A queasy feeling settled deep in Arthur's gut.

Varlek was there, feet crossed in an unnatural, almost twisted manner, sitting atop a cryptic, symbolic circle drawn in blood. His blood. His fingers were still dripping, staining the floor in sluggish drops that echoed…plopped into the shallow muddle of dirt and blood.

Arthur looked back, his arcanum beyond the precipice of his control.

The irregular smeared blotches of crimson beneath Varlek were moving, as though they were alive.

Arthur's eyes narrowed as the dried blood took on a glistening sheen, wet and fresh, flowing unnaturally toward the base of the jail cell's door. Like a cobra slowly slithering towards its prey.

A shiver crawled up his spine, and instinctively, he took a step back.

Varlek inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling like a trapped animal in a circus. Then his head lifted, eyes wide and glassy, unfocused and far away.

"I have been waiting for you." The look on his face and the colour of his eyes was totally different for a passing moment as he said.

"Would you like to hear a poem?" he rasped, his voice a trembling mockery of innocence. At the same moment the natural colour of his eyes returned.

Without waiting for a reply, Varlek stood, limbs moving as if he was being pulled by invisible strings. His hands, still dripping with blood, swayed in slow arcs. Despite being alive and breathing, he felt like a lifeless corpse.

Varlek twirled once, his bloodstained feet sliding along the floor. His voice turned mellow and then trembled.

"One hand lifted to greet the storm..."

His arms extended skyward, fingers twitching as if calling down some unseen lightning. His hands dropped, one grazing the floor, the other clawing the air, as he whispered:

"The other, stained—both cold and warm..."

Arthur's jaw clenched. Unease prickled his skin. Varlek took another step, his foot gliding through the spreading pool of blood.

"Two worlds will tremble, side by side..."

Eden and Earth…? What is he rambling about? The words struck a discordant note in Arthur's mind. His eyes moved towards the cell door, the need to escape warring with the morbid fascination and something much more…almighty, that rooted him to the spot.

Varlek's whole body shook, quaking violently, hands clutching at the air as if he held two planets in his grasp, twisting them together. Then, suddenly, his head snapped to Arthur, eyes bulging.

"When the boy becomes the night's bride."

Varlek's smile stretched too wide… too wrong.

He swayed again, fingers weaving through the air, tracing invisible threads.

"Hair of light, oh such a cursed grace…"

He whispered reverently, as though speaking of something sacred and… terrible, at the same time. His hands moved to his chest, cradling something… inexplicable—something precious, something painful. Like a child. A baby.

He closed his eyes briefly, then drove his palms outward violently.

"Turn the one last kiss into death's embrace."

His body jerked backward as if struck, collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud. He laid there for a bit, still and twitching, fingers curling into the dried, muddied blood as though he was testing himself for control. His arm trembled, pushing against the ground, but it faltered halfway, sending him back down.

After a few stuttering breaths, he tried again, legs dragging beneath him in a struggle to find balance, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. It was as if a marionette's strings had gotten tangled.

Arthur's unease was clawing at him, and the urge to rip his tongue out and break his limbs grew stronger with every passing moment… but he stayed still. Silent.

What is this feeling… Am I…? No…

"The blade that heals, the blade that breaks..."

Varlek mimicked the act of thrusting a sword into his chest, his eyes rolling back as though reliving the moment of piercing pain. He staggered, stumbling toward Arthur, clutching his side.

"Will tear apart the heart it takes."

He doubled over, cradling an invisible wound, his voice no more than a breathless whisper.

His feet faltered, dragging now as he neared the bars of the cell. His fingers, stained with blood, wrapped around the iron.

"When shattered crowns lay in the dust and ash and gravel and cinder..."

He cried, tears—thick and warm—rolling down his eyes. He beat his own chest, repeatedly, until the beautiful fabric gave way and the laces holding his shirt gave way, revealing dark purplish marks all over his body.

His voice cracked, hands rising to his head as though balancing a crown only he could feel—like mocking a fallen king. He let it slip off his brow, his blood-slick hands streaking the air as he mimed its collapse.

"He shall rise, the nameless sign."

His face twisted into a grin, lips curled in glee as he straightened, back arching unnaturally. Varlek's gaze locked onto Arthur's, eyes wide with manic intensity.

"Pierced by hands that once were dear..."

He whispered, swaying in a slow, hypnotic circle, his head shaking violently as if battling unseen demons. His hand raised again, moving toward his own chest, mimicking a slow, agonising betrayal.

"Yet his voice will echo, ever near."

He cackled suddenly. His laugh was sharp, jagged—breaking the silence like a crack of thunder. Arthur could feel the air shift and the queasy feeling only intensified.

It was further magnified as he started to feel a pair of hollow eyes on himself. What…? What the hell is happening? It's not Jayden…not anyone I know of…

Taking his attention, Varlek clubbed violently on the jail bars.

"Laugh now, BOY! WHILE THE GODS STILL JEST…!"

Varlek stumbled forward, cackling, his fingers reaching out as though grasping for Arthur. The mockery in his tone twisted each word, his body moving in erratic, unpredictable steps.

"For soon the world will know no rest."

"What do you…even mean?" Arthur was losing composure.

Varlek whirled around, arms spread wide as though embracing an inevitable end, before stopping dead still. Varlek's eyes darkened, his voice turning into a soft, chilling whisper.

"And when the thunder fades to gloom..."

He gestured toward the barred window, his hand shaking slightly, as if calling a storm outside. The blood pooled at his feet shimmered under the faint light.

"Only silence waits…within his tomb."

"You've lost your mind." Arthur eased out his expressions and regained his composure, not letting Varlek see his stupefied expressions.

With that, he collapsed to the floor like a piece of crumpled paper. His eyes stayed fixed on Arthur, wide and unblinking.

Arthur looked around and bent down. Slipping his arm through the gaps of the cell, he reached out for Varlek and pulled his unconscious body. As he rummaged through his pockets, he took out a small medallion.

It was an arrow shaped medallion, however, the neck of the arrow was bent back, facing the one who had shot it. He frowned at the design but slipped it inside his pocket nonetheless.

I think I might have a vague idea of it…but why does he have it?

It also happened to not seem like a minister related object so he thought it was fine to take it. He placed his finger beneath Valrek's nose. No breath. No movement. The air was still.

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"Dead." Arthur concluded, his voice flat, unshaken. He rummaged a bit more and then stood up, taking one final glance at the limp form on the ground. There was nothing left to linger for. The madman had finished his show.

What a waste of time. I wasn't even able to learn about the monarchs.

With a bit of disappointment, Arthur turned to leave. His foot hovered just above the floor when something caught his wrist.

A cold, clammy grip.

Arthur looked down. Varlek's hand clutched his arm, the pale fingers blood-streaked and trembling. Valrek was twitching. His head jerked, turning sharply toward Arthur. Bloodshot eyes, wide open and wild, stared at him, bulging out of their sockets.

And then, a screech came—raw and jagged like that of a tearing metal.

"ADAAAAAAAAAM!!"

Varlek's grip tightened, bones creaking beneath the strain. His mouth hung open, quivering, as if ready to spew more words—words too broken for sound. His body convulsed, jerking violently against the floor.

Arthur frowned and jerked his hand away.

The force caused Valrek to hit the bars hard, causing a deep wound on his forehead. However, no blood leaked from it and he simply fell like a toy who had just exhausted all of its battery power.

"Ughh—" He groaned, the first set of words coming out of his mouth that didn't feel like a reverie or someone talking through a fever dream.

Looking back, Arthur took a few quick steps and ran back. While he did, he pushed the brick that he had felt when the guards were here to lock Valrek. The brick caved in and the pulsation of something alive between the small crevices of the structure—akin to that of something alive—ceased immediately.

The cube… There are too many things I am intrigued about…

He wanted to stay and somehow test the whole mechanism that stripped him of his sense of direction, however; time and nature of circumstances were against him.

Next time then. I need to get out of here first.

Winding up the stairs, Arthur traced his steps back up. As soon as he exited the "premises"—as Arthur started to call it—he could feel the arcanum slip back into his primary node, like water entering a broken hull.

His senses flared and he felt that the unfamiliar sensation of multiple vigilant and predatory eyes were absent this time. It was quite obvious by now that the passageway to the right was only used when a high-profile prisoner was being transferred to the cells beneath the castle grounds.

After reaching the intersection point which diverged towards the residence chambers and the other to more official places—like the main throne room and like—Arthur moved towards the private chambers with a hastened pace.

The surroundings turned into a colourful blur and before he knew it, he was already climbing the flight of stairs up that led to the living chambers.

There has to be a connection!

(*****)

Astrid was done. Done with the emotional chaos, done with the uncertainty, done with feeling like her body was betraying her. And most of all, done with the way her thoughts kept circling back to Arthur, like moths drawn to a flickering flame. The realisation that he knew about her condition, about this monthly ordeal, had stripped away any pretence of normalcy or privacy—leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Arthur, meanwhile, was a walking contradiction. One minute he was distant and preoccupied, lost in his own thoughts, the next he was hovering around her with an awkward, almost hesitant concern that only amplified her discomfort.

She understood, of course. The weight of many things rested on his shoulders – the deal with Aksel, the fight, the looming threat of the merger and his own body that had broken down to quite an alarming degree after Slipstream—which the fight with Isolde only worsened... but understanding didn't make her own turmoil any easier to bear.

She pressed her hands against her abdomen, the insistent cramping making her let out a groan. A wave of nausea rose in her throat, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. "Ugh," she groaned, burying her face in the pillow. "I could kill for a cup of chamomile tea right now, UGH!." A beat of silence, then a dark whisper, "Or maybe just kill. Period."

Desperate for a distraction, she turned her gaze towards the window, where the blue moon hung like a luminous pearl in the velvet sky. As she stared at it for minutes, she realised the hue turns grey after a while. "Ah, looks just like his."

As if realising it, she hid her face in her palms. "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur!" she cried out to herself, frustration mixing with a strange ache in her chest. "Damn you and these periods!"

The empty cup beside her suddenly twisted and then broke into a million different pieces. She shook her head. "Can't even control my arcanum these days…it keeps slipping out." She clutched her head between her hands. "Much like a lot of things, Ha.Ha. I am so funny!"

A soft click broke the silence, and the door creaked open. She lifted her head, a knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach.

Of course it was him.

He stood silhouetted in the doorway, the dim light from the hallway outlining his frame. He looked... as always. As what? she thought, a surge of frustration warring with a queasy bitterness in her chest. Cold? Distant? Untouchable? Disturbingly handsome...? She banished the thought with a sigh.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice sharper than intended. The cramps were intensifying, each wave of pain leaving her feeling weaker and more irritable.

Arthur glanced at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light, then back out the window. His gaze settled on the moon.

"Can't I just check on you?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"You could," she retorted, "if that were something you actually did." She hugged her knees to her chest, burying her face in the worn fabric of the pillow. "Usually, you only show up when you need something."

"That's not—"

"Don't bother," she interrupted, her voice muffled by the pillow. "And please, don't call me your servant. Not tonight."

He fell silent, the air between them thick with unspoken emotions. She appreciated his sensitivity, his ability to sense her shifting moods and back off when necessary. He could be infuriatingly oblivious at times, but he never intentionally made her feel small or insignificant. Which was more than she could say for some...

"Are you hungry?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

"No."

He hesitated. "Do you... need something? Anything?"

"No. Just... go away, Arthur."

He sat down and shifted on the couch. There was a strange, almost scared look in his eyes, but Astrid was unable to make it out and gave up soon. She was too cranky for this.

He seemed to be wrestling with something, his usual composure faltering. Something far more out of control. He was tapping his feet past, biting the corner of his lip as he brainstored.

Stop biting your lip damn it!

Suddenly, Arthur bent down and started rummaging under the bed.

A groan escaped Astrid's lips as another wave of pain washed over her. She curled into a foetal position, her body a tight knot of misery and pain. She could seal the pain away with her arcanum, but the cold sweat beading on her forehead told her that her body needed to run its course.

Besides, she couldn't bring herself to erase the pain completely, as if it were nothing, as if she were nothing.

"Astrid?" Arthur's voice was muffled, distant. He was practically hanging upside down, his long limbs tangled amongst the clutter beneath the bed.

"What?" she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

"Are you alright?"

"Do I look alright?" she retorted, her voice thick with sarcasm.

"You seem to be in pain," he said, his voice laced with concern.

"No, really? I hadn't noticed," she muttered.

"You can seal the pain, can't you?"

"Yes, but I don't want to," she snapped, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. "It'll just cause problems later." She didn't add that she also didn't want to erase the pain completely, as if it were nothing, as if she were nothing. "Just leave it, okay?"

"Why are you being so difficult?" he asked, curiously.

"Why are you being so... you?" she shot back, her voice cracking with the force of her own outburst. She rarely raised her voice at him, not just because she felt shy around him, but because... well, she wasn't supposed to. She was his servant, after all. Technically, he shouldn't even be pretending to care.

Silence descended upon the room.

"Finally..."

She felt the bed dip behind her as Arthur let out a sigh of satisfaction. Her irritation flared again. He hadn't even acknowledged her outburst, her pain. He was too focused on whatever he was searching for under her bed.

Arthur was holding a dust-covered book and a medallion. He settled down beside her, his arm brushing against her back. A jolt of electricity shot through her, and he pulled away quickly, as if burned by her touch.

Astrid's anger evaporated, replaced by a confusing flutter in her chest.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. The warmth where his arm had touched her lingered, spreading through her like a wildfire.

"Nothing," he mumbled, too focused. Too unfocused.

"Nothing? Then why are you here? You could have stayed on the couch," she said, her voice barely audible.

"Yeah, but it is warm near you."

"Wha—"

"I mean, you have been practically dozing off here since forever so I am sure it's quite warm by now." He pretentiously entered into her blanket, maintaining a respectable distance from her as well.

A part of her wanted to turn towards him but his recent attitude, especially after the whole Wujin attack had assured her that he wanted one thing from her. And that subservience held her back.

"I know you're just using me," she blurted out, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Keeping me around because I'm convenient. A portable first aid kit."

"Untrue." he spoke without turning.

"Don't lie to me, Arthur," she interrupted, her voice trembling. "What if I wasn't useful anymore? What if I couldn't heal you?"

"That doesn't matter," he said, his voice low and intense as he looked at her from the corner of his eye. "You're not just... a healer to me. You're..." He struggled to find the right words. "You're important."

Her breath hitched. Was he... was he saying what she thought he was saying?

"But what if..." she began, then stopped, unable to voice the fear that gnawed at her.

"There are no 'what ifs'," he said firmly, his gaze holding hers. "I wouldn't have left you, regardless. I never knew you had healing properties when I saved you." He looked away and as if reassuring himself, whispered to himself. "Yes. I didn't."

A wave of warmth washed over her, melting away the last vestiges of her anger and doubt.

"Arthur, I—"

"Can you just... trust me?" He asked, looking in her eyes.

She hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"Aaaand can you help me with this?" He suddenly held out the tome and medallion.

She looked at him with wide eyes. "Unfuckingbelieveable."

"Ok, no, so hear me out, Astr–"

"Håll käften, dra åt helvete och lämna mig ifred."

"Your Norwegian ancestors will be turning in their graves…"

"Fuck them." She draped the blanket over herself and then turned back,

"Astaghfirullah." Arthur touched his ears.

Rolling the blanket and pulling it from the corners, she rolled and hid herself inside it.

"Is turning into a human blanket shrimp your way of rebelling?"

"Uansett."

Gripping the bridge of his nose, Arthur turned his attention back to the tome. The inner side of the book had a small indention into it. It was shaped in a way that it didn't seem like any object, however; when Arthur looked at the medallion, he could make sense of it now.

The arrow shaped medallion's head was turned back. Which is why the shape of the book felt so strange. He looked over his shoulder in Astrid's direction.

Her arcanum was erratic, and unstable, leaking in and out of control. The presence of arcanum leaking was something Arthur wasn't very fond of.

"Astrid you are leakin—your arcanum is leaking. Put a hold on it." He spoke, looking back towards the tome.

"Urmmm—" Astrid moaned as she yawned like a cat.

Suddenly, the arcanum from Astrid's node seeped into the medallion and it latched itself on the tome. Like a magnet to a fridge. She turned around and looked at Arthur with dreamy, half closed eyes.

"I can't help it, ok?"

Despite the weird pull at his consciousness, Arthur couldn't help but compliment—mentally—at how long Astrid's lashes had become. The beauty fell into a backdrop as the tug on his consciousness grew stronger. He tried to fight it, but before he knew it, he found himself suspended in a dark void.

"What…?"