The house was silent—the heavy, suffocating kind of quiet that only settles in the smallest hours of the night.
The front door eased open. Enark slipped through the gap, catching the handle before it could latch with a tell-tale click. He stood still for a heartbeat, listening to the rhythmic pulse of the house. He could hear his grandfather's steady, deep thrum of sleep from two rooms away, but the air in the kitchen felt… heavy.
He exhaled a thin ribbon of breath and knelt to pry off his boots.
His shoulder throbbed with a dull ache, and his left hand was still burning at the wound. He swallowed the pain as he tried to keep himself awake.
"Enark."
He froze.
His senses had been so clouded by the lingering adrenaline and the white noise of pain that he'd missed the most important rhythm in the house.
His head turned slowly.
His grandmother sat at the table, a silhouette carved out of the pitch darkness. She hadn't moved a muscle, but her presence filled the room like a physical weight.
"…You're late," she said.
The click of the desk lamp felt like a gunshot. He straightened, trying to smooth the hitch in his breathing.
"Yeah," he muttered, his voice gravelly. "Stayed out longer than I meant to. Sorry, Granny."
Her eyes didn't just look at him; they cataloged him. She took in the sweat-matted hair, the dust on his collar, and the way he held his frame.
"Mm."
Enark stepped further into the light, suppressing the urge to limp. "I thought you'd be asleep," he added, trying for casual.
"I was," she replied, her voice level. "I woke up a little while ago. That's when I noticed the house was still empty."
A silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Enark nodded once, "…Right. Well, I'm gonna turn in."
He turned for the hallway, desperate for the sanctuary of his room.
"Enark."
He stopped. He didn't want to turn back, but he did. "…Yeah?"
She gestured toward the chair opposite her. "Come here a second."
He hesitated, then walked over. As he entered the full light of the lamp, the "peculiarities" became impossible to hide. He was favoring his right side, his hand subconsciously kneading his shoulder, his other arm tucked stiffly behind his back to hide his missing fingers.
"You haven't eaten," she said.
Enark blinked. "…I'm not that hungry."
"A boy your age is always hungry." Her gaze lingered on his left hand, hidden in the shadows. "You should eat something."
"I'm fine, Granny. Really."
She leaned back, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. The silence lasted a second too long—
"There's food on the stove," she said finally, "If you change your mind."
Enark glanced toward the kitchen, then back to her. "…Thanks. Maybe later."
"Alright."
...
"Enark."
He stopped again, glancing back. "Yeah?"
Her gaze lingered on him for just a second longer than before.
"Don't stay up too late," she said.
"And be sure to take a bath."
Enark hesitated, then nodded once.
"…I will," he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"…Goodnight, Granny."
"Goodnight, Enark."
He climbed the stairs, his footsteps quiet, but lacking their usual weight. The door to his room clicked shut, and the house settled back into its uneasy rest.
Downstairs, the old woman didn't move. She stared at the empty doorway for a long time, her nostrils flaring slightly.
"…He smells like smoke," she whispered to the empty dark. "And copper."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The building stood in ruin.
Charred wood. Broken beams. The faint glow of dying fire clinging to what remained.
Bodies strewn across the floor. Some were silent; others groaned as they tried to pull themselves back up.
*timp* *timp* *timp*
A pair of polished boots stepped over a broken beam. The figure moved with an eerie, light-footed rhythm, sweeping a gaze over the ruin with more curiosity than concern.
One of the men stirred while a jagged piece of wood was pinning his shoulder to the floor. "…Sir…" he wheezed.
The figure stopped.
"Oh? ho, ho, ho!" He leaned down, his voice pitching up into an excited, almost melodic trill. "What in the hell happened here? Did a dragon fly in here with a tantrum?"
The man swallowed hard, his face slick with blood and ash. "H-he came out of nowhere… we couldn't—" His voice broke into a cough. "We couldn't stop him…"
The Boss stepped forward, nudging a shattered, lightless lantern with his boot. He looked at the wreckage of his operation, then back at the man.
"…He? Just one?" he asked, his smile never wavering.
"…Y-yes…" The man shivered. "We don't know where he came from. He was wearing a mask—no, a blindfold."
"He had a sword," another man groaned from across the floor. "I don't know how… it was pitch black, but he was moving even in the shadows."
"Was he an Imperial Knight?" the Boss asked, his head tilting like a bird's.
"No. He was… something else."
The Boss exhaled a long, appreciative whistle, looking up through the collapsed roof at the indifferent stars. "A masked swordsman. Dancing in the shadows. How very… theatrical. Sounds like our visitor from the docks."
"We're sorry, Boss," the second man chirped, his voice desperate. "We had a woman, but he tracked us here in no time.
"There's no way that he's a normal person," the man continued. "He has to be- he has to be one."
"Ho? Are you suggesting what I think?" The Boss's smile widened.
"Ye-yes. I think he's-"
"A Conjurer."
A ripple of fear went through the building at the mention of the word.
"Boss, we need to tell him," The first man pleaded. "If we talk to Mr. Ghoul… he could handle this. He could erase him before he causes more trouble."
"Oh! That is a wonderful idea! Truly inspired!" The Boss clapped his hands together, the sound echoing like a whip crack. "But… I think he already knows."
The injured man blinked, confused. "Wha-what do you mean?"
"Well," the Boss said, his voice dropping into a cold, honeyed purr. "My instructions were very simple: Nothing happens tonight. Everything runs smoothly. And yet, look at this. It's messy. It's loud. It's… a failure."
"Bu-but we couldn't have known!"
"There were ten of you," the Boss noted, gesturing casually at the bodies. "Ten-armed men, and one boy in a blindfold, bested you. That is a very poor return on investment."
He turned toward the exit, the light from the embers catching the cruel glint in his eyes.
"You can ask him for your second chance yourselves."
The men froze. The air in the warehouse suddenly turned frigid, curdling into something foul and suffocating.
The moment the boss stepped out, something—or someone—else slipped in, a masked figure clad in matte black, moving with seamless silence.
"Wait—Boss! Don't leave!"
"PLEASE, MR. GHOUL! I'M SORR—"
"̷̢̧̧̨͔̭̭̪̳͖̘̣͎̱͖̻̦̬̯̗̯̭͓̞̹̯͈̦͓́̽̌̂̈̿̌̈̊̀̃͗̀̾̐̀̊̋̃̀͗̄̚̚͜ͅͅM̴̧̢̛̛̜̥͔̤͉͕͈͖̘̖͓̏͗̽̐͗̿̈͆̌̎̌̌͗͊̈́̃͛̎̏̈́͂̄̊̀̚͝͠͝͠ͅR̸̨̡̰͈͙̼̪̱̮̩͙̞͔̺̝̭͈͚͈͍͕̹͓̭̤̲͕͎̜̪̔͐̋—̵̡̨̙̖̯͈̠̟̼͈̤̠͍͈͉͖̘͇̪̩̹̤͖̩̻̲̬̣̙̫͐͗͗̒̒̀͋̔͋̅͜͠͠ͅ ̶̢͉̳͎̬̜̣̟̭͔̹̬͈̙̰̻͕̰̺̟͖̼̩̈́̃̔̔͋͐͋̃͜͜ͅͅG̶̡̡̛̯͕͍̻̥͖͙̖̳̣̲͖̯̰̣̘̣̬̝̙̗̤̮͔͈̙̰͍̗̣̭̾̈́͂̒̽͌̓͒̋̒̌̓̒͘͜͝H̸̡̡̛̉̓̂̓́̽̌̓͛̏͛̃̿̈́Ờ̸̺̠̭̗̯͎̞̠͈͖̞̯͙̓̃͋͗͆͌́̓́̄̋̋͒̌̊́̊̒̈̓̇͊̆͜͠͠͝—̶̧̧̹͔̘͚̊͗̿̓̅̐̂̂̌̿̎̓̕͘͝͠ͅ ̶̢̢̢̹͚̻̺̮̲͓͎̺͈͎̯̫͚̫̠͈͍̝͍͚̭͕̰̖͈̳̲͕͓͔̣͍͎͍̰͛͜ͅG̷̛̟͙̬͖̅͋͊̆͐́͒͊̈̔͑͑̿͋́͌́̓͒̍̓̂̇̈́͐͊͐́̾̓̓̍̂̕̕̕͜͝—̵̧̨̡̡̦̯̹̯̭͓̞̗͈͉̖̝̟̫̩̫̗̐͑̕͘͘"̷̧̢̨̨̨͙̫̘̮̟̱̤̣͉͍͓̼͇̹̗͇͇̜̙̫̲͓̟̦̦͍̼̠̩̮̟̣̬̈̎̑̄́́͋͆͑̀̓̒̂͂͘ͅ
....