The Fallen One

High above the quiet sprawl of Varis, the lunar walls stretched like a colossal silver serpent wrapped around the city's edges. Forged from enchanted marble and etched with centuries-old mana inscriptions, they stood as eternal sentinels watching over the outer sectors—guardians not just of stone and steel, but of memory and myth. The moonlight made them shimmer faintly, as if the walls themselves breathed beneath the sky's vast dome. Though the world below had calmed, the remnants of past wars still echoed in these battlements, carried in the boots of every knight who patrolled them.

Several outposts dotted the spine of this colossal structure, each a self-contained garrison brimming with Lunarknights trained in vigilance and resolve. Despite the relative quiet these days—beast hordes now reduced to myth, their numbers thinned by corruption and time—the guards kept watch with unwavering focus. Ironically, it was the corruption that had brought this eerie peace; mutated beasts now devoured their own kind, and the Empire, ever opportunistic, saw that cursed chaos as a convenient solution to ancient threats. Peace, it seemed, had come not through diplomacy, but through decay.

Above the Golden Gates—the most formidable and ornate entryway into Varis—stood the central command post: a fortified bastion infused with mana-forged steel and protective barriers. Unlike the modest stations scattered elsewhere, this one thrummed with layered enchantments and weighty expectations. Decisions made here could shift the course of conflicts and patrols, yet on this particular night, the post felt less like a war room and more like a confessional. In its highest chamber, nestled between towers of scrolls and armaments, sat the man now known as Captain Mercy.

Clad in his signature grey-blue cloak, Captain Mercy lounged in a chair of reinforced oak, one leg resting lazily over the other. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an unmistakable edge to it, as if a sword might spring from his fingers at any moment. A soft wind filtered in through the narrow slit of a window, brushing against scattered documents—beast sightings, patrol paths, encrypted letters from border scouts. In his hand, a glass of amber liquor caught the moonlight, its surface swirling like liquid fire. He stared outward, eyes half-lidded, watching the flight of Aerial Knights gliding silently across the horizon, their winged mana-packs leaving faint trails like meteor dust.

The silence was broken not by footsteps or a knock, but by a voice that cut through the air like a whisper of steel. "Why so down, Captain?" The sound held familiarity, but it came with the sharp undertone of a dagger hidden beneath silk. Mercy didn't turn. He didn't need to. His brow twitched ever so slightly, a flicker of recognition and restrained irritation surfacing. "I should have my men impale you for invading a military command post," he murmured, sipping from his glass without glancing back. "To them, this would look like a high-level breach of protocol... And my well-being."

"And yet," the voice replied, tinged with amusement, "not one of them sensed me enter. If I'd come for your life, Mercy, this conversation would already be over." The speaker emerged from the shadows, moonlight carving out the silhouette of Lucius—a figure clad in a long black coat, his presence more felt than seen. In his left hand, he held a metallic object, small and stained. Without a word, he approached the table and placed it down between them with quiet finality.

The emblem gleamed briefly, catching the light just enough to reveal the blood and soot crusted along its edge. It bore the crest of a fallen Lunarknight—someone they'd both known. Mercy's eyes sharpened as his glass paused mid-air. His relaxed demeanour cracked, if only slightly. "You went after them," he said softly, more observation than question. Lucius gave a single, resolute nod. "One hundred ninety-five and a half," he said, voice even, each syllable edged with deliberate calm.

Mercy's gaze didn't waver. "I meant—how long did it take?" The words carried no judgment, only curiosity. Lucius glanced past him toward the window. "Four hours. Twenty minutes." The answer came without pride, but not without weight. The silence that followed wasn't awkward; it was the kind shared between two men who'd walked far too close to death and returned with the scars to prove it. Mercy gave a slow nod. "Efficient," he muttered. "Brutally so." He didn't say it aloud, but pride flickered briefly behind his eyes.

Then came the question. The one Lucius hadn't planned to ask, but had carried in his chest for far too long. "Why?" he asked, voice lower now, more personal. "Why did you take responsibility for me that day I arrived in Varis?" His eyes locked onto Mercy's, searching for something real. "You didn't know me. You weren't obligated. Hell, you barely looked at me. But you still risked your name, your status, your future—for someone you had no reason to protect."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, hands pressing to the edge of the table with barely restrained tension. "I understand Rartar's involvement. He had no choice—Sia would've folded him in half if he refused. But you? You're not sentimental. You calculate every risk down to decimal points. So what made you gamble on me?" Lucius wasn't being combative. For once, there was no performance in his words—only a demand for clarity.

Mercy didn't answer right away. He stared into his drink, watching the way the liquor twisted inside the glass as if it might reveal the answer for him. When he finally looked up, the air between them had grown heavier. "I don't know," he admitted. The confession seemed to hit Lucius like a slap. His brow creased in disbelief, jaw tightening. "I'm serious," Mercy added quickly, lifting a hand. "Sia asked me, yes. But when I looked at you, there was just… a pull. A whisper in my gut that said, 'Protect this one.' No strategy, no politics... Just instinct."

Lucius stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His voice rose, not in volume, but in heat. "That's bullshit. That's what people say when they don't want to admit they've broken their own rules. You don't make decisions on instinct. You never have. You've lectured others about it, you've lectured me about it. So don't sit there and pretend it was fate or some mystical intuition."

Mercy's eyes narrowed, his voice cold as he replied. "Is that so? Then tell me—what about Ghastwood?" Lucius froze mid-step, one foot already on the ledge near the window. "You were what, eight? Nine? And yet somehow you stumbled across Ragnar and his entire squad, and when asked how, you said it was instinct. That something led you there? Does that sound familiar?"

The mana in the room rippled like a taut string being pulled. Lucius's mana flared—not in anger, but something else. His presence became undeniable, his power unmistakable. Shadows coiled at his feet like loyal beasts, and in that moment, he was no longer the quiet orphan of Varis—he was a fellow mage.

Outside the chamber, footsteps thundered. Steel clanged. Guards burst in, weapons drawn and glowing with defensive enchantments, eyes darting between Lucius and their captain. But Mercy didn't blink. He raised a hand and barked, "Stand down!" The command silenced the room. The guards hesitated, then backed away, confused and tense.

Lucius stepped back from the ledge, the chill of the wind still brushing his cloak. His voice was calm, but filled with warning. "So you're calling me a liar now?" The challenge wasn't shouted. It was whispered like a spell, dangerous and undeniable.

"I'm calling you familiar," Mercy said, rising to his full height as his mana surged forth like an unbound tide. The pressure in the room shifted violently, as though the air itself recoiled. It was no longer the subdued restraint of a superior officer—it was raw, undiluted power. An SS-ranked Elemental Knight stood before Lucius now, not merely a man of rank but a storm of precision and force. Water mana cascaded from Mercy's frame, cold and lethal, its edges honed like invisible blades. Every inch of the space began to hum with tension, walls trembling under the sheer force of his release.

Lucius didn't move. His posture remained locked, grounded in defiance, though his body registered the weight. His core twisted with instinctive awareness, the fight-or-flight response honed from years of surviving worse odds. And yet, he didn't budge. He wouldn't. But even with that resolve, he felt the pressure press into his bones like ice water trickling into his bloodstream. "This is pointless," Lucius growled, voice gritty with frustration. "You know what I was back then. My core was barely stable. I couldn't sense them. I stumbled across them, that's all. Dumb luck."

Mercy didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. "Liar," he said, his voice calm and sharp enough to carve truth from denial. Lucius's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into a fist at his side. The accusation stung, not because it was cruel, but because part of him feared it wasn't wrong. Mercy stepped forward, the temperature in the room dropping fractionally as his mana curled tighter around him. It wasn't meant to intimidate. It was simply who he was at his core.

"You felt what I did," he continued, slower this time. "A pull. An instinct. Something that wasn't logical, wasn't analysis. It was deeper. Maybe dumber. But real. You followed it. And it changed everything. So don't stand there pretending you're cleaner or more rational than the rest of us. You are us." The silence that followed was heavy, not with hostility, but something closer to disappointment.

"...Just leave," Mercy finally said, the edge softening from his tone. He turned his back and reached for the bottle again, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. "I've had enough tonight. Do me a favour, Lucius. Don't bring your ungrateful face around here for a few days. I don't care where you go. Just not here." Lucius lingered in place, his chest rising and falling. Mana still licked at the edges of his frame, fading only slightly as he reined himself in. He didn't argue. He didn't apologise.

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"...Fine," he muttered under his breath, barely audible. Without another word, he turned and walked back toward the open window. Then, with a single bound, Lucius leapt into the night air. His coat fluttered violently behind him like a banner of defiance, his hair slicing through the wind like obsidian thread. Mercy didn't look back. He only stared into his drink as the room finally stilled. "Questioning my noble intentions... Ungrateful bastard," he muttered. And yet, a faint twitch played at the corners of his lips.

Outside, the wind howled across the Lunar Wall's spine, brushing over Lucius as he landed in a crouch. The stone was cold beneath his boots, the ancient mana wards embedded within it glowing faintly like veins of starlight. From up here, Varis looked peaceful. Silent streets shimmered with moonlit lamplight, buildings stacked like orderly dreams. But within Lucius, the silence was brittle. His thoughts clawed at each other.

He moved slowly, hands in his pockets, head bowed slightly as his mind churned. Mercy was his superior, yes—but more than that, he had risked everything for Lucius. A name. A future. A position built on merit and blood. All for an unknown boy with nothing to offer but an unknown past and secrets.

Lucius stopped walking. His feet carried him to the very edge of the wall, where the wind was stronger. His coat whipped around his legs as he stared down into the treetops below. That line between city and wilderness—the cultivated buffer zone of enchanted trees and stone defences—had always fascinated him. It was the edge of safety. Of civility. Of illusion.

Memories swirled in his mind—nights spent fighting in alleys, huddling with a book by candlelight, training until his knuckles cracked. Varis had given him everything and taken just as much. He loved it. He hated it. And now… it was his. A movement caught his attention. From a nearby turret, a knight stepped forward, his silhouette rigid and alert. The armour clinked softly as he approached with purpose, though not aggression.

"Oi, kid," the knight said, tone cautious but not unkind. "You should get going. Captain Merc already dismissed ya, right? Come on, I'll walk you down." Lucius didn't answer. The knight reached out, hand extending gently—

—and Lucius jumped. The knight shouted in panic, lunging forward, fingers grazing fabric before it vanished into the wind. "SHIT! HE JUMPED!" he bellowed, calling reinforcements as several other sentries scrambled to the ledge.

Lucius plummeted, the air tearing at his skin, the force of gravity punishing. Mana-walking was impossible—there were no surfaces. Just open space and certain death. His body blurred against the starlit sky, coat snapping like a whip in the wind. But Lucius didn't scream; he didn't fight the fall, he embraced it. And the wind responded.

It wasn't his mana. It wasn't magic he cast. It was deeper. Older. The very air around him shimmered, forming tight spirals of concentrated pressure, funnelling along his frame. Dozens of micro-vortexes aligned with his motion, slowing his descent inch by inch with surgical precision.

From above, the knights watched in disbelief. What they saw wasn't technique or an ability—it wasn't training. It was communion; the wind chose him. Lucius landed with a whisper, crouched at the base of the wall like he'd simply stepped down. No cracks, no recoil. Just grace. He stood slowly, adjusted his sleeves, and glanced up toward the stunned guards.

He lifted one arm, sweeping it in a deep, theatrical bow. "Thanks for the concern," he called, voice sharp with sarcasm. "Truly. Your faith is overwhelming." And then he turned and vanished into the trees.

The buffer zone offered its quiet canopy, the whisper of leaves brushing past him as he strode through it. An hour later, he emerged from the outskirts and walked silently into the quieter avenues of central Varis. His home greeted him with warmth and silence. Moonlight poured through tall windows, brushing the stone floors and casting long shadows across walls lined with blades and books. A small fireplace glowed low in the corner—Sia's handiwork, no doubt.

She was asleep on the sofa. Or almost. Her breathing was steady, slow. Not unconscious, but resting. A long black-and-red silk robe wrapped around her like the night itself, her dark red hair cascading across the cushions. Her expression was unreadable, but peaceful. Lucius stepped quietly into the room, his boots barely whispering against the stone, and for the first time that night… he almost smiled.

"Sia," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper as he stepped into the soft hush of their home. The air was warm, tinged with the faint scent of herbs and slow-cooked spices that clung to the wooden walls. "You're still up? I thought Adrianna had you locked into that strict schedule—early nights and that cursed meditation routine she swears will fix everyone's soul."

From the couch, Sia stirred slowly, her body wrapped in a shawl that had slipped down one shoulder. Her crimson eyes opened, hazy with sleep at first, but gradually sharpening as they adjusted to the silhouette standing in the doorway. The moment recognition settled in, they narrowed—not with anger, but with a tangled mixture of relief, concern, and irritation. She sat upright, pushing her hair from her face with a rough hand, trying and failing to suppress a yawn.

"Lucius?" she muttered, her voice rough from slumber, low and edged with disbelief. "Gods, don't sneak up on me like that. I thought you were a burglar or worse." Lucius stepped forward, letting his coat fall open, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "In this?" he asked, glancing down at the dark cloak draped over him. "A bit dramatic, don't you think? Besides, most burglars aren't this polite."

"You blend into the shadows like a damn wraith," she grumbled, massaging her temple as she sat up fully. "And your voice? Cold as the grave. You should come with a warning label." Despite the gruffness of her tone, there was a familiar warmth buried beneath the irritation—a softness reserved for family, for those who had earned a place inside her guarded heart.

Sia hadn't changed much in the last ten years. A few more lines etched into the skin around her eyes and mouth, perhaps, born from too many sleepless nights and battles fought on and off the field. But if anything, they enhanced her presence—made her seem more real, more grounded. Her beauty remained untouched by time or vanity, forged instead through years of resilience and unflinching conviction. Crimson eyes that commanded rooms without effort, ivory skin untouched by the sun, and a posture that bore the quiet dignity of someone used to leading without needing to raise their voice.

Lucius moved closer without a word, his footsteps light against the wooden floor. When he stopped in front of her, Sia rose slowly to meet him. The top of her head now reached only to his chin—a fact that drew a flicker of amusement from her lips. She reached up instinctively, brushing aside a lock of hair from his brow, her fingers lingering for a breath longer than necessary. The gesture was so natural, so achingly familiar, that it struck a chord deep in Lucius's chest.

"When did you get taller than me, little one?" she asked softly, a faint smile pulling at her lips. "And more importantly—why would you do such a thing?" Lucius gave a rare chuckle, quiet and brief, but genuine. "Growth comes with age," he said, the faintest glint in his eye. "Both physical… and otherwise."

"Smartass," she muttered, already turning toward the dining area with a shake of her head. Her feet moved with practised grace, her presence shifting effortlessly from affection to mild reproach. "You could've informed me, or at the very least, come home at a decent hour instead of showing up in the middle of the damn night."

He followed after her, unbothered by the scolding. "I met with Edward," he said simply. "And Mercy. Things… got complicated." He left it at that. The name Adith remained unspoken, hanging like a weight just behind his lips. He wasn't ready to bring that part up—not yet.

Sia didn't press. She was already uncovering the dishes she'd kept warm, steam curling into the air and filling the space with the comforting aroma of spices and slow-roasted meat. The smells hit Lucius hard, not just because of hunger, but because of what they meant: Home.

She handed him a plate without ceremony and sat down beside him. The silence between them was full, not awkward—each accustomed to filling the quiet with presence rather than words. The food was as he remembered: layered in flavour, spiced just right, grounding in a way that few things in life could be. It was the kind of meal that reminded him of what it meant to survive, and more importantly, what it meant to be seen and cared for, even in silence.

Halfway through the meal, Lucius reached into his coat and pulled out a small, heavy pouch. Without saying anything, he placed it on the table between them. The dull clink of eons said enough. "From the strokedeer," he said quietly. "Use it however you want."

Sia didn't make a show of it. She accepted the pouch with a nod and slid it into her storage ring. Money had never been the bond between them—it was the gesture, the act of returning, of contributing, of remembering. He could've kept it, and she wouldn't have blamed him. But the consistency of the offering mattered. It was his way of saying: I haven't forgotten what you gave me.

Later, when he finally began to recount his confrontation with Mercy, the atmosphere shifted. Lucius left out the darkest moments, the frayed tension that bordered on violence, the emotions he couldn't yet name. But even with the careful omissions, Sia understood. Her gaze darkened, and she set her fork down, fingers curling slightly. Her voice, when it came, was measured, but carried the weight of disappointment.

"You messed up," she said simply. "Mercy isn't like the others. He's one of the few who still sees past bloodlines and names. He vouched for you. Publicly. That's not a small thing for a man like him." Lucius lowered his gaze, the truth of her words settling like lead in his gut. "I know," he murmured. "I'll make it right. I'll apologise."

She didn't press further, at least not tonight. The fire in her eyes simmered down, and for the first time in a long while, the silence that followed felt almost like understanding. But then Lucius shifted slightly, his hand still resting on the edge of the table. His eyes lifted, not timid but clear, focused—and in them was something different. A quiet gravity that made Sia pause. She knew him too well. This wasn't casual.

"Can I ask you something?" he said. She leaned back slightly, folding her arms across her chest. "You can," she said slowly, the weight of old instincts returning to her voice. "But I get the feeling this won't be small talk." Lucius didn't look away. His gaze was steady, unflinching, the way it had been the first time they met—except now it held years of experience, pain, and tempered resolve. His voice was quiet, but it struck her deeper than any shout ever could.

"Why did you save me that day?" There was no need to specify which day. Only one moment stood between them like a monument, the one that had rewritten both of their lives. The day she found him—broken, half-conscious and wild-eyed—at the edge of the ravine, clinging to life with nothing but stubborn breath and defiant silence.

Sia's expression softened. She didn't speak immediately. Instead, she exhaled slowly, the sound filled with memory and weight.

"I don't know," she said finally. Her voice was raw in its honesty, unpolished but true. "You were just a child. Starved. Filthy. Eyes too old for your face. There was no strategy in it. No mission. No orders. I saw you, and something inside me—something I couldn't name—screamed not to leave you behind."

She looked down at her hands, as if remembering them cupping his dirt-streaked face. "It wasn't pity. It wasn't duty. It was instinct. Pure and terrifying." Lucius didn't answer right away. But when he finally nodded, it wasn't a dismissal or an end to the conversation—it was quiet acceptance. A shift. For once, he let her truth stand. And maybe—just maybe—he believed it.