After that day, the citizens of Auroria Dominion were paralyzed with fear, their once-bustling streets now eerily silent. Michelangelo’s brutal appearance and Melanthius’s shocking death rippled across nations like a tidal wave, striking terror in the hearts of kings and commoners alike. Whispers spread faster than wildfire—some mourned Melanthius, the son of Merlin, while others saw his death as retribution for the sins of his father. For those who had crossed paths with Merlin, the news stirred old fears and unearthed long-buried grudges.

For the rulers of the world, it was a day of unease. Questions gnawed at their minds: What was Michelangelo’s connection to Melanthius? Why had the infamous Renaissance King shed golden tears for the boy he had killed? The image of Michelangelo, grief-stricken yet remorseless, haunted their thoughts, casting a shadow over their thrones.

Meanwhile, the Steel Pact gathered solemnly to decide Melanthius’s final resting place. After much deliberation, they resolved to honor him in a way that transcended the hatred tied to his lineage. They sealed his body in an ornate casket, inscribed with ancient Atlantean runes, and sank it deep into the waters of Atlantis. It was a bittersweet farewell—free from the tainted soil of the land, yet isolated in the cold embrace of the ocean. His burial was quiet, attended only by those who truly knew him.

Back at the Arcanum Royal Institute, life attempted to return to normal, but the cracks were evident. King Aldara, shaken by the events, tripled the kingdom’s security, deploying wardens to patrol not only the city but the school grounds as well. Students whispered in hushed tones about the fight, the tragedy, and the golden curse Michelangelo left behind.

In the classrooms, there was a tangible void. Melanthius’s absence was deeply felt by those who had known him. Some students lit candles in his memory, while others avoided mentioning his name entirely, fearing the wrath of both the living and the dead.

In the lunchroom, Arid limped over to the table, wincing as he sat down. Bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen, evidence of the wound he sustained. He collapsed next to Rue, Caius, Anita, Renita, Lumi, and Sera, muttering under his breath. “Damn, all he ever wanted was to be normal,” he grumbled, taking a swig of his juice, the bitterness in his tone matching the sting of the memory.

Renita glanced at the empty chair beside her, her heart heavy. “Lincoln left Auroria. He went back to Bugia after Michelangelo slammed his head into the ground. I used to think he was a coward... but now, I’m not sure. I was too scared to do anything, too.” Her voice faltered as she looked down, the guilt weighing on her chest.

Amara and Cassius made their way to the table, Amara wearing a black gold mask that covered the left side of her face. Her eyes, however, revealed a quiet fury. “Lance and Clyde are distributing these to Mel’s true friends,” she explained, her voice steady but edged with emotion. “It represents his fight against the Midas touch… how he never gave in, no matter what.”

Cassius stood tall beside her, his fists clenched in silent rage. “Mel… he was a force, you know? I didn’t spend much time with him, but I know one thing for sure—he would’ve died a thousand times over to keep you all safe.” His voice was thick with regret, and his gaze hardened as he thought of Mel, the weight of his sacrifice hanging in the air.

The room fell silent, each person lost in their thoughts of the fallen friend, the weight of their shared loss heavy on their shoulders.

“Elowen was taken from us,” Anita sobbed, her voice trembling. “Mel would’ve charged headfirst into danger to save her, but… we’re not him. And he’s not here.” Her words broke as she buried her face into Caius's shoulder, seeking comfort from the overwhelming grief that gripped her.

Lumi sat in silence, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. “Death is strange, isn’t it? One moment, he was right here with us… and now, he’s just gone.” Her eyes glazed over, her appetite lost in the storm of emotions swirling within her. None of them could eat; the emptiness they felt was far more powerful than hunger.

The atmosphere in the room hung thick with sorrow when Lance and Clyde entered the hall, their presence drawing everyone's attention. Both wore Atlantean jewelry, blue pearl earrings and necklaces that shimmered faintly, as well as belts adorned with delicate sea coral. The left side of their faces was painted in a blend of black and gold, a silent tribute to Mel, each brushstroke speaking of their mourning. The two boys walked solemnly to the table, their steps heavy with loss.

"Hey," Lance said softly as he slid into the seat next to the others, Clyde following suit and sitting beside him. Lance pulled out a homework sheet, his attempt to anchor himself in the ordinary world amidst the chaos of grief. He glanced at it and read aloud, his voice breaking the silence that had settled over the group. "You’re attacked by a goblin with murderous intent. Do you: A. Run. B. Fight. Or C. Beg for your life?" He paused, looking around at the group, their confused gazes meeting his. "The Red Card teachers have some weird questions," Lance added, his attempt at normalcy feeling almost hollow in the wake of their shared grief.

He continued to work through the homework, his pen moving slowly as his mind wandered. The weight of everything was still too much to bear. Suddenly, he felt a soft pressure against his hand. Rue, sitting beside him, had slipped her hand into his. Her fingers wrapped around his with a gentle but firm grip, offering comfort without words.

Lance glanced over at her, meeting her steady gaze. There was a warmth in her eyes, a quiet strength that he hadn’t realized he needed until now. In that moment, the tight knot in his chest loosened just a bit, as if her presence alone could make the world feel less heavy.

Without saying anything, Lance squeezed her hand back, silently thanking her for being there. The others were still lost in their own grief, but for the briefest moment, it felt like the two of them could share this small bit of comfort amidst the chaos. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind him that he wasn’t truly alone in this.

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit strip club in Lust, Dorian sat across from Maren, disguised, as he calmly observed the man scrawling his name on the contract Dorian had handed him. The atmosphere was heavy, the kind that soaked into the air with the faintest hint of desperation.

"You heard about Melanthius' death and Elowen’s kidnapping, huh?" Dorian inquired, his voice smooth and unbothered.

Maren, without a word, splashed a glass of water at him. The droplets hit Dorian's face, but he wiped them off with a calm and measured expression, not flinching.

"So, Michelangelo killed my father, your father, countless kings, and now Melanthius Shadowbane," Maren muttered, still scribbling away on the contract. "And you came to me with this offer to retrieve something? Is that right?"

Dorian nodded slightly, unfazed. "The contract states that if you work for me tonight, I’ll pay you handsomely."

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Maren, still distracted, hurled another splash of water at Dorian, but this time, the smile on Dorian’s face barely shifted. His patience, like the quiet storm in the room, remained unbroken.

“So, where do we go?” Maren asked, pulling out his trident. He pressed a button, and the trident shot forward, narrowly missing Dorian’s eye. Dorian didn’t flinch, calmly moving the weapon aside with a steady hand.

“There’s a pimp service in the Kissing Haven,” Dorian explained. “They have something valuable to me.”

Maren stood abruptly, gripping his trident. “Alright, let’s kill them, then.”

“Whoa! Not so fast,” Dorian interjected, raising a hand. “We need a plan.”

Maren growled in frustration, rubbing the fish-like scales on his cheeks. “I didn’t need a plan when I fought you, Mel, and Elowen,” he retorted.

“And that ended with Mel nearly killing you,” Dorian countered smoothly.

Maren grumbled under his breath, reluctantly sinking back into his seat. He flicked water from his fingertips at Dorian in irritation, droplets landing across the table. Dorian simply raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

“What’s a pimp service?” Maren asked, tilting his head curiously.

Dorian took a slow sip of his drink before answering. “A pimp service is when women are sold to men for money, allowing the men to do whatever they want with them. The pimp controls the women by keeping them dependent—offering them things like money, shelter, or drugs. It’s one of the ways Lust makes its fortune,” he explained, his tone laced with disdain.

“I can’t stand strategists like you, always trying to manipulate me like the Jester,” Maren said with a bored yawn, leaning back in his chair.

Dorian sighed, rolling his eyes. “Strategist? Please. I was terrible in school,” he chuckled, brushing off the comment.

Maren smirked slightly before leaning back further. “Should we really be sitting here openly talking about infiltrating a Lust business?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

“Why not?” Dorian replied casually.

Before either could say another word, a chair came hurtling toward them. Maren caught it mid-air, gripping it firmly, and both of them turned around sharply to face whoever had dared to interrupt.

“You want to infiltrate the Kissing Haven?” A man approached them, his voice dripping with arrogance. “I’m Roofie, and I own this establishment—”

Before Roofie could finish, Maren’s fist collided with his face, sending him stumbling backward. “So, Dorian, your contract says I have to fight for you. Fine, I’ll do it.” Maren cracked his knuckles and dropped into a fighting stance.

Roofie groaned, wiping blood from his mouth, and signaled to his men. “Get them!” he barked.

One of the men lunged at Maren with a dagger, but Maren slid his foot across the floor, summoning a crashing wave of water that swept the attacker off his feet. Without hesitation, Maren dove into the fray, his movements sharp and fluid like the ocean itself.

Dorian leaned against the bar, casually observing the chaos. “Wow,” he muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “He’s tearing through them like they’re nothing. If Melanthius didn’t survive being stabbed by Maren, would he have wiped all of us out back then? Even Draven?” The thought lingered in his mind as he watched Maren dominate the fight.

Maren conjured two swirling water bubbles, capturing two men inside. The bubbles began to twist and churn, threatening to drown them, but Maren released the spell just before it went too far, letting the men collapse to the ground gasping for air. His eyes burned with restrained fury as he prepared for the next wave of attackers.

Maren pivoted, his movements precise and fluid, like a master of aquatic kung fu. He spun on one foot, sweeping the other leg in a wide arc. A curved wave of water followed the motion, crashing into a group of attackers and sending them sprawling. One of the men managed to get close and swung a fist, but Maren caught it with a hand surrounded by swirling water. The liquid coiled around the man’s arm, freezing into a layer of ice before Maren yanked him forward and struck him with a devastating elbow to the chest.

Two more men rushed him from opposite sides. Maren leaped into the air, his body twisting gracefully as he brought his hands together. Water surged upward, forming a pair of whips that lashed out, striking both attackers simultaneously and sending them crashing into nearby tables.

As another wave of men poured forward, Maren crouched low, placing his palms on the ground. “Tidal Surge,” he muttered. A torrent of water burst forth, sweeping through the room like a violent tide and slamming into his opponents, scattering them like leaves in a storm.

Dorian raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. “The guy’s like a walking hurricane,” he murmured.

Maren turned to face Roofie, who was still recovering from the initial punch. The water around Maren swirled more fiercely now, forming sharp, jagged edges. He conjured two spheres of water in his hands, hurling them at two more attackers. The spheres encased their heads, cutting off their air supply. Maren’s eyes darkened as the men began to choke, but he snapped his fingers, releasing the water and letting them collapse to the ground, gasping for breath.

Roofie stumbled backward, fear creeping into his eyes. Maren took a slow step forward, his every move dripping with controlled fury. “You picked the wrong fight,” he said coldly, the water around him rippling in response to his anger.

“What do we need to know about the Kissing Haven?” Dorian asked, his tone calm but probing.

Roofie coughed and puffed out his chest, attempting to appear resolute. “You think I’ll spill that easily? Never! I would never tell you that the three heads are Tristan, Quinn, and Caspian—expert swordsmen with ten years of experience each! And I’d never, ever admit that the best way to beat them is to have a partner! Never!” He declared with misplaced pride, as if loyalty alone would shield his blunder.

Dorian raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching with the faintest hint of amusement. “You… just did, though,” he thought to himself.

Maren, standing nearby, casually grabbed a bottle of champagne. He examined the label for a moment before laughing out loud. “Hey Dorian, this guy’s named after a drug!” Maren snorted, the sound echoing through the room, his laughter sharp and unrestrained.

In the dimly lit Kissing Haven, Tristan lounged with a girl perched on his lap, a glass of champagne in hand. He swirled the drink lazily, his expression one of smug indifference. "What’s that? Someone took down our guys at Roofie’s strip club?" he scoffed, leaning back as if the news barely warranted his attention. "Whatever. We’re just a branch of Lust. Caspian will handle it—he loves a good fight anyway." His voice dripped with nonchalance as his hand casually slid along the girl’s thigh, his focus more on his own pleasures than the brewing chaos.

Dorian and Maren walked the shadowed streets of Valentis Veil, the neon lights barely illuminating the grime and whispers of the city. “It’s darker than Atlantis,” Maren muttered, snatching a lollipop from a vendor’s cart and popping it into his mouth.

Dorian shot him a sharp look. “Article 24 of the contract: don’t draw attention to yourself. Stealing candy is literally the opposite of that!”

Maren groaned, rolling his eyes as he savored the sweet treat. “Even as a king, you’re so insufferably uptight.”

Dorian gritted his teeth. “Says the one who torched every bridge he built as a king and got dethroned for it.”

Maren stopped, turning to glare at Dorian. “Oh, I’m the one who burned bridges? Coming from the dictator who razed every alliance his father made? Don’t even start with me, Dorian.” He loomed closer, forcing Dorian to step back. “And don’t you dare pin it all on Dracula’s death. Even Mel was a good king—he had plenty of enemies, sure, but at least he treated people like human beings. He treated me like a friend.”

Maren grabbed Dorian’s jaw, making him meet his gaze. “Now he’s dead, and I’m stuck here with you lecturing me about mistakes you’re just as guilty of.”

Dorian froze, trembling under Maren’s grip. For a moment, the tension between them vanished, leaving only the reminder of what they truly were: two kids, battered by the weight of crowns they never asked for.

Maren released him and pushed him a bit.