“Nolan, sir…” the Hound stammered, his voice trembling as he tried to explain himself.
“I said, fuck off!” Nolan thundered, his voice booming through the room like an oncoming storm. With a swift, almost careless shove, he pushed the Hound aside, as if he were nothing more than a flimsy toy. The Hound staggered back, barely managing to stay upright, his pride more bruised than his body.
Before the situation could escalate further, the chapel’s main doors creaked open. Olivia and Orland entered, instantly drawing the attention of everyone present. Olivia, as usual, wore her signature nun’s habit, though the contrast of combat boots and fishnet stockings peeking through the slit of her dress gave her a wild, unpredictable edge. Her golden eyes, marked with crosses, glinted eerily in the dim light. When her gaze locked with Ian’s, he felt a chill run down his spine, as if staring into the eyes of something otherworldly. He quickly looked away, and Olivia responded with a soft, amused giggle that sent a shiver straight through him.
“Nolan, calm down already,” Orland sighed, his tone laced with exasperation as he surveyed the tense scene.
Olivia’s smile was sweet, but her words carried a sharp edge. “Now listen, kids,” she began, her voice dripping with feigned warmth. “No matter how much I like you, Prowler, if you dare insult His Majesty by starting a fight in District 1 without his permission, I just might get mad enough to kill you.”
Her smile persisted, but there was a dangerous undertone to it. The Prowler, however, remained unfazed, his mask hiding any emotion that could have been. “I doubt you have the power to do that,” came a voice from the shadows.
Without warning, Fox appeared, his presence cool and unruffled. He stood with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, his indifferent gaze landing on Olivia.
Olivia tilted her head, tracing a finger along her lips thoughtfully. “And why would you say that, dear Fox?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
“Because,” Fox replied, waving a hand dismissively, “you’re weaker than him in hand-to-hand combat. And if you were to transform here, in District 1, wouldn’t that be an even greater sign of disrespect to the King?”
Olivia scratched her cheek, as though the thought had only just occurred to her. “Well, in that case, I’d kill him first... and then myself,” she mused, her smile never faltering.
“You’d be dead before you even had the chance to transform,” came another voice, calm yet cutting.
All eyes turned toward the entrance as Hector Simmonds, the guardian of District 14, entered the room flanked by two burly bodyguards in white masks. Hector, a short, round man dressed in an impeccable tuxedo and top hat, surveyed the room with sharp eyes, his large white mustache twitching slightly. “Fox would make sure of that,” he added, his tone firm.
“Hmmm,” Olivia hummed, her smile fading for just a moment. “I suppose you’re right.”
As more figures began to arrive, the atmosphere grew heavier. Sofie Lock, the guardian of District 11, entered next, dressed elegantly in a flowing ball gown, her hair braided intricately down her back. By her side walked Svetlana Chamilova, the guardian of District 16, a woman whose gaunt, skeletal appearance gave her an ethereal, almost ghostly presence. The two women exchanged polite nods as they glided into the room.
Patrick Birdman, the guardian of District 10, followed soon after. He was tall and flamboyant, his multicolored suit standing out against the somber attire of the others. His face was partly concealed by a porcelain mask shaped like a bird’s skull, and he carried an ornate cane, though it was clearly more for show than function.
The final arrival was Leif, the guardian of District 6, a hulking figure with a braided ginger beard and a fiery mohawk. His military uniform, adorned with medals, clung tightly to his muscular frame, amplifying his already imposing presence. He nodded curtly to the other guardians as he entered.
The gates to the main chamber groaned open, revealing a circular room lined with seats in a half-circle. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings, and the weight of the coming discussion hung thick in the air.
“You wait here,” Zeke instructed Ian, waving him off. The silence that followed as the guardians filed into the meeting hall was oppressive. Ian glanced around nervously, the tension in the room amplifying his anxiety.
“I wonder if anyone knows where I can find a bathroom,” he muttered to himself, scratching his head.
“To the right, past the meeting hall,” one of the Hound’s escorts sneered, her tone dripping with condescension.
Ian hurried away, rushing into the bathroom and slamming the stall door behind him. He tore off his white mask, letting it fall to the floor as he collapsed against the toilet, retching into the bowl. His body trembled, and he wiped the saliva from his mouth with his sleeve.
“Fuck,” he groaned weakly. “Maybe I really am too soft for this.” The room spun around him, the walls and stalls warping in his vision as fear and adrenaline collided in his mind.
Suddenly, his head touched the cold tile floor, and for a brief moment, he felt weightless. He closed his eyes, and in that second, he could almost taste it—the acrid fumes of the night air, a bitter reminder of a city he’d rather forget. As he opened his eyes, he noticed a ventilation pipe above him, sending a cool draft of air across his face. The vibrations from the airflow felt strange—damp and cold.
“I wonder where this leads,” he muttered, curiosity getting the better of him. He stood up, glancing both ways to make sure he was alone, then climbed onto the toilet and began fiddling with the grate.
“Ahem,” a voice cleared her throat behind him, causing Ian to nearly lose his balance. He scrambled to put his mask back on as he turned to face the intruder.
It was the woman from before, one of the Hound’s escorts. She stood with her arms crossed, her expression a mix of amusement and suspicion.
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“This is the men’s room!” Ian stammered, his heart racing.
“What were you doing with that grate?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I was just... adjusting the airflow,” Ian stammered, his words tumbling over each other.
“Bullshit!” she shot back, her voice echoing off the bathroom walls. “You were trying to see if you could listen in on the meeting by crawling through the vent, weren’t you?”
“What? Are you crazy?” Ian protested, panic rising in his voice.
She smirked, unfazed. “I’m in. I want to see too.” With a flick of her wrist, a metal screwdriver appeared in her hand, its blade gleaming under the dim light.
Ian blinked in disbelief. “Forget it, kinky lady!” he exclaimed, taking a step back.
“Kinky lady? What the hell’s wrong with you?” she retorted, clearly offended.
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?” Ian shot back, his frustration boiling over. “Look at what you’re wearing!”
Her expression darkened. “I didn’t have a choice, okay? This is what that asshole Hound made me wear,” she snapped, climbing onto the toilet beside Ian and expertly unscrewing the grate.
As she worked, Ian caught a faint scent of roses emanating from her, a strange contrast to her rough exterior. He hesitated, but curiosity got the better of him.
“You really wanna do this, huh, kinky lady?” he asked, his tone softening slightly.
“Stop calling me that,” she muttered, focused on the task at hand.
“Then what should I call you?” Ian asked.
She paused, considering for a moment. “Amelia. My name is Amelia.”
Ian blinked in surprise. “Amelia, huh? Well... nice to meet you, I guess. I’m Ian.”
Amelia glanced at him briefly before returning to her work. “Nice to meet you too, Ian,” she said quietly, her voice surprisingly sincere.
Once the grate was loose, she carefully set it down and crawled into the vent, her movements smooth and silent. Ian took a deep breath and followed her, the narrow space forcing them to crawl on their hands and knees.
As they crept through the vent, the muffled voices from the meeting hall grew louder, clearer with each inch forward. Finally, they reached another grate, and Amelia stopped, peering through the slats to observe the scene below.
“Psst, can you move over a bit? I can’t see from back here,” Ian whispered, awkwardly trying to shift his position in the cramped space.
Now pressed tightly against each other, neither seemed to mind as they focused on the unfolding scene below.
Below, the Contractor King stood at the center of the room, commanding the attention of everyone present. His dark robes swirled around him like living shadows, and his ornate mask—twisted and intricate—gave him an air of cold, detached authority. The guardians were seated in a semicircle, their expressions ranging from mild curiosity to thinly veiled disdain.
“Alright, now that that’s out of the way, and for the sake of narrative convenience, let’s get this meeting started with a roll call,” the Contractor King said with a warm smile, though the icy aura he projected made the gesture feel unnatural.
He began, his voice steady and firm, listing each district and its attending guardian.
“First, District 1. The guardian in attendance is, of course, me—the Contractor King,” he said, his voice reverberating through the room. He paused, allowing the title to sink in.
The room remained silent, the other guardians watching him closely as he continued.
“District 2. The guardian is not in attendance, though I’ve been informed of their absence ahead of time,” he cleared his throat, moving on swiftly. “District 3, Guardian Fox.”
Fox stood briefly, offering a casual wave, before slumping back into his chair, his hands never leaving his pockets.
“District 4, Olivia,” the Contractor King called.
“I am here, my King,” Olivia replied sweetly, her voice laced with warmth, though her unsettling smile lingered like a blade concealed behind her back.
“District 5, Winston Nolan,” the King said, glancing toward Nolan.
“Can we just skip the high school bullshit?” Nolan grumbled, his voice thick with irritation.
The Contractor King chuckled softly, though the expression behind his mask remained unreadable. “We could, but I don’t want to,” he responded simply, the light catching the mask’s surface, making it gleam for a moment. “District 6, Leif.”
Leif raised a hand, signaling his presence without speaking a word.
“District 7, the Prowler,” the King announced.
The Prowler remained motionless, his gaze fixed straight ahead, offering no acknowledgement.
“District 8, the Hound,” the King continued.
The Hound, still licking his wounds from earlier, stood abruptly. “I greet the King,” he said, his voice strained with barely concealed anger as he bowed his head slightly.
“District 9, Orland,” the King’s tone shifted slightly as he addressed the next guardian.
Orland nodded, his face calm, though unreadable.
“District 10, Patrick Birdman,” the King said, turning his attention to the flamboyant figure.
“I’m here, as required,” Birdman replied, tapping his ornate cane on the floor, his voice carrying a dismissive edge.
“District 11, Sofie Lock,” the King called, his voice softening as he addressed her.
“My King, it’s been far too long since we last had the pleasure of meeting,” Sofie responded, her voice melodic, her gloved hand covering her smile as she giggled softly.
The Contractor King’s tone grew more somber as he continued. “District 12 has lost its guardian recently, in a conflict with the knights. They will not be joining us today.” His words hung in the air for a moment before he moved on. “District 13, Hector Simmonds.”
Hector gave a slight, courteous bow, his tuxedo pristine as ever.
“District 14, Liu Xao, is currently in Lower Babel on a mission,” the King explained, not lingering long on the absence.
“District 15, Falcon, is also away on an important task,” the King said, briefly touching his chin as if in thought.
“District 16, Svetlana Chamilova,” he continued, his gaze shifting to the gaunt woman beside Sofie.
“My King, I am honored to be here,” Svetlana said, her voice hollow yet courteous as she bowed slightly.
“And finally, District 17... the Jailer,” the King paused, his tone taking on a hint of annoyance. “Well, he’s in the jail and didn’t come.”
The King took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping over the room. “That concludes the introductions,” he said, his voice resuming its smooth, commanding timbre. He paused briefly, letting the weight of the moment settle over the gathering. “Before we proceed, I’ve heard whispers that some of you doubt the abilities of our newest guardian.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “If you feel this way, raise your hand now.”
The room fell deathly silent. For a long moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, the Hound raised his hand, followed by Patrick Birdman and Svetlana Chamilova.
“Perfect,” the Contractor King said, his voice betraying a note of satisfaction. His gaze drifted toward the Prowler, eyes gleaming with a dangerous excitement. “Prowler, would you kindly demonstrate to these doubters why I place so much trust in you? For this, you have my permission to use magic.”
Nolan, who had been sitting quietly until now, suddenly stood, fury blazing in his eyes. “That’s three against one!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the room.
“And so what?” the King retorted, his annoyance clear in his tone.
“I’ll help him,” Nolan declared, his fists clenched as he stepped forward, his expression one of pure determination.
The King sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Do whatever you want.”
But the Prowler didn’t flinch. He cracked his knuckles slowly, rising from his seat with calm precision. “No need,” he said, his voice as cold and mechanical as ever. “I’ll deal with this trash on my own.”
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