The fire crackled softly in the hearth of Albus's home, casting a warm, flickering glow across the wooden floorboards. Adolfo sat, his hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. Lillian leaned back in a rocking chair near the window, arms crossed, hat tilted down but eyes sharp beneath it. Blanchette sat cross-legged on the edge of the couch, cleaning her blade with slow, practiced care. And by the far wall, chained to a post, sat Cullen, twitching with strain. Albus stood near the center, hands behind his back, watching over them all.
"We won nothing from that fight," Lillian muttered. "We were humiliated, and she got away."
"She did not kill us or turn us into vampires," Adolfo replied hoarsely. "That is something."
"She almost did." Blanchette's voice was quiet, cold. "If it wasn't for you."
A low, animal growl pulled their attention toward Cullen. The cyborg slumped against the post, breathing heavily, teeth clenched. His metal eye twitched.
"You alright there, metal man?" Lillian asked, hand twitching toward her holster.
Cullen did not answer at first. When he spoke, it was gravel and agony.
"I can feel it," he rasped. "The thirst. It is like fire in my brain. My hands twitch like they want to rip someone apart and drink his blood."
"You are still fighting it," Albus said calmly. "That is what matters."
"I do not know how long I can…"
His voice trailed off. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing harder.
Albus knelt near him, placing a hand over the bindings.
"I said I will help you, and I will."
"How?" Blanchette asked.
"There may be a way," Albus said. "to be purified by the light."
Blanchette sheathed her sword and looked toward Albus
"So what now?" she asked.
"You and Lillian rest tonight," Albus replied. "Adolfo and Cullen will go on some sort of adventure."
At the glade behind Albus's house, a circle of silver lilies glowed faintly around the edge of the clearing the only place where the veil between realms grew thin.
Albus stepped into the circle, his heart steady but heavy.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "Father. I need you."
A soft, radiant hum filled the glade. The air shimmered like heat rising from stone, and in its center, light bent, not blinding, but pure. Then, slowly, a figure stepped through, tall, ethereal, and robed in flowing gold and white. The King of Light. He looked at Albus with calm, eternal patience.
"My son," he said. "You call upon me. I felt your doubt before you even stepped into the circle."
"It is not doubt," Albus replied. "It is hope. I want your help."
The king stepped forward, his bare feet touching grass without bending it.
"For whom?"
"Adolfo," Albus said. "And Cullen. They are struggling. One is cursed with a beast. The other, poisoned with a dark seed that grows stronger by the hour."
The king's glowing gaze turned distant, thoughtful.
"You walk with a werewolf," he said, "and a turning vampire. You walk with a girl who dreams only of revenge, and another with blood on her hands and fire in her eyes."
"Yes," Albus answered without hesitation. "And I trust them."
"Why?" The king's voice was not stern, only curious. "You could have chosen others. Wiser men. Untouched by curse. Pure hearted."
Albus shook his head.
"You once told me that light shines brightest in the places where it is needed most. These people, they are broken, but they are fighting. Not for themselves. Not just that anymore."
"You would risk everything on this?" his father asked. "On them?"
Albus's eyes glinted.
"Yes."
A silence passed between them. The king stepped closer.
"You are young, and yet you see far. That is your mother in you."
Albus almost smiled.
"She thinks you gave me too much of your stubbornness."
The King of Light gave a soft, amused breath.
"She is probably right."
Then his tone shifted, growing gentler.
"Get them here, Albus and Cullen. I will take them to my realm and offer them my light."
"Thank you father," Albus said.
The light began to fade. The glade dimmed back to quiet.
Before vanishing, the King of Light spoke once more: "You have chosen your companions. Now lead them well, for the darkness will come."
Not much later that day, Albus led Adolfo and Cullen toward the glade behind the house. The morning light danced on dew-laced leaves, yet the air was heavy with silence, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath. Cullen's eyes were dim, sunken with weariness, but he said nothing. He walked with slow, deliberate steps. Adolfo, too, was quiet, his usual guarded sarcasm replaced with the quiet tension of a man walking toward his own shadow. As they stepped into the center of the glade, Albus turned to them.
"Stay still. This place will feel… different."
He closed his eyes and whispered something ancient. The air shimmered, as if ripples were spreading through reality itself. Then the grass beneath their feet seemed to melt into gold. Light rose in radiant pillars around them then swallowed them. And in the blink of a breath, they stood in the Realm of Kings.
Adolfo and Cullen looked around. Albus was not with them anymore. The sky above was neither night nor day, a sweeping canvas of swirling auroras, casting soft hues of violet and gold across a landscape unlike anything on Earth. The ground beneath their feet was smooth crystal, with veins of silver and light threading through it like living roots. Trees shimmered with leaves made of glass, each one chiming softly in the breeze. Water flowed upward in gentle arcs, forming floating streams that twinkled across the sky like rivers of starlight. The whole place pulsed with stillness and power, as though the realm itself were alive watching.
In the center of it all stood the King of Light, radiant as the sun at dawn, his robe trailing over the luminous surface like mist over water. He welcomed them with a nod, though his expression was solemn.
"Adolfo," the king said, voice echoing with depth, "step forward."
Slowly, Adolfo stepped onto a circular platform of white stone that rose gently as he approached. The King raised his hand. A beam of golden light extended from his palm, slow and steady, like a spotlight from the sun itself and settled upon Adolfo's chest. The moment it touched him, Adolfo gasped. Memories flashed behind his eyes, the eyes of the beast. The people he had hurt. The way he had tried to scream no but could only howl. His mother's terrified face as he ate her. Blanchette's broken sobs when he ate her grandma. Blood. Teeth. Shadows.He clenched his fists, trembling. The King of Light stepped closer.
"This is not a power that cleanses wounds like washing away dirt. It shines into every part of you, even the parts you have buried."
Adolfo did not look up.
"I did not ask to be a monster."
"No one ever does," the king said softly.
Adolfo's breath grew ragged.
"I saw myself rip people apart. I felt their flesh. I remember every second of it, I felt it all. I ate my own mother."
"You blame yourself."
"I hate myself," Adolfo spat. "Every moment I am not that thing, I am just the guy who waits until night to become it."
The golden light pulsed slightly brighter, reacting to his words.
"To be purified," the king said, "you must face the core of that hatred. Not run from it. Not bury it in sarcasm or guilt. Face it."
Adolfo finally looked up, not at the king, but at the reflection forming in the beam of light in front of him. It was the beast.
"Even a soul covered in scars can still reflect the light. The question is: can you let go of the belief that you deserve your suffering?" the King of Light questioned.
Adolfo remained silent, caught between the man he was… and the monster he believed he would always be.
Meanwhile, the wind through the trees outside Albus's house carried the scent of pine and ash. Inside, the wooden walls glowed orange in the late afternoon light, the quiet warmth settling over the room like a blanket. Blanchette sat curled in the armchair by the fireplace, her red hood resting on the back, her long braid hanging over her shoulder as she stared into the slowly dying flames. Across the room, Lillian stood at the kitchen counter, reloading her six-shooter with smooth, methodical movements. Her spurs jingled with every step she took on the hardwood floor. Silence sat between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy with all they had just lived through.
"You cook anything other than rabbit stew, Blanche?" Lillian asked without turning around, her voice casual but fond.
Blanchette smiled faintly.
"I can make a mean berry pie, if we ever find berries that are not half poisoned."
Lillian chuckled.
"Might hold you to that. Haven't had proper pie since before my dad passed."
Blanchette looked toward her, curious.
"Was he a gunslinger too?"
Lillian nodded, her fingers pausing mid-cartridge.
"Yeah. He taught me most of what I know. He was not much for words, but he could split a vulture's wing mid-flight from a hundred paces. Real legend around these parts."
"Sounds like you were proud he was your father."
Lillian gave a small smile.
"He was. Even if I would never admit it to him. He thought protectin' these woods was more important than medals or stories. Taught me to do the same. I just wish he spent more time with me."
Blanchette pulled her legs up onto the chair, hugging her knees.
"You've been doing it a long time, huh?"
"Since I was seven," Lillian replied. "Could barely hold the Colt steady at first, but I made it work. I was scared outta my mind the first time I faced an outlaw."
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Still am, sometimes. But fear ain't what stops you. It is what tells you what matters."
Blanchette nodded slowly.
"Guess we both started young."
"Yeah," Lillian said, watching her. "We did."
There was another pause. Then, softly, Lillian asked: "Can I ask you something a bit personal?"
Blanchette turned to face her.
"Go ahead."
"You forgave him… Adolfo. So fast. I know it is technically not his fault he ate your grandma, but still… I do not know. It is strange. Just does not sit right in my gut how easily you let it go."
Blanchette did not flinch. She just let the moment sit in the air for a while.
"It is not that I forgot it happened," she finally said. "I remember everything. The blood. Her voice. The silence after."
Lillian raised a brow. "Then why?"
Blanchette drew her knees up to her chest. She lowered her gaze. Her voice, when it came, was almost a whisper.
"When I was eleven, I set our house on fire."
Lillian's brow furrowed.
"I was playing near the fireplace. Knocked over an oil lamp, and I was too afraid to tell anyone. The fire spread so fast. My parents were still inside."
"Oh…" Lillian's voice softened, the weight of her own pistol forgotten.
"My parents did not make it. My grandma pulled me out. Burned her hands doing it, but she did not say a word of blame. Not once. I kept waiting for her to shout, to scream, to tell me I ruined everything, to scold me for killing her own son."
Blanchette swallowed.
"But she held me that night, kept me warm, told me not to hate myself and that everything would be okay. She said to me: 'Carrying guilt does not mean you stop walking. It just means you walk heavier, and you learn how to hold that weight, but you do not have to hold it alone.' She forgave me. Never threw it in my face. Never made me feel like a monster."
Lillian moved closer, her eyes gentle now.
"I did not forgive Adolfo because it was easy," Blanchette said. "I did it because I know what it is like to live with something you can't undo, to want to kill yourself as punishment, and how much it means to have someone believe you are worth more than your worst mistake. I wanted to be that someone for Adolfo just like grandma was for me, even if I barely even knew him. Maybe it is just because I am desperate to redeem myself or something, I do not know."
For a moment, Lillian did not speak. Then she exhaled a quiet breath and nodded.
"That is… not something I would have expected. You are stronger than you look, Red."
Blanchette smirked faintly.
"You are not too bad yourself, cowgirl."
Lillian looked down at her hands. Her voice, when it came, was quieter.
"People do not forgive that easily where I come from."
Blanchette turned to her with a faint smile.
"Maybe they should start."
The front door creaked open, and Albus stepped in. It is obvious that he sprinted to here. His golden eyes were wide, his face pale with urgency. Blanchette and Lillian straightened at once.
"Are they back already?" Blanchette asked.
Albus shook his head.
"No."
"Then what is it?" Lillian said.
Albus looked between them, breath quickened, voice quiet but thunderous with meaning: "Callidora has returned."
The air seemed to freeze.
"And she has an army."