"Chad…!? Chad… Chad…!?... come on man say something." Remy's voice trembled as he called out. His hands shook uncontrollably, fear crawling into the deepest crevices of his soul.
Chad lay motionless on the ground, blood pooling beneath him—yet behind that body, another person stood upright it was Charles, a wide, grotesque grin stretching across his face.
His eyes gleamed crimson, the same color as the cursed sky above. His hair, once golden, had turned silver, and his head hung at a crooked angle. Pale skin flushed red with streaks of blood dripping from his mouth. His canines had lengthened, tearing at his lips whenever he tried to close them.
The sight was horrifying—an unholy mimicry of the friend Remy once knew.
"Charles!! What have you done!?" Remy roared, anguish ripping through his throat. Memories surged—his friends from his hometown, their screams, the smell of burning flesh.
"No… no… no… you can't die," Remy whispered, his strength faltering as he dropped to his knees. Crawling toward Chad's fallen body, his shaking hands reached out, desperate, broken.
"Ahhhhh!" His cry split the night, echoing across the fields as Lucy watched with amused detachment.
"So what now? Are you crying?" she mocked, her tone dripping with false pity as she took slow, deliberate steps forward.
"Bring him here, Charles," she commanded.
At her word, Charles moved—leaping effortlessly over Chad's fallen body. He landed beside Remy, silent, his eyes hollow. His hand still pressed against his wounded neck, crimson seeping between his fingers.
"Cry, black o' Steel," Charles muttered.The sand near Remy began to crack and swirl, shifting unnaturally, rising upward as if drawn by an unseen force. From the twisting mass emerged a golem, born of mud and shadow. Its eyes were black and hollow, and where a mouth should have been stretched a wide, empty grin—just like Charles's.
The creature staggered forward, its movements heavy and deliberate. It reached down, grabbing Remy by the hair, and dragged him toward Lucy.
Now, at last, Remy stood face to face with her.
"You know," Lucy began, her tone calm and curious, "I saw you—the real you—in Charles's memories. This isn't your true face, is it? Fascinating... what kind of ability is this? To appear differently to anyone who hasn't seen your real self."
She grasped his chin, forcing his face upward."But since I've seen it in his memories… I can see you as you truly are." She chuckled softly, her eyes glinting. "And quite the looker, aren't you? I would've loved to keep you as a pet... but I suppose that's no longer possible now."
"Bring him along. We're going to the capital," Lucy said, stepping forward.
They moved past Chad, who had collapsed onto the ground. His hand still clutched his neck as he stared blankly at the sky, eyes wide and unmoving.
"Uh… what about him, madam?" one of the goons beside Lucy asked.
"Pay him no mind. The land will have him," she replied, gesturing with a lazy flick of her finger for the man to follow.
The golem's body shifted then, mud wrapping around Remy until only his face remained visible. It began to move, trudging obediently behind Lucy.
Charles walked beside her, silent, their shadows stretching long beneath the dim light.
"You did well, you know," Lucy said softly, glancing his way. "And your gift… it's truly sublime. I'm certain the Saintes will adore it."
They strode across the fields in silence, the night air heavy and cold, until at last the golden lights of the manor appeared—illuminating the path to its grand doors.
"Oh, Lucy, my dear! You've come at last," a voice called from the distance. "We can't miss the festival, you know that, right?"
It was Clara.
"Yes, Mother, I know," Lucy replied, her voice calm but carrying that subtle thrill of pride. "Look—I came bearing gifts."
She moved toward her mother, who was dressed entirely in white, her gown flowing like mist in the moonlight. Clara embraced her daughter briefly before turning away the manor's grand doors.
"Oh, dear… don't be like that," Clara said lightly, glancing toward Remy. "Looks could kill you know."
She passed him without another word, her perfume lingering faintly in the air as she stepped into the chariot waiting nearby. It was a deep blue, nearly black, adorned with intricate carvings of a feathered dragon. Its body wound from the rear of the carriage to the front, where the driver sat—a silent figure with his face hidden behind a half-mask. In fact, every servant in sight wore the same mask, pale and expressionless.
Moments later, Stark appeared—his heavy steps echoing sharply against the stone floor.
"Do you think they'll be happy?" he asked, his tone half jest, half arrogance. "This time, our family managed to bring three of them."
He adjusted the cuff of his black-and-white suit, the steel tips of his shoes glinting faintly in the lantern light.
"Still," he continued, voice lowering, "I wonder why they had to move the festival forward. It's usually held near year's end."
"Come now, dear, there's no use complaining," Clara called from inside the chariot.
Stark's gaze fell on Remy as he walked past. Their eyes met—one filled with hatred, the other anger so much anger you would expect him to pounce any moment.
"Ha," Stark muttered, his lip curling into a cruel grin. "If eyes could kill…"
With that, he climbed into the chariot, the door closing behind him with a muffled thud.
"Lucy, make haste—we are running out of time!" Clara called from outside.
"Yes, Mother…" Lucy replied, descending the grand staircase with a soft grace that seemed almost unnatural. In that short time, she had transformed herself—her golden hair curled into perfect cinnamon-like swirls, adorned with trinkets of gold and silver that shimmered beneath the chandeliers. Her gown was white, flowing like a river of silk, threaded with faint veins of silver that caught the light as she moved.
Her skin glowed with a porcelain softness, her eyes wide and radiant, and for a moment, she seemed less human—more like a painted piece came to life.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and walked beside Charles, her expression serene, almost content. Together, they stepped into the second chariot that followed behind her parents'. This one was heavier, attached to a trailing carriage.
Remy was forced inside, his wrists bound, the scent of damp wood and old blood thick in the air.
Moments later, the convoy rolled forward—their wheels grinding over the stone road, heading toward the Capital beneath a crimson sky.