“He was killed,” Beowulf informed him through his low tone, a slight quiver of emotion shaking his words.

The singular word that cemented how his beloved uncle passed nearly caused him to rip the sheets off of his body as he tried jumping out of the bed, nearly falling over as he did so.

He stumbled, finding his legs wobbling beneath him as his shoulder smacked against the wall.

“I’ll kill him!” Bastian yelled, sounding as though the words were ripped from his throat as a cry, accompanied by burning tears that slid down his cheeks.

“Hey! Don’t move so suddenly! Your body is still recovering!” Beowulf yelled worriedly, rushing over as he helped his son balance, “You don’t even know who did it! We don’t know anything yet! Trust me, I want justice as much as you do! Duncan was my brother!”

For a moment, silence befell the room once again, with the curious members of Sapphire listening from the hallway, perhaps not by choice, though not daring to intrude on the heated conversation.

As Bastian seemed to have calmed, Beowulf placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, attempting to console him, “For now, you need to rest. I wasn’t planning on telling you about this until after you recovered. It would have been better to avoid this stress–”

Bastian pushed his father’s supporting hold away, catching himself as he leaned against the window sill with tears still flowing, “I know who did it! I know…!”

“What’re you talking about? What do you know, Bastian?” Beowulf looked at the bandage-wrapped adolescent with a look of curiosity on his expression.

The enraged adventurer slammed his fist against the marble sill before leaning against the wall, pressing his forehead against his arm as he found the emotions swirling with him with a great, red-hot heat.

“...Frederick…It was Frederick,” He poured the name of the accused with contempt.

It wasn’t just any name, but one of significance to anyone in that city, drawing a twitch from Beowulf’s eyebrow, “Frederick? Frederick Ul Samson? You’re saying he’s responsible for this?”

“He tried killing me,” Bastian admitted.

“What?”

“I was on the eleventh floor originally…for a contract. He wanted a crystal that could only be found there–this one,” Bastian explained, taking the small pouch from his belt and holding it in his hand, “Once I retrieved it, the person he sent to escort me tried killing me. I bet that’s what he did…He sent men there, looking for me…but all he found was…Dammit!”

As if speaking it outloud made it burn all that much more, the bandage-wrapped man cursed himself, banging his fist against the wall.

It was his fault; at least, that’s what he fervently believed, feeling as though it may as well have been his own hand that slew his relative. Once again, he found himself questioning his own decisions as of recent–the cautiousness he once clung to, letting it go resulted in the worst outcome.

Beowulf placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “Bastian, this isn’t your–”

“Stop it.”

He pushed his father’s hand away, rejecting his consoling as he used his own arm to wipe his tears away. The burning feeling in his chest; a red-hot sensation that branded him with guilt–it wasn’t something he felt like letting go of–he needed to experience this pain.

For a moment, the silver-bearded man looked at his son before walking across the room to the wooden stand propped against the wall. There was a letter, decorated with a golden seal, which Beowulf picked up before approaching the recently awoken person again.

“What is that?” Bastian asked quietly, his eyes red and swollen from the tears.

“This letter is meant only for your eyes–it’s enchanted with a Binding Geass. Nobody else can open it but you. A letter–from Frederick Ul Samson,” Beowulf told him, “I was wondering what reason the head of the Samson family would have to personally send you a letter, but I guess we have some idea as to why now.”

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The sight of the snow-white envelope caught the breath within Bastian as he didn’t know what to expect written by the scorned noble. As he sat back down on the bed, holding the letter in both of his hands, part of him didn’t want to see what foul words were left for him.

Nonetheless, he pressed his thumb against the golden seal stamped onto the envelope, pushing his finger up as he tore the lip of the paper sleeve up. Slowly, he tugged the accursed letter out, unfolding it as the words that could only be seen by his own eyes met his gaze.

Wildly did his heart beat within his chest, supplemented by anguish as he looked over the vile words sent from the avaricious noble.

[“I know you still have the crystal. You were smart not to let it go. You’ve given leverage to your life. Come to the Samson estate alone. I have eyes across the city; I know you were taken in by Sapphire. Don’t even think about speaking a word of this to your father. If you do, I have leverage of my own. Gaston–that name means something to you, doesn’t it? A brave, loyal friend; he tried to defend your dear, old uncle while you slept like a baby. It would be a shame to let him die for your cowardice.”]

[“I’ll be waiting.”] [Frederick Ul Samson]

As his eyes reached the signature at the bottom of the ink-scribed letter, a flame was born on its right corner, quickly eating away at the material. Before he could even drop it, the parchment was reduced to nothing more than crumbs of ash.

“Sneaky bastard. Multiple Binding Geass on a single letter? He’s cautious,” Beowulf remarked, keeping his arms folded over his chest.

Bastian sat there in silence for a minute, processing what he had just read. The feeling of vengeance burning within his heart was combated by a sense of duty now, feeling responsible to save his friend.

‘Gaston…Why were you there? Dammit…’ He thought, burying his face in his hands.

While the young man remained slumped over with his head down, the veteran adventurer held his hand out, hanging it over his son’s head as if considering comforting him, though retracting his hand silently.

A look of past regret was etched into the singular eye of the silver-bearded man, who quietly sighed to himself before speaking, “I imagine it won’t do me any good to ask you what was written in that letter. When you read something bound by a Binding Geass like that, you’re restricted from sharing anything.”

Though no audible response came from Bastian, the silence was confirmation enough as he kept his face in his hands.

“Nobody free of guilt would go to such lengths to hide their words. Still, we can’t do anything without tangible proof, Bastian. Do you understand?” Beowulf stated, standing beside the window, “Frederick Ul Samson is one of the most influential men in the nation. Even if we believe he’s guilty–and I do–we can’t just knock his door down and drag him out. We need evidence.”

The words meant to reassure and calm the young man fell upon deaf ears.

“Yeah. Okay. I hear you.”

All that remained on his mind was what he needed to do; the response he gave was an automation of that, simply saying whatever needed to be heard. Lifting his face from his hands, everything felt fuzzy; the silken sheets that sat on his lap, the soft sunlight that dipped into the room–the world felt plastic.

‘I’ll save you, Gaston. I’ll kill you, Frederick,’ he promised himself.

–

There were few words exchanged between the father and son, as the wounded adventurer taken into the care of the guild insisted on getting up. All of his gear was kept in the room, fixed up with stitching that made it as though the wear-and-tear of the Tower never happened.

As he slipped his feet into his boots and tightened his belt around his waist, Beowulf stood in the doorway with his back against the threshold.

“You can stay at Sapphire as long as you want, Bastian. I don’t need to tell you this, but you should avoid venturing into the Tower for another couple weeks. Rest your body. There’s no point of rushing anything,” Beowulf advised him.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Beowulf squinted, knowing that he was hardly getting through, “I would stay away from your home. Frederick knows where you live, and a man as paranoid as him will be keeping men ready. You’re your own person, I won’t stop you from doing anything. As your father–”

“Stop that,” Bastian interrupted the silver-bearded man’s words, sliding his gloves over his hands without looking at the parental figure, “Seventeen years of my life, and you’ve been there for the first few. Uncle Duncan…he was my real father. So don’t try and step up now.”

The harsh words of the son made the respected guild leader silent. Bastian pulled his hood up, passing through the doorway without looking at the man. As he stepped into the pristine corridor of the elite guild, his own step came with a slight limp; beneath his black hood, underneath the dark fabric, his body was held together only by bandages–bruises stained his skin, his bones still aching and brittle.

Pulling his hood up to cover the bandaging that clung to his chin and nose, he walked without looking back, intent only on what he needed to do.

‘I’ll bring you the crystal–and everything else that comes with it,’ he promised.