwing pigeon’s leg — known for their thundering speed.

Her lips tightened as she read Safrid’s unmistakable hand

"The weapon must be here. But how to get past Martha?" she thought of her, and the weight on her chest grew heavier. “I can’t fail,” she whispered to the morning. “Not with everything at stake.” So immersed in the message, she did not notice the figure watching from above.

From the second-floor balcony of the annex, Martha observed, her figure framed against the arched railing of the modest wooden wing.

Though her expression remained calm, the stillness around her felt almost tangible, sharpened with intent. She knew who Blaze was, why she had come, and what that meant for Ayan.

Lucan’s voice lived in her memory— “The world should live united not divided”

Her hand gripped the balcony rail. Blaze thought of herself as humanity’s shield. But to Martha, she was the blade pressed too close to Ayan’s throat. Her fingers tightened, and she turned, her silhouette vanishing into the annex, preparing for breakfast.

Sunlight filtered through the windows, brushing the polished surfaces of the open kitchen. Modest yet immaculate, every corner held order and care reflecting Martha’s control and care. The breakfast was set on the table.

Ayan sat at the table’s center, Blaze to his left, Martha to his right. He broke the silence, spoon hovering over his porridge. He took a careful mouthful, glancing at Blaze briefly. But for Martha, there were other pressing matters than starting her breakfast.

“I saw you receive a message this morning, Miss Blaze. A dispatch via Starwing must be a top-priority assignment. I suggest you depart immediately.”

Martha’s tone was calm yet decisive — a polite command disguised as reason. Blaze was no longer welcome to stay.

Blaze froze for a moment, feeling the weight of Martha’s statement.

Before she could respond, Ayan interjected while eating casually, "It's her message, Martha. Shouldn't she be the one to decide when she leaves?"

“Martha’s gaze, though her eyes remained closed, was unyielding. ‘Then it will be a problem for Miss Blaze. Her invitation for one night has expired. This is not a hotel or inn, as you jested last night. This is Halden property, not a public place, and I have vowed to protect it till my last breath.’”

Her words left no room for debate. Blaze sat still, continuing to eat her breakfast as if nothing had been said. Her face was a mask of calm, but inside, turmoil churned. Martha’s resolve meant eviction by breakfast’s end, yet the fate of humanity hung on her mission. She gripped her teacup, silently.

Ayan, meanwhile, owed Blaze an apology for yesterday’s reckless attack, born of misunderstanding. Lucan had taught him to own his mistakes, and treating Blaze so harshly clashed with that code. He needed a distraction.

“Ah, Martha!” he said, pausing as if to see whether she would return to the question—but she remained silent. He continued, easy as a trickster. “Is the stove all right?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?” she answered in her usual calm, collected manner.

Ayan lifted his spoon. “You see, there’s a little grain of rice.”

“So what of it?” she replied coldly.

“What of it? I mean—it could get stuck in my throat. I could die,” Ayan complained, pretending to be serious.

“Even a toddler would not die from such a small, soft grain of rice,” she rejected him again, coldly.

Ayan feigned outrage. “But what If I do?”
Martha’s calmness never wavered. “Then its destiny, it spares none.”

“What—destiny? You mean if it’s my destiny to die you won’t try to stop it?” Ayan pressed, pretending to be angered.

Martha remained calm and offered no response.

“I did not know you were so heartless. I am devastated.” Without pausing, he slid into theatrical mourning. “All my life I believed—if death were to ever come for me, Martha would scare it away.” He slumped his shoulders, melodrama written all over him.

“I am not a scarecrow to frighten death away,” Martha said evenly, never losing her composure.

“Oh, father! I’m glad you died before seeing Martha’s true colors.” He looked up at the ceiling and began his mock lament. “Oh father, how much you would have suffered seeing the demon she truly is.” He continued, overacting with extravagant grief. “Oh, I so wish I had died thinking Martha was warm and kind. Oh, my poor luck.” The performance was painfully obvious.

Then, a stifled “Pfft.”

Blaze’s giggle shattered the farce; Ayan’s acting was so clumsy that, despite the storm inside her, she couldn’t hold it in.

“I know what you’re trying to do Ayan, but it’s futile. Miss Blaze will be leaving shortly.” Martha’s judgment was firm; she had seen through Ayan’s schemes with ease.

Silence followed, heavy. Blaze’s light laughter faded, leaving the kitchen steeped in tension. Ayan’s conscience gnawed at him—he still needed to apologize for yesterday. But to bring it up now would only inflame Martha further. She would insist he had acted honorably, that Blaze had nearly killed him. He bit back the words and searched instead for another plan.

The silence stretched on. Martha sipped her tea in quiet composure, her presence as immovable as stone. Blaze sat rigid, her face masking the turmoil inside her calmly. She had long since given up on matching Martha in words; she was a fighter of swords, not debates or schemes.

Ayan, meanwhile, turned over idea after idea, each one crumbling before it could take shape. Nothing seemed strong enough to shift Martha’s will, nothing good enough to convince her to let Blaze stay.

And then—suddenly—the silence broke with the heavy thud of the door swinging open

“Ayan!” Ginji’s voice boomed, his familiar grin faltering as his eyes landed on Blaze. Dread washed over him, sweat beading. He bowed deeply, stammering, “Lady Usher! I—I didn’t know you were here, I mean, I knew, but I forgot…”

Martha sipped her tea, unruffled. “Ginji, you should always knock before entering,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, a kind reprimand softened by familiarity.

“I… I’m sorry, Martha! B-but Lady Usher…” Ginji’s voice trembled.

Blaze, visibly flustered, offered a gentle smile. “I’m glad you hold my family in esteem. Please, raise your head.”

“I will, I can’t, I won’t…” Ginji froze, then blurted, “Wait, is that an order?”

Blaze’s ears reddened, her smile tinged with embarrassment. “A request,” she said softly.

Ginji straightened, awestruck. Blaze’s crimson hair was neatly tied, her snow-white skin glowing, her sharp blue eyes softened by humility. Her smile warmed the room, rivaling even Princess Eugenia’s famed beauty. Ginji froze, mesmerized.

“Ginji,” Ayan called, snapping his fingers. No response. Louder: “Ginji!”

Still nothing. Ayan stood, shaking him. “Ginji!”

“Oh, uh, yes!” Ginji blinked, then blurted, “Lady Usher’s beauty could shame Princess Eugenia!”

Blaze’s cheeks flushed, her embarrassment plain.

Ayan gaped, baffled. “What?”

Blaze had never thought of herself as a beauty. For as long as she could remember, her life had been defined by one purpose: fighting Denominos – the named Ones. She had met Princess Eugenia once, years ago, and even she had been captivated by the princess’s grace and kindness. That fleeting memory was all she carried of the royal. To be compared not once but twice to such a world-class beauty left Blaze more flustered than she could bear.

Martha set her teacup down, her voice cool but kind. “Ginji, join us for the peaceful breakfast if you’ve nothing urgent,” she said, a faint warmth undercutting her poised reserve.

Peaceful? Ayan thought, a hint of disappointment in his expression. There is no peace without tea, and you made me miss it.

Ginji snapped to attention. “The chief summons Lady Usher, Ayan, and Martha!”

Ayan blinked. “Martha too?”

“Y..Yes” Ginji still hesitant to speak in an Usher’s presence

Moments later, they stepped into the waiting carriage. The driver tipped his cap, and with Ginji’s urging, the three climbed inside.

The ride down from the estate passed in silence. With all four passengers lost in their own thoughts.

The Chief’s office held a refined arrangement: a single chair at the center, flanked by two sofas, a low table between them bearing steaming tea—an elegant stage for a discreet council.

The Chief sat in the central chair, his authority tempered by deference to Lady Usher. Martha, eyes closed, her poise masking a chill of foreboding. Beside her, Blaze cloaked her unease in composure, her mind racing—perhaps a Wonder Weapon lay at the summons’ heart. She studied every detail, silent. Opposite them, Ginji sat rigid, sweat betraying his awe of an Usher. Ayan, beside him, bore a tense frown; Martha’s summons were rare, the last tied to Lucan’s death. If this threatened her place, he’d act, even abandon the estate to protect her. The weight of the moment stifled his usual levity.

The Chief cleared his throat, his voice steady yet respectful. “My thanks for attending on such short notice, with apologies for the urgency.” His gaze flicked to Ginji, who tensed. “Son, you may leave if duties call.”

Ginji exhaled, rising with a 90-degree bow. “My gratitude for your kindness, Lady Usher,” he said, then hastened out. Blaze felt a flush of embarrassment.

“I received a missive from the House of Usher,” the Chief continued.

Blaze’s eyes narrowed, her focus sharpening. Ayan relaxed —the matter seemed unrelated to Martha. The Ushers would have little interest in her beyond courtesy. Martha, however, sat unmoved, her silent suspicions confirmed, the summons’ shadow deepening her unease.

The Chief spoke with measured formality:

“By Lord Safrid’s orders, Lady Usher is to remain in Funa Village until further notice. I was instructed to secure fitting lodgings. My home, though humble, is unworthy; only the Halden estate befits her station. Thus, I ask Master Halden and Lady Martha to host her for as long as required.”

Silence fell over the room, broken only by the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock. The pause lasted but a few seconds, yet to the Chief — and to Blaze — it stretched on like an age.

“I see,” Martha said, her voice soft but unyielding, a courteous veil over her wariness. The Ushers sought the Wonder Weapon within the Halden estate—she saw through their game. Refusal would tarnish Lucan’s name. “It is an honor for the House of Halden to host Lady Usher,” she added, her tone kind yet pointed, directed at the Chief, not Blaze.

Blaze, preoccupied with gratitude for her uncle Safrid’s cunning in removing Martha’s resistance, missed the change in Martha’s tone. Safrid had outmaneuvered the current biggest obstacle to her mission.

“I knew I could rely on you, Lady Martha,” the Chief said warmly, offering a slight bow—grateful yet authoritative. “My heartfelt thanks.”

“Well then!” Ayan grinned, his carefree demeanor resurfacing. “Guess it’s time we have our tea.” He gulped down his cup, rising with a chuckle.

Martha rose with elegant grace, carrying the Halden name, and faced the Chief. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said, her voice warm and kind—a nod to their shared respect.

To Blaze, her closed eyes offered nothing but cold reserve.

“The House of Usher is grateful,” Blaze said, rising and bowing to the Chief, then to Martha. “I shall be in your care.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Martha replied, the word “ours” emphasizing the House of Halden’s duty rather than her own welcome. Blaze, attuned to overt malice but blind to subtle wordplay, missed the dismissal. She thought Martha’s defense was over and that she could now focus on her mission.

Days earlier, in an unknown location at an unknown distance.

Deep within a cave, hidden in the jagged hills, the air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the stench of unwashed bodies. Torches crackled along the rough stone walls, their flames painting shadows across the cavern. A long, uneven table dominated the room, stained with grease and old blood. Mugs of ale clattered, knives scraped against wood, and laughter—crude, gutter-born—echoed in the cavernous dark.

At the table’s head slouched a man with a tangled beard and eyes that glimmered like embers through smoke. A tankard of beer dangled from his fist, his other hand drumming lazily against the scarred wood. Around him sat his pack—ruffians and killers, faces hard with hunger for coin and cruelty.

“Business is good,” one of them rasped, slamming down his mug. “Slaves fetchin’ fine prices down south. The last raid brought in enough gold to keep us drunk ‘til winter.”

A ripple of laughter shook the table.

“But I heard something else,” another voice cut in, lower, almost conspiratorial. “A beauty—quiet as a ghost—living in the Halden estate of Funa Village.” His teeth gleamed in the firelight, yellowed and sharp. “They say she’s worth more than gold. Imagine what she’d fetch.”

The room stilled for a heartbeat. All eyes turned toward their chief.

“Halden estate?” The leader’s voice was a growl. “You bark nonsense. Lucan Halden lives there. Do you think him a man to bow to filth like us?”

A few men muttered agreement, shifting uneasily.

But then another ruffian leaned forward, grinning with missing teeth. “Lucan Halden is dead, buried and long gone. Our friend sitting in that corner over there can vouch for me”

He points to a man sitting alone in a corner in darkness

The words no sooner left his lips than a blade sang through the smoke. A dagger buried itself clean between the man’s eyes with a sickening thud. His head snapped back, then slumped forward onto the table.

Silence.

Not a breath stirred the air. The chief rose slowly, his face a mask of cold fury, beer dripping from his forgotten mug.

“I hate men who bring me news late,” he spat, yanking the bloodied dagger free with one swift motion. The corpse slid sideways, crashing to the floor like discarded meat.

He turned, eyes sweeping over the trembling faces of his men, then suddenly leapt onto the table, boots crushing half-empty mugs beneath him.

“Every able man in Funa!” he roared.

“DEAD!” the gang bellowed back in perfect unison, fists pounding the wood.

“Every old man in Funa!” His tone shifted to a mock concern, dripping with cruelty.

“DEAD!” came the chorus, louder, crueler.

“Every old woman in Funa…” His voice lowered, almost whispering.

“DEAD!” thundered the answer, laughter spilling after it.

At last, his eyes gleamed with unholy light. “Every child and beauty in Funa…”

“SOLD!” The cavern erupted with savage howls and jeers, mugs slamming, blades raised high.

Only one man, seated in the shadows—the very one the dead man had pointed to—did not join the frenzy. His crimson eyes locked on the chief with a glare colder than steel. A single scar, carved by a blade, ran between those eyes, a mark as unique as it was unsettling.