The night had already settled — the sky, thick and silent, covered the North like a cloak of pitch.
The air carried the smell of drink, smoke, and rose perfume from the women who laughed in the windows and on the corners.
Ereon walked with his hands in his pockets, distracted look, a half-smile thrown at the corner of his lips.
Éon, beside him, kept a steady pace, his attentive gaze sweeping every shadow between the trembling torchlights.
When they approached the entrance of the illuminated house — from where came laughter and the muffled sound of music — two girls watched them from the door, wrapped in satin dresses and curious looks.
One of them, with pink cheeks and a trembling voice, raised her hand:
"I'm sorry… we don't accept children."
Ereon arched an eyebrow, the smile widening, slow and teasing. Slightly leaning, he cast a gaze that went over the woman from head to toe before answering, calm and ironic:
"Children don't walk around when hell wakes up, darling."
Éon sighed softly, looking away — Ereon's tone was no novelty to him. With the same serenity, he added:
"We're only after someone. After that… I promise no one here will remember seeing us."
The girl blinked, confused, hesitating between shyness and enchantment.
Before she could continue, a man with a bulging belly, dressed in black, crossed the door of the brothel. The expression filled with anger fixed on the two, fists clenched, every muscle tense.
"Move, brats! This is no place for you!" he shouted, the voice hoarse and full of fury.
Ereon looked at him, from head to toe, with a half-smile that mixed contempt and provocation. He turned to Éon, eyes blazing:
"Doesn't this remind you of something?"
Éon remained silent, watching.
Ereon continued, light and teasing:
"You're not cute at all, you know? Back then, you always asked me… or, every time I spoke, you answered: 'I know… Totsuka no Tsurugi.'"
The vein on the man's forehead pulsed as if it would burst. He shouted, almost breathless:
"Hey, are you deaf? Didn't your mother teach you manners?"
Ereon sighed, a low sound, almost bored, before acting. In a quick movement, he kicked the man's left leg, knocking him to his knees.
In one gesture, he grabbed his head and threw it against the pillar near the door. The dry impact reverberated through the corridor.
Before the body could fully give in, Ereon stepped on his head, pressing it against the floor. The smell of blood and sweat hung in the air.
The women backed away, horrified, whispering among themselves.
Éon watched in silence, completely indifferent, as if the scene were part of daily life.
Ereon kept his gaze fixed on the fallen man and concluded, coldly:
"That's what you should have done that day, Éon."
He took a step forward, his presence crushing every inch around, and said, the voice calm but implacable:
"Remember this. When you're before a prince… your head should be glued to the floor."
Upon hearing it, the women knelt automatically, as if obeying an invisible law.
Ereon kept his foot for a few more seconds, until the man nodded, trembling and bloody. Then he stepped back, wiping the sole of his boot on the man's cloak, casting a cold look at the woman who had tried to stop them.
She swallowed hard, eyes wide, barely daring to breathe.
"Now…" he said, the tone still loaded with authority, but without losing the teasing touch, "it seems we can enter."
They entered without ceremony. The wood of the door creaked slightly; the heat of the brothel received them like a wave — smell of wine, wax, cheap perfume, and muffled laughter.
Women in satin served cups to men leaning on tables; others whispered, leaning on columns; some went up, hand in hand with clients, toward the second floor.
Candles flickered in candlesticks, jars clinked, and the music of a lute formed a lazy background.
Ereon and Éon advanced through the hall with calm steps. Ereon's eyes swept the place in a quick and sharp pass; Éon's did the same with equal efficiency, but without haste.
"I don't see him around," murmured Éon, without taking his eyes off the hall.
Ereon followed his brother's gaze to the staircase leading to the second floor. He stopped, still, as one who observes a line to be followed.
"He must be on the second floor," said Ereon, short. A slanted smile appeared, predatory and silent.
"Should I knock on the door?" he murmured, in a low voice, half provocation, half rhetoric.
It wasn't necessary. Ereon raised a hand with a delicate gesture, almost a dance, fingers twirling and intertwining the air.
The environment responded: the candlelight flickered, the glass of the jars trembled, small shards fell without anyone touching them, and an imperceptible hum ran through the wood and the floor.
Each object seemed to obey an invisible will, each gesture of the prince bent the space as if he pulled the hall inside himself.
Screams came from the second floor, muffled and surprised. The upper door creaked as if something heavy were being dragged.
A maid, wrapped in sheets, descended in stumbling steps, trembling:
"The doors on the second floor… opened… suddenly."
Ereon whispered a word charged with power:
"Mentis."
The word slid through the air like black silk. There was no visible touch, only an invisible pressure that licked the minds of the hall.
Conversations ceased. Cups stopped halfway to lips. Laughter died. All raised slow eyes to Ereon as if pulled by strings.
Time seemed to flow differently for a second — not total silence, but the world reduced to a list of small interrupted gestures.
No one moved. No one screamed. Even the lute stayed with the musician's hand on half a note.
Time seemed to distort, making each breath conscious and each blink of an eye a suspended decision.
"Stay where you are," murmured Ereon, leaving the energy hanging in the air. Each word was an invisible thread that imprisoned everyone.
Éon, beside him, remained calm, watching the motionless figures as one who checks pieces on a board.
Karna appeared half-naked on the railing of the second floor as if he had just entered a stage — relaxed posture, easy smile, clear eyes fixed on Ereon and Éon down below.
"Well, look at that," he said, the playful voice cutting the air, "if it isn't Ereon, the twin I make a point of not liking."
He hesitated a step, fingers drumming on the handrail, and continued with the same light tone:
"I'd even invite you for a drink, but things are kind of slow at the moment."
Ereon smiled, short, the corner of his mouth sharp as a blade. There was no tone of surprise — only the calculated calm of one who knows everything happening around.
"You have five minutes," Ereon's voice sounded like a blade. "Get dressed and come down. After that time, this place and everything inside it will become ruin — including you."
Karna arched an eyebrow, amused, like someone who accepts a challenge without fear.
Ereon didn't wait for an answer. He looked at his wrist — without a watch — and, in an almost theatrical gesture, tapped his fingertips on his forearm.
"Now you only have four… tick-tock," he murmured, the irony carrying each syllable, as if mocking the time Karna still had.
The entire hall seemed to sense the tension of the countdown. Karna laughed low, but there was alertness in his eyes; Éon remained impassive beside him, vigilant and serene, watching every reaction.
A few minutes dragged by. The distant sound of footsteps echoed upstairs — slow, rhythmic, until they ceased. Then, the wood creaked lightly.
Éon broke the silence, the voice serene but firm:
"And then, what's all this for?"
Ereon tilted his head slightly, the sharp gaze sweeping the hall, stopping for a moment on Karna, who was descending from the inner balcony with relaxed steps, fingers brushing the handrail, tapping in an almost imperceptible rhythm.
"The king warned me that the queen will return soon," said Ereon, the voice calm but loaded with contained tension, as if each word were a cold blade.
"Her influence in the North is too great. As soon as she arrives, the balance will break."
Éon frowned, the mind already stitching the reasoning.
"Then the succession will cease to be just a political matter," he concluded, the tone measured. "When she returns, the North will become a field of dispute. If we want the throne, we must act before she acts against us."
Ereon took a slow step, the tip of his boot scraping the polished wooden floor, the sound echoing through the hall. A short and teasing smile curved his lips, the violet glow of his eyes shimmering under the light.
"Exactly," he murmured. "The king and queen wage a silent war for control of the North, and the central throne presses from all sides. Chaos is inevitable… and it's within it that we'll enter."
The silence that followed was dense. Éon absorbed every word, his body tense, gaze firm, while Ereon's energy vibrated in the air, almost imperceptible.
Ereon leaned slightly, the smile becoming restrained, calculated.
"It seems your mind is already aligning… assimilating everything we've lived, every memory of the past and of the Abyss, synchronizing with mine."
The air seemed to vibrate lightly between the two, as if one's thoughts flowed into the other, weaving a silent and deep connection.
Karna descended the last steps, the easy smile contrasting with the alert shine in his clear eyes.
"I'm here," he said, breaking the tension. "So… where are we going?"
Ereon raised his gaze to him, the smile short and precise. His fingers moved in a discreet gesture — a silent reminder of who led the next move.
"We're going in search of information," he said, the voice calm but loaded with purpose.
There was a pause, slow and deliberate. Ereon arched an eyebrow, the tone filled with irony and a hint of challenge:
"Tell me… how long has it been since you confessed your sins before the gods?"
The silence that followed seemed almost physical, heavy, as if the very air waited for the answer.
The tension vibrated between them, and for an instant, only the distant sound of the wind passing through the hall could be heard.
It was more than a question; it was a warning. Every gesture, every look, foreshadowed the next movement — and everyone knew, without needing to say it, that the temple would be the stage of the truth that was to come.