In the quiet, sterile confines of Arid’s therapy room, the faint sound of rustling bandages filled the air as he wrapped his bloodied knuckles. Shards of glass glittered faintly on the floor, remnants of the window he had shattered moments earlier. His shoulders trembled slightly, though he tried to keep his composure.
The therapist, seated calmly in a chair across from him, observed him with a gentle but probing gaze. “You were rougher this time,” she said, her tone soft but firm. “Is it because of Melanthius?”
Arid froze for a moment, his hands tightening around the bandages. He let out a heavy sigh, his voice breaking as he answered. “Because I didn’t do enough,” he admitted, his words choked with guilt. “I thought Mel would just win… like he always does. That’s what he does—he wins. But this time… this time he didn’t.”
His voice grew quieter, and he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunching under the weight of his regret. “It was the first time I’ve ever seen him lose. It was… scary. He’s dead because I didn’t do as much as I could.” His breath hitched as he spoke, the words almost too painful to say. “Elowen… she was kidnapped because I didn’t do as much as I could. I failed them both.”
Tears spilled down his cheeks as he broke into quiet, heaving sobs. The therapist waited a moment, letting the silence settle between them, before leaning forward slightly.
“Arid,” she said softly, her voice filled with understanding. “You’re carrying so much on your shoulders—more than any one person should. But blaming yourself won’t bring them back or undo what happened. You cared deeply for them, and that’s why you feel this way. But I need you to understand something: you’re not responsible for everything that went wrong.”
Arid kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his tears still falling, but he didn’t interrupt her.
“You say you didn’t do enough,” she continued, her tone steady and empathetic. “But what would ‘enough’ even look like to you? Did you expect yourself to fix every problem, fight every battle, and protect everyone all on your own? No one—not even Melanthius—can do that.”
He sniffled, his voice a broken whisper. “But I could’ve done something. I just… I froze. I thought he’d handle it. I thought he didn’t need me.”
“That’s not weakness, Arid. That’s trust,” the therapist said gently. “You believed in him, and that belief wasn’t misplaced. Melanthius was strong, but even the strongest among us aren’t invincible. And neither are you. But what matters now isn’t beating yourself up for what you couldn’t control. It’s about deciding how you’ll honor them moving forward.”
Arid’s hands trembled as he tightened the bandages around his knuckles. “Honor them?” he repeated, his voice shaky.
“Yes,” the therapist said, leaning back slightly. “Ask yourself this: what would Melanthius and Elowen want for you now? Would they want you to stay in this room, trapped by guilt, or would they want you to stand up, heal, and fight for the things they cared about?”
For a moment, Arid didn’t respond, his sobs quieting as he stared at the floor, her words settling deep into his mind.
In the dimly lit restaurant in Atlantis, the faint hum of conversation and clinking silverware surrounded the table where Anita sat across from Mark and Yasmine. The weight of the moment hung in the air, tension mixing with the comfort of familiar company. Anita, her gaze shifting between them, wore the black-gold mask over the left side of her face, the ornate design contrasting against the plainness of her other features.
"What are you two going to do now?" Anita asked, her voice a mixture of curiosity and concern. "I mean, the only reason I called you here was because Mel might need help. But... I still have to keep my secret. It’d be nice if you stayed, though."
Yasmine, sitting close beside her, leaned in and wrapped her arms around her gently. "Of course, darling," she said softly, her voice warm and reassuring. "We helped you run away before, and we’re not going anywhere now. We’re here for you—always."
Mark, sitting across from them, simply nodded in agreement, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. It wasn’t just about Mel or the danger Anita faced—it was about loyalty, the unspoken bond that had been forged through years of shared struggles.
Rue sat on her bed, knees drawn tightly to her chest, her breath shallow and uneven. The room was quiet, save for the faint sounds of the world outside, but within her, there was nothing but a crushing emptiness. "I lost him again," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of frustration and sorrow. "Why am I so weak? I thought he could do everything... I thought he was invincible."
Her words barely held together as a wave of emotion crashed over her. She looked down at her lap, where the black gauntlets lay—his gauntlets. Gently, she traced her fingers over the intricate stickers that decorated them, each one a small, personal mark of the time they shared. A tear slid down her cheek as memories rushed in, memories of Mel, his smile, his unwavering strength. "Michelangelo is a coward," she muttered, her voice low and seething with anger. "He knew Mel was outdoing him... so the bastard had to take him down. He couldn’t handle losing."
Her heart ached as she softly whispered Mel’s name. "Mel... I was begging for more time with you. I just wanted to be together... You understood me. More than anyone ever has."
With trembling hands, she slid the gauntlets onto her arms. The weight of them was almost overwhelming, but her dragon strength steadied her—still, the feeling of carrying them was different now, heavier with loss. She flexed her fingers, feeling the cold, metallic surface of the gauntlets shift with her movements. "I’m still so weak," she murmured, her voice cracking. Even with the strength coursing through her, it wasn’t enough to fill the emptiness he left behind.
Inside Klaus, Baba Yaga’s enchanted moving house, the air was thick with grief and unspoken blame. Shenelle wrapped her arms tightly around Caius, Lumi, and Sera, their silent tears soaking into her robes. The warmth of their embrace was a stark contrast to the cold ache in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, whispering, “I’m sorry. I know you expected me to help Mel… but I couldn’t. I was dead set on keeping you safe.” Her voice cracked, each word laced with guilt.
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Sera clung to her desperately, her sobs breaking the stillness. “Don’t you have something? Anything to bring him back?! You have to have something! We’re wizards!” Her voice was filled with a mix of anger and pleading, trembling with hope that Shenelle’s wisdom might hold a miracle.
Shenelle tightened her hold on Sera, stroking her hair gently. “Sera,” she murmured, her voice heavy with regret, “we can’t control the dead. Even if we brought him back… he wouldn’t be him. He’d be a mindless monster.”
Her words lingered in the room, cutting through the fragile hope that hung in the air. Sera’s sobs grew quieter, but the devastation in her eyes didn’t fade. None of them could bring themselves to let go of each other, as if clinging tighter might keep their broken world from shattering completely.
In the Magisterium, Titian stretched lazily and rose from his chair. “Melanthius Shadowbane is dead. Michelangelo’s dumbass killed him,” he announced casually, raising a glass of champagne before taking a sip.
Judas sighed, leaning back with a knowing grin. “You know damn well that kid isn’t dead,” he chuckled.
The rest of the group erupted in cheers and laughter. “Ain’t that the truth,” Franky chimed in, shaking his head. “Not with the curse that’s bound to him.”
Titian sank back into his seat, smirking. “Well, that’s all fine by me. Now we can finally deal with Althara Shadowbane.”
Silver’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharp as a blade. “Deal with her? You’re the reason she’s like this. Without you, she wouldn’t be meddling in our affairs.”
Titian shrugged, unbothered. “Relax, I just happened to forget I fought an Aldara Shadowbane once. So what if her little friends ended up ruling six kingdoms besides Wrath? Give me a break,” he said dismissively, his tone so idiotic it made a few in the room grimace. Yet no one dared press him further.
Meanwhile, in the Kingdom of Gluttony, the underground casino buzzed with life. The air was thick with smoke, the clinking of glasses, and the raucous cheers of gamblers. Among the chaos, Althara Shadowbane strolled through the dimly lit space, a taco perched nonchalantly in her mouth.
“My lady!” a knight called out, rushing to her side. He bowed his head, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry about Melanthius! You’ve never told us how you two are related, though... And the question everyone’s dying to know—how did you come to wield Merlin Shadowbane’s magic?”
Althara didn’t reply immediately. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, falling on a group of disgustingly bloated gamblers slumped in their seats. The sight made her sneer, but she hid it well. After all, their greed and gluttony filled her coffers. She took another bite of her taco, her silence heavy with disdain, and moved on.
Three years ago
At Yeonate Dynasty’s prestigious Northride School of Fine Arts, the classroom buzzed with the quiet hum of pencils scribbling and papers shuffling. Near the back of the room, a boy with unruly silver hair and sharp fanged teeth leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on two legs. His uniform—a pink shirt tucked into green khakis—looked slightly rumpled, hinting at his carefree attitude.
He let out an exaggerated yawn, stretching his arms above his head. “Damn, I wanna be a king. They don’t have to sit in class all day writing essays and crap,” he muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
The teacher, an older man with a perpetually tired expression, paused mid-lecture and turned to him. “Mr. Pierce,” he said sharply, his tone carrying a mix of irritation and resignation, “are you going to continue interrupting my class with your riveting life commentary, or will you finally engage with the material?”
Charles Pierce groaned dramatically, letting his chair thud back onto all four legs. “Sorry, sorry. I was just complaining about my boring life. Feel free to ignore me,” he said, waving a hand dismissively.
The classroom erupted into laughter, and even the teacher couldn’t help but crack a small smile before resuming the lesson. Charles, meanwhile, leaned back again, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t mind being the center of attention, even if it came at the cost of a little scolding.
“I’m not a class clown—I’m just bored,” Charles muttered as he stood up, stretching as the bell rang. He strolled into the hallway, hands in his pockets, his silver hair catching the light as he walked.
Ahead, he spotted three boys mercilessly jumping another kid. The scene was chaos: laughter and cheers echoed as a small crowd gathered, egging on the fight like it was a spectator sport.
Charles sneered, rolling his eyes. “Dumbasses,” he muttered under his breath, fully intending to walk past the scene. But then, a sharp whistle cut through the noise.
“Cut that out!” a firm voice called.
Charles paused, raising an eyebrow as he turned back. The source of the voice was a scrawny boy dressed in green khaki shorts, a pink sweater, and a small pouch strapped to his waist. Despite his wiry frame and unassuming presence, the kid marched toward the fight with an air of authority that was almost laughable.
“Oh, great,” Charles thought with a smirk. “It’s the school’s self-proclaimed boy scout. Carter Angelo, right? The guy nobody likes.”
Carter grabbed one of the attackers by the shoulder and pulled him back. “Cut that out!” he demanded again, his voice unwavering.
One of the bullies paused, looking him over with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Isn’t this the boy scout?” he said before swinging a punch that landed squarely on Carter’s face.
The crowd collectively winced, but Carter didn’t flinch. His body trembled slightly, but he stayed upright, glaring at the bully with blood trickling from his lip.
“That all you got?” Carter asked, his voice dripping with defiance.
The bully, now visibly annoyed, pulled his fist back, revealing bloody knuckles from the impact. Carter smirked, a wild glint in his eye.
“My grandma hits harder than that!” Carter taunted, standing his ground.
The other two boys joined in, fists flying, but Carter refused to block or back down. He absorbed the punches, each hit landing harder than the last.
“Should we help him?” someone in the crowd muttered nervously.
Carter coughed, straightening himself. “Nobody steps in. I’m fine,” he said, his voice proud, even as blood trickled down his chin.
Charles’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual indifference.
Eventually, the three bullies stopped, one of them tapping Carter’s head mockingly. “Whatever, this guy’s not even worth it. Let’s go.” They shoved past him, muttering insults, as the crowd burst into laughter.
Carter stood there, swaying slightly, his face a bloody mess. Charles sighed and walked over, picking up the boy’s bag from the ground.
“I got it!” Carter snapped, stepping on his own bag to stop Charles, his pride unshaken despite his battered appearance.
Charles raised an eyebrow. “Damn, you’ve got some pride for someone who just got their ass handed to them.”
Ignoring the comment, Charles tried to help him toward the infirmary, but Carter shoved him back. “I said, I got it,” Carter insisted, limping a few steps before collapsing onto the ground with a heavy thud.
Charles sighed again, shaking his head. “Idiot.” Without another word, he bent down, hoisting Carter up and slinging an arm over his shoulder.
“Fine, I’ll let you save face,” Charles muttered as they made their way to the infirmary. “But don’t get used to this.”
Carter didn’t respond, but Charles caught the faintest hint of a smirk through the blood and bruises.