The interrogation room was stark and cold.
White walls. A single metal table. Two chairs on one side, one on the other. A mirror along the far wall... a one-way glass, Lucien assumed. Standard procedure.
He sat with his hands resting on the table, Edge of the End confiscated but not far from reach. Across from him, Osman leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, yellow eyes watching the door with quiet intensity.
Neither of them spoke.
The door opened.
A man stepped inside... tall, grey-haired, somewhere in his fifties. He wore a dark suit, impeccably tailored, and moved with the calm authority of someone who had spent a lifetime commanding respect. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but not unkind.
He closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, studying them both.
"My name is Marcus Ashford," he said finally, his voice steady and measured. "Former President of the American Hunter Association. Current... overseer of special operations."
Lucien didn't respond. Osman's ears flicked, but he remained still.
Marcus walked to the table and set down a briefcase. He didn't sit. Instead, he raised one hand, palm outward.
"Before we begin," he said, "I need to ensure our conversation remains private."
His eyes glowed faintly... silver light bleeding into the iris.
[Skill Activated: Void]
The air in the room changed.
It became heavy, oppressive, like the weight of deep water pressing down from all sides. Sound seemed to dull, swallowed by an invisible force. Even the light felt muted, as if the walls themselves had grown thicker.
Lucien's hand moved instinctively toward his hip, where his sword should have been.
Marcus lowered his hand. The glow faded, but the pressure remained.
"Void," he explained. "A barrier skill. Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out. No sound, no mana, no surveillance." He met Lucien's gaze. "What I'm about to tell you cannot leave this room. Not yet."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Why?"
"Because," Marcus said quietly, "if the wrong people hear what I'm going to say, we're all dead."
He pulled out the chair and finally sat, folding his hands on the table.
"Now," he said. "Let's talk."
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Marcus reached up and began rolling back the sleeve of his left arm... slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact.
Lucien's breath stopped.
There, burned into the man's forearm, was the mark.
The Jerusalem Cross. Five crosses forming one. The same symbol Lucien bore over his heart. The same symbol that had been carved into the flesh of the intruder at Mira's manor.
Lucien's chair scraped backward as he shot to his feet, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
"How dare you," he hissed, voice trembling with rage. "That mark is sacred. It belongs to..."
"To the Templars of Jerusalem," Marcus finished calmly. "I know."
"Then you're a thief," Lucien spat. "Or worse..."
"Or worse, I'm one of them." Marcus's gaze didn't waver. "But I'm not. Not the way you think."
Lucien's fists clenched. "Explain. Now."
Marcus lowered his sleeve carefully, covering the mark once more. "Sit down, Lucien. Please."
Lucien didn't move.
Osman spoke for the first time, his voice low and gravelly. "Listen to him, Lucien. If he wanted us dead, we'd already be dead."
Lucien's eyes flicked to Osman, then back to Marcus. Slowly, reluctantly, he sat.
Marcus exhaled. "Thank you."
He opened the briefcase and pulled out a thin folder, setting it on the table but not opening it.
"Seven hundred years ago," he began, "an organization was founded in the shadow of Jerusalem's fall. It was created by a single man... a Templar who survived the betrayal, the bloodshed, and the theft of something sacred."
Lucien's breath caught. "The Grail."
Marcus nodded. "Yes. The Holy Grail. Stolen by those who were supposed to protect it. By brothers who chose immortality over duty."
He leaned forward slightly. "This man... this Templar... swore an oath. He would dedicate his life, and the lives of those who followed him, to a single purpose: recover the Grail."
"And this organization," Lucien said slowly, "it still exists?"
"Yes." Marcus's voice was quiet but firm. "We call it The Order. And I am one of its members."
Osman's ears twitched. "You said seven hundred years ago..."
Marcus turned to him. "You were there in 1905, weren't you? When the Dome appeared over Jerusalem."
Osman's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
"Because the founder predicted it." Marcus's tone grew heavier. "He wrote, centuries ago: 'When the Templars gather once more in Jerusalem, the end will begin. The System will be born. And he will return.'"
"He?" Lucien's voice was tight. "Who?"
Marcus met his gaze. "You, Lucien de Mireval."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Lucien shook his head. "That's impossible. I was there in 1291. I fought in the last crusade. I entered the Rift and..." He stopped, frustration bleeding through. "I don't even know how I'm here. How I survived."
"Neither do we," Marcus admitted. "But the founder knew. Somehow, he knew you would return."
"Who is he?" Lucien demanded. "This founder. What's his name?"
Marcus hesitated.
For the first time since entering the room, his composure cracked... just slightly.
"No one knows," he said quietly. "Not even us."
Lucien's brow furrowed. "What?"
"The founder erased every trace of his identity," Marcus continued. "No name. No face. No records. All we have are his writings, his instructions... and his mark." He gestured to his arm. "He gave it to the first members of The Order. To show that we carried his mission."
"But why?" Lucien's voice rose. "Why hide his identity?"
Marcus shook his head. "We don't know. Perhaps he feared being found. Perhaps he didn't want to be remembered." He paused. "Or perhaps... he had a reason we're not meant to understand. Not yet."
Lucien stared at him, a dozen questions burning in his mind.
But before he could ask, Marcus reached into the briefcase again.
This time, he pulled out something small, wrapped in dark cloth.
"There is one thing he left behind," Marcus said. "Something he instructed us to give to you. When you returned."
He set the cloth bundle on the table and slowly unwrapped it.
Inside was a key.
Not a whole key... only half of one. The metal was old, tarnished by time, its surface etched with faint markings that pulsed weakly in the dim light. The teeth were jagged, uneven, as if it had been broken cleanly down the middle.
Lucien stared at it. "What is this?"
"A key," Marcus said. "To a coffer. One crafted centuries ago with meticulous care. Hidden somewhere, waiting."
"What does it open?"
"We don't know." Marcus's voice was quiet. "The founder never told us. He only said: 'When Lucien returns, give him this. He will understand when the time comes.'"
Lucien reached out slowly, his fingers hovering over the key. The moment he touched it, a faint warmth spread through his palm.
"There's something else," Marcus said. "This key is incomplete. It requires a second half to function."
Lucien looked up sharply. "Where is it?"
Marcus's expression darkened. "The key was split between two families... the oldest and most trusted members of The Order. My family, the Ashfords... and another."
He paused, his gaze steady but heavy.
"The Beaumonts."
Lucien's blood ran cold.
"The other half," Marcus continued, "was entrusted to Thomas de Beaumont. Mira's father."
Lucien stood so fast his chair toppled backward.
"What?!"
Marcus didn't flinch. "I know what you're thinking. And you're right to be angry."
"Mira thinks you killed her family!" Lucien's voice cracked. "She thinks it was The Order! She's carried that hatred for years!"
"I know," Marcus said quietly. "And I'm going to tell you why."
Lucien's chest heaved, his hands shaking.
Marcus stood slowly, meeting his gaze without fear.
"Because we were there," he said. "The night her family died."
Silence fell like a stone.
Lucien stared at him, disbelief and fury warring in his chest.
"Then it's true," he whispered. "You did kill them."
"No." Marcus's voice was firm. "But I understand why she believes that. And if you want to know the truth..."
He gestured to the chair.
"Sit down. And I'll tell you everything."