𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

.ೃ࿐ ᴵ ᵃᵐ ᵐʸ ᵒʷⁿ.

Then he said, "None of it was actually real." —A Palace Of Ulric Labyrinths, Elvira Crest.

࿐NOBILIA࿐

|Sevgi— July 1, 7425|

|Hadak|

DISCERNED HEELS resonated against the gold-specked marble which expanded further and further into the shades of the premium Sevgi palace, its stationed guards as unmoving as sculptures as the lit candles just above their armoured heads blinked with the interloping shadows; not as a result of the sublime currents which had managed to creep through the drawn terrace entrances, but because of the woman whose mere presence laundered away the focus of her loyal servants around her. Any sloth that they had gathered with their postponing shift, all truant at the simple sight of her, Princess Nobilia Arcë of Sevgi.

"Princess," her title was hissed some paces away, the occupier of the stringent voice wafted in the dim of his princess's steps, trailing close like the review of her neglected shadow. "Nobilia."

"You will silence yourself, Arch," Nobilia's voice slithered in the stillness of her oasis, touring through cracks unseen to her shimmer as she prevailed with her stride, not bothering to turn back to the taller man. "Or I will have the guards escort you back to your quarters."

Her words were faint but sharp, yet did nothing to irk her father's consultant; Nobilia figured much by the slight scoff which rattled from the base of the man's throat, dying before it could lunge out to bite her back. She could see Arch's face in the back of her mind, the dark ribbon of hair that always managed to escape the raven slick back he constantly fashioned, matching the dark cloak that made sure he stuck out like a sore thumb against the gold and white of the other palace residents. The king's right hand, his appearance loved to scream, better than all else on this world. Nobilia absently pictured Arch's face in her head, bearing that same twist that liked to cruelly leak, the one of acquiesced loyalty and a superfluity of bliss on behalf of her woe. She had seen the very same expression two days prior as she and a dozen of her father's devoted diadem stood gazing up within the five walls of her family's throne chamber, eyes glued high to the hologram of Gothic Mortimer, silver eyes cutting and tepidly wrinkled face tightened into a snarl she had always imagined him to have. She loathed the taunting tug of Arch's face that day, the look of an outside onlooker enjoying a show not meant for their eyes as all present gazes turned towards their unwell king and his novice daughter as the declaration bled from the lips of Ignatius's tyrannical Supreme.

"An evolution of a one-time cycle; now derelict, a cesspool of nebulosity," Gothic Mortimer's callous words drew whetted with him, staring everywhere and nowhere as his images flickered ominously above them, "And if the greater interest of my establishment costs the destiny of your only child, Epiales, then so it be."

"And what exactly do you wish to accomplish storming into matters which your father has strictly ordered his men and women to not involve you through the threat of capital?" Arch questioned, inquiry aired with the rise of his cheeks, indulging and plaguing for his princess's repose. "You're putting people who are just doing their job in jeopardy because you—"

"Because I what, Arch?!" Nobilia's shout interrupted as she pulled to a sudden stop, making Arch collide with her frozen figure as she turned back to her father's adviser with a snarl that was not used to being sported against her soft skin. "Because I what?"

He did not miss a beat in his reply, contesting the viper stare of Nobilia. "Because you feel entitled to do so."

Nobilia stood paralyzed, the sole indicator of her actuality being the subtle tremble of her breath as Arch's words dug, lips unchanged before she twisted away from him and towards the assembly doors and tugged them open with a scenic force, silencing all other conversations which previously took place on the opposing side of the door. She hated him. She hated it. Oh, she really hated Arch. Several heads turned at their entrance, mute with the brief groan of the door and the angry-looking princess who made her way into the room.

"Nobil—Princess. I apologise, Princess," the gruff voice corrected quickly, the man of the voice jumping into a tall and stern salute, forcing his chair to drag and screech against the wood of the floor in a hurtful pitch. The man was enormous compare to all else in the room, his bald head reaching regions within the room no air had thought to touch. He wore gold robes that dragged behind him and hung around him like a hungry python, sleeveless and showing off his mastered physique; muscles bulging and cut off against the pull of the auspicious material, his white beard growing low to where his belly button should've been."We were not advised of your arrival."

"It's quite alright, Burris," Nobilia spoke, attempting to wave away the group's anxiety with a nuanced smile. The other occupants of the room had joined Burris in his salute, standing straight and on edge as they watched their agitated princess. Nobilia's eyes sprinted to the looming man standing indifferent behind her, not bothering to salute or bow in orthodox regard as everyone else had done. "It seems some people had other ideas for my afternoon tea."

"Apologies," Arch's disparaging voice declared from a foot or two behind her, his fake smile audible through his clenched teeth. "I was under the impression that you did not like tea, Your Highness." The distorted tone of his comment infuriated the princess, but regardless, Nobilia knew Arch's ego thrived with all confrontation. And so, the princess refused to reply to the man this time, only striding further into the room, eyeing the medium-sized electrical projection that glitched flimsy at the centre of the table, not once acknowledging the deafening eyes that hopped inquisitive between herself and her father's advisor. He doesn't exist. A ridiculing scoff rose sharply from behind her, no doubt a response to her lack of reaction.

He's not here.

"Well," Burris cautiously cleared his throat, throwing a dirty look towards Arch who lingered close by, arms crossed as he inspected the hologram perched in the middle of the room from below his nose. "It seems we have run into a new issue, ma'am," Burris swallowed, facing Nobilia. Red flickered bright and dim as the message 'restricted' burned into all their sights, lagging about with a defensive glare.

"Some enormous understatement there, wouldn't you say so, Burris?" Came Arch's snide voice again, very amused with the rising issue at hand.

"You will ignore him," Nobilia informed Burris, also aiming her statement at all the others in the room. She pushed away from Arch and around the circular table, perhaps hoping the message before her would by some miracle shift with the change of angle or maybe that it would do some good in vanquishing her thoughts of maiming the slick-haired advisor who smirked grand, as if he knew just how much he aggravated her. "This is certainly an issue, yes. This is no good."

"We have tried everything to get it open," Burris spoke, voice leaking with sadness and shame, his head falling away from the encrypted file before them. "But nothing seems to work. It's ancient, any living being who could break in would be long dead."

"But Burris," another voice squeaked in opposition, verbally swallowing all shys. "We're not so certain in that fact. We can and will still search." The woman who spoke stood half the size of her friend, unruly and wavy dark hair messy and spilling from her hair-tie as she stood spectating the machine with folded arms and crinkled brows, scanning as if there was an enigmatic at the tip of her thoughts that she could not fully snatch.

"We have already spoken on this issue, Rowan," piped a third, stern and overtly objecting. "Such a task may take us forever." The freckled man pushed away from the table he leaned up against, standing taller as his creased gaze found Nobilia standing opposite him. "And I'm not quite sure forever would work well with your goal, would it, Your Highness?"

"I'm afraid you're right again, J'onn," Nobilia huffed, biting lightly at her manicured nails that were already chipped with her early morning stresses. "So we will just—"

"Maybe Vorniel was never meant to be," Arch's interjection silenced Nobilia, saturating her in that all-knowing egotism she hated. "Maybe fate doesn't want him found. Did you ever consider that, Nobilia? That perhaps you're going against the fates looking for this...this unstable fool."

"My uncle—"

"Your, great, great uncle," Arch cut her off, correcting her with a blank face that had Burris coughing in an effort to stop him, understanding the man's harsh input was more triggering for Nobilia than any of his smug smirks. "Not just your uncle."

"Excuse me?"

"Just because you share the same blood," Arch spoke, facing the scathing face of Nobilia, her palms clenched tightly on the table in front of them. "Does not mean that man is no longer the man he was some time ago. He will use you, kill you, then discard of you. I mean, what kind of man gets locked up for eternity by his own family if he truly did not deserve it?"

"My uncle will," Nobilia stressed, nose wrinkled as she stared Arch down. "Will not kill me."

"He will, he could, he would, he should," Arch said in rhyme, shrugging before running his eyes across the uncomfortable group. "There will be no difference when he eventually does act on it."

"Our King is dying, Arch," Nobilia strained out, voice tight with the unbearable declaration and the anger rippling within her for Arch. "He has been dying since I was a baby. I am going to take his place and be your monarch, yet I have not even scraped a quarter of what my father had intended for me, all he had achieved by himself, all because of his malady." Whilst the amusement was long gone from Arch's lips, his eyes were still gleaming with delight, just prying into Nobilia. "Do you have any idea what that means? Do you, Arch?"

"That you lack the proper qualities for your inevitable title," Arch stated as a matter of fact, scanning Nobilia as the rest of the group beaded sweat close to audible.

"Yes, Arch, it means I lack the proper qualities for my inevitable title," her agreement was clipped, inadequate as Nobilia rushed to spit it out, turning away from Arch and to the encrypted hologram on the table which shined its crimson lights in a show of intimidation. "And I would rather die than burden my people with such deficiency. I refused to allow my system to collapse at the hands of anyone just because an infection decided to take my father away from me. And that means I don't give one bit if there's a possibility I might be gutted by my great-something uncle to achieve what I need."

"Oh, how motivational," Arch drawled with a picking smirk. "I think I might let loose a tear; oh, how overcome with emotions I am." The table let out a forceful screech as Burris lunged up suddenly, keen to spring at Arch if it weren't for the three different individuals who blocked his direction, grabbing back the gigantic man whose face reddened with rage.

"You're a truly repulsive man, Tsol!" Burris loured, spitting over the heads of those who barely contained him and at the lanky advisor who didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest at Burris's outrage. "Swine!"

"So I've heard," replied Arch, the corner of his lips slightly pinching. He turned towards Nobilia, folding his arms behind his back as he uttered to her the stultified words, "From your unsightly great, great, something uncle, believe it or not."

There was a pause from everyone in the group as they twisted towards Arch, taking in his blissful smile, his fleeting words.

"What?" Another voice stabbed. The king's prime analyst, Yves Cousteau, pushed back on Burris's chest, holding his friend back from attacking Arch as the muttered query slipped his lips, with an understanding expression of scorn evolving gradually on his young face. His purple shag fell limp against his face, half obstructing his view as gold tips sat against the resplendent clothes resembling the ones worn by his co-workers.

Bastard...this damn bastard.

"You spoke with Vorniel?" J'onn breathed, eyes slightly broad with disbelief and rage. "And how long ago was this, Arch?"

"You know, I'm not quite sure," Arch muttered dismissively, patronizingly rolling his eyes at the man. "When did you first switch to that horrid fragrance, J'onn?"

"Bastard!" Rowan exclaimed, forgetting her grip on Burris as she pushed into Arch's personal space with an incredulous shove. "You knew! You knew where they were keeping Vorniel this whole time and you just let us chase our own tails!"

"As far as I'm concerned, I'm all but a member of your little picnic club," Arch told her with a snarl, widening the gap between her as he pushed passed Rowan. "I'm not obliged to tell you anything I don't have to. And besides," Arch murmured plainly, sounding almost delighted with the next declaration to flee his lips, "Nobody thought to ask me."

"You will tell me where my uncle is being held, Arch," Nobilia's order bathed the surface of the room. Arch rose a dark brow, snout wrinkling at the fact that he was being commanded by someone other than the king. "Now."

"He refuses to see you," Arch let out, gingerly taking in Burris from his peripheral who was attempting to shake from the hands which held him in place. "The old man told me so himself."

"I don't believe you."

"He believes you to be a jinx, Nobilia." He ran his tongue over his teeth, pretending to ponder all she already knew he knew. "A curse without any grace," Arch let loose a bleak chuckle. "The lunatic kept jabbering about his clairvoyance, how he believed his niece was bad luck. And so, he wants nothing to do with you."

"Liar!" Burris yelled trying to lunge again, voice hoarse and resounding against the chandelier above them as it found Arch. "I wouldn't be surprised if the dirty reptile started shedding where he stood."

Arch disregarded him, watching Nobilia with a twist on his lips. "But luckily for you, I'm under the impression that a presence other than mine would do greatly in rectifying whatever is left of your uncle's sanity." He took a step to the left, clearing the view to the doors, nodding knowingly at Nobilia as he did. "And quite frankly, I've grown bored of bearing with his person by myself, so I find company to be more than delightful. But it has to be you, princess...and only you."

"No," someone spat out in speed. The pair bent towards Yves, uneasy endeavour smudging his gold skin as his expression wailed something closed. "Your Highness," Yves spoke so tenderly, lips barely risen, as if they were struggling with containing something within. His eyes vaulted to Arch for a moment before they cut back to his princess. "Please...don't...I don't think that is a safe idea."

"Not safe?" Arch drawled out, apathetic at the claim as he scanned Yves throughout. "I would be very careful of what you accuse me of, Cousteau; I'm not one of your playmates to accuse. I am the king's advisor, his last voice."

His last voice. Nobilia scowled at that.

Her father was in the final tier of his sickness. The infection would first take away a person's mental ability, causing them disorientation, a solidified surrealism that would cause confusion on what was current and what was not. The second stage would take away from their physical abilities, first rendering them unable to balance before it progressed to them not being able to walk and being bedridden. The doctors had told her that this stage was also referred to as a stage of "dormant omission", that the infected are all present and it sometimes appears as if their sickness is slowing or stopping but that is always far from the truth. Slowly but inevitably, they lose their abilities from within, the movement of their internal organs— their stomach, intestines, kidney, and then finally their tongue, their voice.

And it keeps destroying until one day there's nothing left untouched.

Her father was rendered bedridden for a few years ago, howling every dusk at the feeling of his cells defecting until one-day, Nobilia woke up to the sound of nothing. No screaming, not even a single morsel of agony. A fear jerked within her that night, a dread that collided low with her stomach as the thought of losing her father clashed but Nobilia stifled her phobia, knowing if such were to happen, her room would be barraged with her father's staff, hassling the young girl, trying to drag her as far as they could from her father like they had done the day he first collapsed when she was eight. She remembered that day more distinctly than she would've liked; picking fun at her father's inability to shoot the petals of the tulips in their garden with his grace like she had done a hundred times before, marvelling inside with astonishment because she was not old enough to do such herself yet. Nobilia didn't know he was sick, after his fall her father would go on to tell her about how he had never wanted her to know.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

His words had hurt her, yes, but a part of her hoped that perhaps if she had never known as her father had intended, Nobilia would not feel this ache she has always felt since that day, that emptiness, that feeling of not being able to stop bad which was already there.

She didn't see her father fall that day; she only heard the thump of his body crashing into the ground as his pained wails broke all sound barriers.

Sometimes all it took was a thud, it didn't matter what or who; that was all it took and it would all come back to her. And that would leave her affright for days.

"Please take me to him," Nobilia begged this time, all loathing and wrath gone from her pitch, leaving in its place a velvet symphony of debacle, blue and reticence. Arch only took in Nobilia, the way her lips shaped her next utterance, almost as if he was making an effort to undyingly seize the rarity coming out of them. "Please, Arch."

----------------------------------------

࿐SÉRAPH࿐

|Than—??|

|Birky ghettos|

THAN, unlike its neighbouring Rollovo, shimmered its heat, burning into the hidden cloves of its stranded travellers, dying crops rotten brown; playing a fraudulent game of cards with the lives of the ones that were left to wonder the shrunken planet. The natural stone learned to grow searing against the vapid environment, the only ones able to travel with lacking maintenance being the small creatures whose evolution had allowed them passage through their scaled and hardened feet, unharmed by the boils. Such critters were not afraid to explore when it came to it, especially when the most infamous predator of the planet did little to no harm to them. Their tyrannical star did not frighten them today or tonight, the wavering sphere that worked to keep them from burning to nothing—nor did the woman who lingered close by, watching the bodies of people shift and flex with the heat, just waiting, loitering. For whatever, the critters' muted queries burned to a crisp as they filled the air, chipped and loose like the stones chaffing against hard soles.

Séraph was longing, perched up against a rusted automobile that told a monologue long silenced, copper with exportation as she stayed silent, unmoved by even the harsh winds of heat, pinching her skin as if she was facing the open mouth of a dutiful oven. There was an ache that came with observing the standard system of Than's society, spectating its natural order through a position outside of its grasp. A longing ache that only added salt to the wounds of Than's terrible climate.

Motionless with the rise of the deafening warmth, Sèraph stayed until the sun shuddered in the distant horizon, the ebullition of the city flaring to life in place of the sun's lost sheen, hushed as static whispered through her radio, as the nocturnals rose awake with chirps and distant wails of hunger; seconds going spheroidal to hours. The blazing hot cooled and sunset came, obeyed by the chilly night of Than. Séraph did not move as it did, at times only to shuffle on the seat of the old motorcycle she remained reclined upon, eyeing the bustling civilisation in the span. She could see her future in a short distance, the warmth of street lights beating at her skull, the feeling of being consumed by unknowing bodies of late-night shoppers and explores, illuminated signpost spotlighting the on-duty officers noshing their way through streets corners in hopes of some sort of criminality, kids who were up too late playing amongst one another in streets overrun with cars which rocketed soaring above, mothers and father alike retreating home from a draining days work. She could see and feel it all, shutting her eyes; she could perceive the gentle force of the capaciously awake city.

As the usual pink of the morning ceased to exist, the stars ascertained themselves in the deepened black and brown, the far shuttles and vessels high in the skies leaving behind their usual white imprint in the night sky that Scarlet had dubbed "Stardust". The machines that passed were nothing like the ones that hovered and travelled in the skies of Alec;these were huge, large enough to shade some of the planets in their solar system, roaring low from afar with a tonality Séraph knew could peel the skin off anyone who was stupid enough to close the distance between themselves and the shuttles. No vessel of such magnitude was idiotic enough to pass within light years of Alec, especially when they were owned by Than, Sevgi, Rollovo or Cazar, as hard as Séraph believed they would be to take down, let alone be stripped of their material. Their locators were what made them so hard to track or attack, it made them potent to all who were on the outside layer of the vessel, shielded.

From afar they looked to be stray away meteors, blazing away their beings with the enticement of the planet's atmosphere.

The device looped on Séraph's waist and let out a pathetic chirp, static in volume and poorly wound out towards the endless land that travelled.

"Pölz has been spotted," the command buzzed through, shaky with charge but firm. "Head in, Tempest."

The stone below her steeled boots crushed under her weight, burdened by the armour plate strapped snug to her chest, hidden under the light black cotton which hung loose against her body in a melodramatic temper—her 174 Solomon pistols remained strapped close to her pits, the worn golden plating trumpeting Cazar's First Minister's reputation as it mirrored the glow of the metropolis some closing distance away. There were only 21 in rotation, as far as Séraph understood, a commemoration production in the revelry of Solomon Cazar's belated coronation. Whilst Séraph in most situations was more inclined to use her placid knives which clung to her biceps and calves, there was much more catharsis in bearing forth something which rivalled the viciousness and brute of herself. A beastly predatory to a just as abominable predatory, what sane being would not tremor at such a thing?

She had snatched the guns from a guard to one of Rollovo's advisors, Sal, on one of her assignments whilst scavenging for loose valuables. They laid on the tiled floors, gazing up at her as the blood of their previous owner polluted them with something other than the black and gold of Solomon's glut. She had managed to stuff them between the band of her trousers, making her quick escape alongside Scarlet with a caught vow and newfound zeal for her upcoming missions. Those guns had not left her hands ever since, it wouldn't be a stretch to say they had become an extension of herself.

An aglow crimson, three-dimensional image cast itself before Séraph as she made her way towards the city, an explicit sketch of the metropolis before her, dotted in blue with which after what felt like an eternity, she eventually found herself at the border of the city with, the ambience of the ascended automobile shaking above her as the audio of the market leaked through to her. She knew with flawless prevision what was to come as she barged her way into the crowd, instantly being consumed by the mass which thinned irregularly, leaving naked pathways to regions which were bypassed and evolved to be less populated the further Séraph made her way into the city. Some of the shop owners barked foreign words her way, waving callously overworked hands her way and towards their slowly desolate stores whilst some of the neighbouring stores stood already sealed shut and waiting for sunrise. The ghettoes came to life with more turns Séraph took into the gloomy-hued city, the damp air huffing into shoddy drafts which skimmed her skin and briefly stood her hair tall.

At her 15th right turn, the static of her radio hissed to life again, ousting the inconspicuous rustles of rodents and the clicking heels of searching street girls close by.

"Barnįburd," was all the voice from her radio uttered, voice lulled against the electric buzz of her machine.

Her eyes shifted impulsively to a pair of double action doors which rung out with an exit, worn out with epoch and about a dozen feet down the right wall from her, labelled under 'Barnįburd' with a great sign dominated by a green hologram depicting a bodyless and floating arm with a thorned tattoo, holding forth a comically large jug with liquid which Séraph only assumed to be some sort of alcohol.

A bar.

A man blundered through the entrance as Séraph pushed to the doors, crouching some steps away from the doors which echoed behind him as he heaved into a thawed and dead bush. Séraph taking the opportunity, pushed by him, shoving through the double door and inwards as she strode her way through the protracted, twisting hallways. She did not care if she was to scan the area for guards, but bumping into one would not be a difficult task for her. That would be amusing, the thought skipped, it certainly would add some mirth to this city. She was unrestricted by Scarlet's chafing rules, moving toward her destination and in search of whichever unknowing soul's life she planned to take tonight in the defected nation of Than. The muffled cadence of a melody trickled through the upcoming doors, twinkling disco glares transforming at the crack below the doors, guiding her closer and closer.

Finally making contact with the doors, Séraph shoved them open to reveal the extraordinarily three-story discothèque that truly would've had her in stupefaction if she had the time. Inspirit ballads fraternized with the multiple surging languages that interloped, jumping and travelling through the many separate discussions which quickly superseded the stillness of the blank hallway Séraph had made her way through. The disco bar was huddled with bodies, some throwing back discoloured drinks in hopes of it twisting their wearisome night, waiters in white manoeuvring through people and women who stood at the lit stages, protected by a generated barrier as they danced and shifted fluidly like liquid, flaunting to the men and women watching lasciviously.

Séraph shifted across the area, nestling in an open seat of a leather booth, stifling the building sensation that usually pumped her veins at the anticipation of violence. Out of all the filled seating, three were left open, the first two in the left corner were littered with the feast of long-departed guests, the last untouched and left frigid with the open window that hung above it. The air swung with caution as Séraph rested in the seat as if it was too skittish to test her.

"I'm well aware, dear," came a too-some-sweet voice from behind her, one which bit recognition into the back of Séraph's mind, heckling her until her curiosity was close to insatiable now. She's heard that voice before. "But my hands are tied, love."

You've heard that voice before, something tugged at Séraph, It's tasted the same air as you, is breathing the same air as you, yet it's still somehow here...very alive and you don't know which supposed corpse it belongs to. My, what a surprise...

Séraph recognised—no, it's not possible.

"Levion," a different voice whined in a soft whisper, a woman. Séraph shuffled in her seat, turning and pretending to gaze out of the window as she took in the reflection of the occupiers of the booth behind her. "I don't think we should trust that man."

No.

Or, the voice went on again, or perhaps another one of your failures.

It's not possible.

A woman sat shoulder to shoulder with a blond man, both wearing long robes that fell loose against their body, no doubt in an effort to hide whichever identity they sought to conceal under their brown hoods. Still, Séraph could just make sense of their faces, or at least the man who was facing the slender woman whose back remained planted against the cold window which fogged from the outside, his pale brows arched in some unfamiliar emotion Séraph wasn't bothered to translate as she observed the ringed fingers of the woman whose face she could not see try and soothe the man through gentle caresses of his cheeks, up and down as she spoke assurances and doubt alike.

"We can always wait until Rosary finds a solid plan to get us out," the woman said, brushing the bright hairs that were unveiled by his hood. "If we're careful, love, then there's no need to rush."

"Oh, Esme, darling," the man sighed, tenderly lowering her hands from his face, "I worry my father has already figured something out. He has men whispering into his ear, Esme, gossiping, fibbing, and as long as I'm burdened under his roof, my love, there's will never ever be such a thing as careful.”

"You speak of him as if he is a God," the woman, Esme, murmured somewhat withdrawn, turning her gaze from the blond, a second later to their interlocked hands, before dropping her stare to her lap. "Like he is your brain, like he knows every vessel within you.”

Another buzz purred from the radio on Séraph's hip, promptly turning the woman's attention back to the task at hand.

"Tempest," the voice drew out her code name, waiting for some sort of response. Her hands found the red button on its side, clicking it before waiting for the return of the voice. "Pölz will be meeting with a couple from the core of the planet, keep an eye out for them; they'll lead you straight to him."

Another click was Séraph's response.

"Once you see Pölz, there's no need to wait. You can use the panic of the crowd as a way out, you'll meet Scarlet by the rim of the city. You're free to do as you please with Pölz or any baggage he may bring with his person, just make sure you meet with Pyxis by zero-zero twelve."

Another click before the radio on her hip ceased its static and the ambience of the bar registered to Séraph once again.

"That's not what we agreed on," the familiar voice, Levion, argued as a new voice scoffed in rebuttal. Her stare fell back on the window, back on the reflection of the couple who sat before a massive figure Séraph knew was not previously there. "This is ridiculous."

I spy, a voice breathed disparaging, Oh, I can't help but spy with my minute eye something that forms with...

Séraph let out a wince at the surge of the whisper within in her head, silently cursing one of many aches that had been thriving unsparing with each dreadful dawning, overrunning her like a parasite that did not belong, almost as if there was somebody lounging at the back of her skull- permanently dishing inimical in the most unfavourable of time, reproducing vicious reviews like a spiteful lover, mumbling sentiments that weren't all true or that Séraph could not quite decipher.

D...

A clatter took her away from her thoughts, her eyes falling low to the woman who crouched close to her dusted boots, searching for something under her table. Séraph resisted an offensive reaction at the sudden appearance of the woman's person, only watching until Esme lifted her head at the forceful pressure of Séraph's analysing stare. Their eyes adjoined, and the hunched-over woman could only goggle, mouth slightly ajar like a child that has been caught by a parent partaking in something they were not meant to.

"You have such lovely eyes," her words were blurted out, but Séraph did not seem to document the compliment as she stared through Esme.

Ea...

A rose hue corrupted Esme's cheeks at the woman's lack of response. She stood, dusting off her cloak without once peeling her eyes off the mismatched pair that scrutinized her. "I apologise; it seems I've dropped something near you."

"What?"

Esme perked up at that, "Pardon?"

Séraph's body relaxed, a charming smile cutting way across her cheeks as she slanted her head at the brunette. "What did you drop?"

"Oh," said Esme, smiling back somewhat relieved at the lack of confrontation. Levion had cautioned her about the deals of the Than ghettos, telling her story about Jims who ended up dead from stumbling into the wrong person. "Well," she started, lifting her left hand up to expose the silver bracelet that dangled at her wrist. "A charm from my bracelet."

"Ah," Séraph mumbled, pushing around in her seat and bending to search below the wooden table. Her back faced Esme for some seconds before she reemerged, a keen smile planted on her young face as she brought forward the silver cube that sat between the prints of her thumb and index finger. "Is that it?"

"Oh, thank you," Esme thanked the woman, opening her palm and watching as Séraph let the charm fall into her open grasp. "I would repay you but it seems I'm short by a lot today."

"It's not a problem," Séraph grinned with a wave of her hand.

Esme cleared her throat, "But regardless, thank you."

"Yes...and I apologise for this, but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation earlier," Séraph revised the subject, seizing in the flinch of Esme's body. "And I'd be more than honoured to help you and your friend in finding a passage of escape out of Than."

"Is that so?" Esme spoke hesitantly, panicking internally. Nonetheless, her mind couldn't help but run back to Pölz's words at the woman's proposal, his interest-risen deal that she knew Levion and herself could not afford to back.

Perhaps maybe, just maybe this woman—

The clearing of a throat pulled both women's watches from one another and to the two men who eyed Séraph cautiously. Levion was close by Esme's side now, tugging her away from the lounged woman by her sleeve until the space between himself and his fiance was taunt.

"Is everything alright?" Levion spoke, not once glancing away from Séraph.

Séraph rested her chin on her palm, tilting her head at the man as she spoke, "Why wouldn't it be?"

There was a grumble from behind the pair, an incoherent swear as a hand yanked at the cloak of Levion, causing the blond's hood to fall completely.

"Oh my," Séraph spun out, eyes comically wide as she took in the man before her, a voracious smile running up her lips. Prince Levion of Than. Then her eyes shifted, not acknowledging the blond who scrambled to lift his hood and cover his head, not the woman attached to his arm whose eyes jumped between Séraph and the bulky man who smirked vividly at the revelation dawning upon his mind. "Oh my, indeed."

That's why he seemed so familiar.

Pölz lifted his hand again, attempting to rip off the hood on Levion's head as if he was not fully sure of what he had witnessed.

A hiss filled the four's space, a voice that was partly muffled by static as it teetered from the radio sat snug on Séraph's hip.

"Kill him," the voice commanded, surprising Pölz into attention whilst startling the couple which held onto one another, their three sets of eyes leaping to the sat woman. "Tempest."

Levion's grip on Esme tightened. Heavens above...

"Tempest—" Began Pölz with a harsh inhale, dropping his reaching hand from Levion who in his anticipation had staggered back with the sharp rise of the taller woman from her booth, Esme secured behind his back as the Tempest he had seen projected across his city's holographic screens towered over them, pursuing Pölz's dropping hand in a scary flash.

Her boots let through a bashful squeak against the flooring as she lunged forward and crosscut for the throat of the large man whose fingers had found the weapon hung on his own belt. Pölz reeled backwards, lower back colliding with a plated table behind him as the woman's dagger skimmed his neck, just missing the hairs on his neck, letting gratis a strayed trail of blood.

But barely a quarter of a second passed before she sprang at him again, dagger fisted in her palm as she slashed at him in a frenzy, left and right, up and down, pushing the man further back through the room. The symphony that previously played had cut off abruptly, the crowd attending to the woman who had Pölz Martin scrambling in an attempt to dodge her blade.

"Séraph," her radio hissed, rich annoyance halting the slashes of the woman who took to secure her dagger back with an irritated groan, instead drawing her pistol as the now awakened crowd shoved past in a panic, bodies yelling and ploughing into one another in their escape, afraid to come in contact with the circumference of Séraph's acrimony.

"Don't!" Pölz barked at her, snarl wrinkling his face. The person he gripped with a circulation-cutting grip only now registered to Séraph as she tilted her head to take in the scene. He truly is pathetic. Pölz clutched the bar's waiter like a lifeline, not seeming bothered by the liquor that soaked them both as a result of the tray he had thrown down with the claim of his hostage. "Or I'll kill him."

Séraph didn't say anything, only taking it all in. The whispers of the couple behind her, the pants of the man who held the sharp steak knife he had latched onto in his stark moments of anticipation and finally him, the waiter who whimpered, face flooded with afraid snot and tears.

"Go on then," Séraph shrugged, eyeing Pölz almost daringly. The server let out a panicked yelp at the woman's encouragement. "Kill him."

Her eyes found Esme and levion to her side, watching and anticipating. Her words were close to a tender whisper, "You should really go." She nodded towards Esme who was now being led away by an alert Levion, her eyes stuck onto the assassin whose own eyes gleamed mischief. The Tempest’s gaze fell, a single finger tapping at the missing pocket on her jacket, directing Esme’s focus to her own. Paper. "I'll reach out soon, considering you won't be in contact with Pölz for some time."

And then they were gone, plates and glass clattering as they sprinted out of the store as the many other customers had done some moments ago.

Séraph turned her head, observing the beat up-clock which seemed silenced in the terrain of Séraph's turmoil.

11:50.

"I'm not fucking joking with you!" Spat Pölz, digging his knife further into the side of the waiter's neck. He shook at the collar of the man he held, saying to him, "I will fucking kill you."

11:51.

"Please," the waiter's begs were frail with the sting of the knife slicing into him. "Please help me."

Séraph's eyes found him, lips slightly pulled as she answered him, "Sure."

Click.

BANG!