The alleyway was silent, the kind of silence that carried weight. Only the occasional clink of a rolling glass bottle and the mutter of half-asleep beggars disturbed the stillness.
Lucian leaned against the rough stone wall, palms flat against the surface as though the cold bricks might steady the chaos in his mind. His head was bowed, strands of sweat-dampened blonde hair sticking to his forehead. His breathing came in uneven bursts, his chest rising and falling far too fast for the simple act of standing still.
His eyes darted repeatedly to his right, toward the spot where the demon's pleasure house once stood. The building that had been a permanent mark of this district, always buzzing with its exotic patrons, its crimson lanterns glowing defiantly in the night. Yet now—there was nothing. No neon glow. No swaying curtains. No sound of laughter or music leaking through the walls. Only an ordinary stretch of cobblestone street, as if the place had never existed at all.
Lucian's lips trembled. He whispered, stammering,
"W-what the h-hell is going on?"
His mind spun, a whirlpool of possibilities and theories that collided until none of them made sense. He pressed his fist against his chest as though trying to hold his heart in place
Was this an illusion? A dream? Some kind of magic at work?
The questions multiplied until they suffocated him.
Did the assassination attempt succeed? Were the other races expelled overnight? What happened to the treaty?
For every answer he tried to imagine, ten new doubts clawed their way forward.
"No… no," he muttered under his breath. "The shopkeeper mentioned a raid on dwarves last week."
That detail alone shattered most of his theories. If a raid happened recently, then this wasn't simply some trick of memory or time. It was something else entirely, something far bigger, far more terrifying.
Lucian forced himself upright, his body trembling with every step as he staggered toward the mouth of the alley. He emerged onto the main street and froze, scanning the crowd with desperate eyes.
They were all human.
Not a single elf, dwarf, or demon walked among them. No pointed ears glinting in the sun, no stout figures dragging carts of ore, no tails swaying beneath elegant skirts. Just humans. Only humans.
Lucian's throat went dry. "It's… impossible," he muttered.
His gaze swept the busy street again, faster this time, as though speed would change the truth. It didn't. The absence screamed louder than any presence could.
The imperial palace.
The thought struck him like lightning. His father's strange insistence earlier, his brother's smug confidence, the demand that Lucian accompany them—maybe it was all connected. If answers existed, the palace was the only place to find them.
With stiff legs, Lucian forced himself into the current of the crowd, moving steadily toward the city center. His eyes twitched constantly, checking every corner, every shop, every face, hoping against hope that something would prove him wrong. That he would see even a single sign of the old world he remembered. But each glance only confirmed the nightmare.
Halfway through the city, he noticed a commotion up ahead. A massive crowd gathered tightly around something, the air vibrating with energy. Curiosity—or perhaps dread—pulled him closer. He shoved through the bodies, ignoring the curses and protests thrown his way. Once people recognized who he was, the muttering subsided, but Lucian didn't care either way. His mind was elsewhere.
Finally, he broke through to the front. His breath caught in his throat.
An execution platform stood tall in the square. Wooden stairs rose on either side, leading to the raised stage where countless deaths had once taken place. It was a structure that should have been dismantled years ago, destroyed the very day peace was declared. Yet here it was, rebuilt, alive, and waiting.
Lucian's heart hammered. His eyes fixed on the stage. Two figures stood proudly at the front.
One was a hulking executioner clad in full black plate, his massive halberd glinting wickedly in the sunlight. His mask revealed only his eyes, cold and unblinking.
The other was a priest in pure white robes, embroidered with the golden sigils of Ardenfel's church. His head was held high, his expression full of righteous fervor.
But what truly froze Lucian's blood was the line of prisoners behind them.
"…They're all… demons," he whispered.
Their hands bound with glowing runes, their bodies starved and frail, bones visible beneath stretched skin. Once proud, now reduced to shadows of themselves.
The people surrounding the platform chattered eagerly, faces alight as though this were a festival. Lucian's stomach turned.
The priest raised his hand, and the noise faded into silence. His voice rang clear across the square.
"Citizens of Ardenfel! Today is a magnificent day! Today we display the downfall of a filthy race's noble, and I, Akthus, am honored to stand here and deliver justice!"
The crowd erupted, roaring approval. Cheers thundered until the ground itself seemed to tremble.
Lucian's lips pressed together. His fists clenched at his sides.
What is this madness? Why is this happening again?
The priest turned toward the captives, gesturing for one to step forward. A large demon obeyed—or rather, was forced forward by the guards. His long red hair hung wild, horns broken and jagged, scars carved deep across his body. Even stripped of power, he radiated defiance.
The priest sneered. "Get down, black blood."
The demon didn't move. His crimson eyes locked on the priest with silent fury.
The priest clicked his tongue, then signaled. The executioner advanced, swinging the blunt side of his halberd into the demon's stomach. The man gasped, crumpling to his knees.
Lucian's eyes narrowed. The runes… they've drained all his strength.
The priest placed his boot on the demon's bowed head, pressing him into the wood. "This," he said to the crowd, "is where you belong."
Lifting his foot, he spread his arms wide and turned back to the citizens.
"Behold! This man is Kathal Drumaz, a noble of the demon race! He led raids against our camps, slaughtering your fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters! He took from you all that you loved!"
The crowd howled in rage, fists raised, voices merging into one hateful cry. Lucian flinched, his chest tightening.
This… this is exactly what happened during the war . It's happening all over again.
The priest's voice boomed. "So tell me, what should we do with this black blood?!"
"KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"
The words echoed like thunder, stabbing into Lucian's ears.
The priest smiled. "Then today, we deliver justice. Today, we avenge our dead, who watch from the heavens above!"
He glanced at the executioner and gave a simple nod.
The executioner raised his halberd high, the blade gleaming.
The priest began his final prayer. "May Ardenfell—"
"…escort you to your rightful place," Lucian whispered hoarsely, finishing the sentence he had heard countless times before.
The halberd fell. Steel met flesh. The demon's head rolled across the stage.
The crowd roared in ecstasy, but Lucian couldn't watch. He shoved through the bodies, desperate to escape, his breath ragged. Sweat poured down his face as he stumbled into the open street once more.
"This is wrong," he muttered, his voice shaking. "This can't… this can't be happening."
His feet moved before his mind could catch up. He ran, faster and faster, the spires of the imperial palace looming in the distance.
If there were answers, they would be there. But deep down, he already feared the truth—that whatever awaited him inside those walls was something he would never be ready to hear.