It was a long and bumpy ride in the elevator, giving Caspian the perfect opportunity to reflect. Thinking back to the dossier Lucille had given him, he wondered if Selma was part of the "Aegis League." She was certainly close with Andrew and Camael, yet she didn't strike him as a combat-oriented person. Did that mean the league was larger than he had anticipated? For now, it didn't really matter, as his only mission was to kill Andrew. Still, gathering more information on the league certainly wouldn't hurt.
"How many years has it been," Camael asked, "since we've seen him?"
"Almost six," Andrew replied.
"Seen who?" Caspian inquired.
"The Head Tailor, Alfonse Featherworth," Andrew answered.
"Yeah, feather-boy is someone you don't see often. And when you do, you never forget," Camael added.
"Sounds like you don't like him very much," Caspian noted.
"We definitely do not," both Andrew and Camael replied in unison.
"Then why are we going to see someone you both dislike so much?" Caspian asked.
"Because he owes me," Andrew said, determined. "And I intend to make him repay me."
"But we both know that won't happen," Camael interjected. "What feather-boy lacks in physicality, he more than makes up for in sheer stubbornness."
With a final jolt, the elevator shuddered to a stop, its old mechanisms sighing under the weight of the descent.
The doors groaned open, revealing a large wooden door in the center of an expansive hallway. The air was filled with the hypnotic hum of hundreds of sewing machines, each manned by immaculately dressed men in pristine suits in various shades of navy and black.
They were all producing identical blue and black suits, presumably the very ones they were wearing. Once finished, each worker folded the suit and placed it onto a conveyor belt that whisked it across the room, where another man carefully stored it in a concealed cabinet along the wall.
The entire operation ran like a finely tuned machine, synchronized and efficient. Yet what struck Caspian as odd was how not a single person acknowledged their presence. No glances, no stares, just nothing. That changed only when they neared the large wooden door.
"So this is where your friend is?" Caspian asked, eyeing the area, trying to picture who Alfonse might be.
"Yes. His workshop is just behind this door," Andrew confirmed as he stepped forward. But before he could knock, a sharply dressed man stepped in front of him, blocking the way.
"The Head Tailor is currently busy. He asks that you return at a different time—preferably never," the man recited from a slip of paper he held.
"Oh, come on, Jeremy. We both know that's a blatant lie," Andrew replied in a forced-friendly tone, draping an arm around Jeremy's shoulder.
"We're best buddies, right?" he said rhetorically.
"Do me a solid here. Let us into the workshop and I'll treat you to some top-tier barbecue after your shift. How does that sound?"
"I will not be persuaded by your petty bribes, Andrew! Now please follow me to the exit," Jeremy huffed, raising his voice in irritation.
Before the situation could escalate further, the heavy wooden door slammed open.
A tall, pale man emerged, dressed in a tailored blue and gold suit. His long blonde hair was tied back in a neat man bun, though several strands fell across his chest, brushing against a yellow diamond brooch shaped like a shield. Without saying a word, he examined the trio with a cold, calculating gaze, then silently gestured for Jeremy to leave.
Reluctantly, Jeremy obeyed, disappearing down the hall.
"The angle is 176 degrees, Andrew, not 180," Alfonse snapped as he drew a slender wooden ruler from inside his tailored coat and smacked Andrew's back, forcing his spine straight.
"Feet parallel. Shoulders back. Chin up! Honestly, have you forgotten everything I taught you?" Alfonse barked, punctuating each critique with another sharp tap of the ruler.
"Lovely to see you as well, Alfonse," Andrew muttered sarcastically, rubbing the spots now throbbing from the blows. Despite his delicate frame, Alfonse struck like a blacksmith.
"I'll excuse your disgraceful posture only because you're not human," Alfonse sniffed, finally glancing up at Camael.
"Ah, at last, someone acknowledges my celestial superiority!" Camael beamed with smug satisfaction.
"Quite the opposite," Alfonse murmured, already turning his attention to Caspian.
Instead of launching into another lecture on posture, Alfonse began to silently circle the boy, scrutinizing him with unsettling precision. Every inch of Caspian's body was evaluated with the sharp eye of a master craftsman appraising fine material.
"And what, may I ask, is this child doing in my workshop? This is a sanctuary of craftsmanship, not a daycare," Alfonse asked, his irritation barely restrained.
"Well, you see, Alfo—" Andrew began before Caspian cut in.
"Some workshop," Caspian said coolly. "You haven't touched a single spool of thread since we got here. Your workers probably do all the work while you take the credit. Head Tailor? Please. The only thing you're the head of is disrespecting your customers."
His tone was dripping with scorn as he leaned in, his face mere inches from Alfonse's, wearing a mocking grin.
Silence fell like a guillotine. It was so quiet you could hear Andrew's nervous breathing even across the room.
The rhythmic hum of sewing machines came to an instant halt. Every impeccably dressed tailor in the room froze and turned to stare, the weight of their collective gaze now crushing the air.
Alfonse, however, remained unbothered. Not a twitch betrayed his calm expression.
"You know, Andrew," he said at last, his tone contemplative, "you are an unremarkably mediocre person, and yet… you've managed to find something truly remarkable."
He turned to Caspian and smiled—bright, genuine, and ever so slightly unhinged—as he slung an arm around the boy's shoulders and pushed open the grand doors to his private workshop.
The contrast was staggering.
Inside was a vision of artistry. Hundreds of pieces of fine fabric floated midair, suspended in a soft lavender glow. Thread danced like silk lightning, weaving itself through the material with surgical precision. Five needles hovered at work, crafting suit after flawless suit in a display of magical coordination.
Within mere seconds, Caspian could see three suits completed from start to finish.
So this is what Andrew meant, he thought. Abilities unique to each individual. If this is telekinesis, his control borders on perfection.
"Welcome to my workshop!," Alfonse declared proudly, taking his place at a commanding wooden desk in the room's center.
"Please, have a seat," he added, snapping his fingers.
Two rickety stools and one regal velvet chair floated toward them, each wrapped in that same lavender energy. Andrew and Camael were begrudgingly forced to accept the stools, while Caspian sank comfortably into the ornate chair.
"I trust the seating meets your expectations," Alfonse said with a viciously polite smile.
"So, what is it that you would like, Caspian?" he asked sweetly.
"We'd like two new suits—" Andrew began, only to be silenced instantly by a death glare.
"As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted," Alfonse said, his eyes locked on Andrew, "what would you like, Caspian?"
Caspian offered a gracious smile. "Two suits—one for me, one for Andrew. I'd like mine in a dark blue, please."
Alfonse frowned thoughtfully. "There's just one problem. I do not sell suits, nor do I give them away. In this establishment, the only way to leave with a suit… is to make it yourself."
"But I don't know how!" Caspian protested. "Even if you taught me, it'd take days—and we don't have that kind of time!"
"Such a busy young man," Alfonse mused, pacing. Then, with a glint in his eye: "How about a compromise? I'll help you make it. Think of it as a collaboration. Deal?"
"Deal," Caspian replied with a grin, shaking the tailor's hand without hesitation.
At the front gate of Nimerath
As night began to fall and the final traders left for travels, a cloaked figure approached the heavily guarded front gate of Nimerath. As the figure began to inch closer to the gate, the guards noticed them and raised their guns in a threatening manner.
"Hey, whoever you are, the cities closed for the night. It's a safety precaution." one of the guards said.
"Yeah there are plenty of hostels or places you can stay for the night which are outside of the city" added another guard, gesturing behind the cloaked figure with his gun.
Yet the figure didn't care, it continued walking closer and closer to the gate, with a weird sense of determination.
"If you come any closer, I'm going to have to arrest you" warned the first guard as he loaded his gun as a precaution.
Yet again, the figure didn't care as moved forward to get right up in the guards face, yet before it could, the guard press his finger on the trigger and fired the gun directly at the figure. Despite the smoke coming out of the barrel, the figure seemed to be fine, except for a stray breeze that pushed his cloak off, revealing the figure to be a man in his early thirties, with black hair, glowing green eyes and a tattoo of a boy eating an ice cream while demons are all around him on the left side his neck.
"B-but he shot you at point black range! You should be dead!" protested the second guard as he raised his gun and put his finger on the trigger.
"He didn't miss, I just cut the bullet in half" the man said as he held out 2 half's of a bullet in one hand, and a sword in the other, in front of the guards. "And I also cut him in half as well" he said as a strong gust of wind hit the first guard, blowing hard enough to disconnect the 2 half's of the man, to reveal that he had been sliced straight through the middle of his body.
"How about this, you let me into the city, and I let you all live! How does that soun-" he said before being cut off by the ringtone of his phone in his right pocket.
"This is Julius, who do I have the pleasure of speaking with today?" Julius asked in a sweet voice, completely flipping his personality to one that was cheerful and happy, the complete opposite to what he was acting like when he kill that guard.
"Hey Juli, Ezra asks that you kill all of the guards and leave no traces that you were there, understood?" a female voice belonging to Lucille said over the phone.
"Of course Lucille, and might I add that I just love that nickname!" Julius responded joyfully.
"Well sorry but I have to go, seems my friends have gotten a little impatient. It appears that I must teach them a lesson in manners" Julius said, back to his normal personality as he hung up the phone.
His sword began to glow with a deep, molten orange hue, light pulsing along the blade like coiled fire. With a single, fluid motion, he swung the weapon in a wide arc. The remaining guards of the five-man squad froze for a heartbeat—then their bodies split cleanly at the waist. The upper halves of their torsos slid off with quiet finality, thudding onto the dark pavement, blood quickly pooling beneath them.
"Sorry boys, but I've got places to be," Julius added as he strode past their remains, his cloak whispering behind him in the wind as he vanished through the gates of Nimerath.