Niko stepped into the tavern again, the soft bell overhead ringing just as it had earlier. The warmth of the place hit him immediately—dim lighting, faint chatter from a few tired souls nursing drinks at the back, the scent of old wood and burnt oil still lingering faintly in the air.
The woman at the front desk looked up as he walked in. Her eyes widened a bit, as if she hadn't expected him to return so soon. Maybe… she'd been waiting.
"Was the food good?" she asked, voice a little softer than before, almost shy.
Niko blinked, caught off guard. "Oh—yeah. It was really good. Thank you."
There was something in her gaze—like she'd hoped he might say more. But Niko just smiled politely and started for the stairs. The woman let out a light laugh behind him. Not mocking—more like accepting something she already knew.
Niko made his way back up the stairs, the dim hallway quieter than before. His steps were slower now — not heavy, but thoughtful, the kind of pace someone takes when they know there's nothing more they can do for the day.
He passed the last door again.
Iri's.
Still nothing.
He didn't knock this time.
Just a glance.
And then he kept walking.
His own room felt colder now. Not physically, just in atmosphere. The weight of everything — tomorrow, the war, Chalice's confidence, the unknowns about the Devil of Light — it all pressed quietly around him. He didn't fight it anymore. There was no point.
He pulled off his shirt, tossed it to the side, and crawled under the covers. His body still carried soreness from training, like his muscles hadn't caught up to the sudden strength his core now pumped through him.
Lying on his back, he stared up at the wooden ceiling.
Iri, where are you?
He exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow… no, today. It starts.
And then, without another thought, his eyes shut.
The world outside kept turning — the Sanctuary unaware of the coming storm.
And Niko slept, quietly.
..
…
….
The morning light was soft, bleeding faint gold through the window panes of Niko's room. No birdsong, no fanfare. Just a stillness—like the world was holding its breath.
Niko awoke sharp at dawn. No grogginess, no stretching. He opened his eyes and sat up, his breath already steady, his mind locked on the path ahead. The war.
Without hesitation, he reached for the tattered cloak folded in the corner. The same one he had ripped off one of those fanatics down in the cult's lair. The fabric still smelled faintly of old stone and dry blood, but he put it on anyway. A disguise. Nothing more.
As he fastened the torn cloth over his shoulders, his lip curled in distaste. That place… The echo of chants, the sharp scent of incense, the way they looked at Chalice like he was salvation and apocalypse all at once—it made his skin crawl. He didn't trust that the cultists wouldn't attack him outright once things began. At least now, dressed like one of their own, he'd pass by unnoticed.
He slid into his usual worn-out boots—scuffed from running, cracked from fighting, soaked once in sewer water and dried under a tavern hearth. They were reliable. They were his.
Then he paused, kneeling by the side of his bed where his blade leaned in shadow. The Knight's Blade. Clean, simple, weighty. Not the most elegant, but it had been sharp enough to carry him through everything since the day he found it.
Or rather, since it found him.
He remembered the merchant clearly—hooded, grinning, eyes glinting with the kind of knowledge that didn't come from books. "You'll need this more than I ever will," the merchant had said, handing it over like it was some trinket. And yet… it had never chipped, never dulled. Niko didn't know what it was made of, but it felt like the only thing in his life that hadn't betrayed him.
He strapped the blade to his side, adjusted the cloak, and headed downstairs.
The same tired woman from the night before was at the front desk, her eyes bagged and hair hastily tied. "Good morning," she mumbled, voice hoarse like she hadn't yet found her throat.
"Morning," Niko replied flatly, more out of habit than anything else. He didn't linger.
The street outside was already stirring—vendors setting up carts, the scent of bread mixing with the distant noise of hammering metal. No one knew what was coming. He walked alone through the Sanctuary, his face half-shadowed by the hood.
By the time he reached the edge of the district, the great spire loomed above him. The Dark Tower—twisting like a splinter stabbed into the sky. Its blackened stone reflected none of the sunlight, a blot in the pale dawn.
And there, right outside its gates, on a splintered wooden bench, sat a cloaked man.
Chalice.
At least, Niko assumed so. The man was hunched like a beggar, a hood pulled low over his face. Two city guards stood just a few feet away, looking at him with passing indifference. They must've thought he was another vagrant. If they had seen his true face—those divine features carved like marble, that golden hair—he'd have caused a riot of admiration. Sanctuary wasn't ready for that kind of beauty.
Niko sat down beside him without saying a word. The bench creaked.
"…So what's the plan?" Niko asked nervously, voice barely above a whisper.
Chalice tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a grin beneath his hood. "Look who's all dressed up," he teased. "Ah, boy wonder, playing pretend?"
Niko rolled his eyes. "You're one to talk. You're out here playing homeless messiah."
But before he could say more, Chalice casually slapped a hand over Niko's mouth—eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his hood.
"Shhh… Are you trying to get us killed?"
A few passing citizens looked over at them warily. One mother grabbed her child's hand and crossed the street. Another muttered something about lunatics. Niko batted Chalice's hand away, face burning. "You're insane."
"And you're loud," Chalice retorted, lifting Niko's hood slightly to check his face. "Try not to blow our cover before we've started."
Satisfied no one was paying them too much attention, Chalice leaned back and said, more serious now, "The cultists are already in place. Underground, waiting for the signal."
Niko swallowed. "And the plan?"
Chalice's tone dropped, becoming razor-sharp. "We raid the Dark Tower. The guards won't be able to stop us—we'll make it swift. We get inside. We deal with Dem Oche."
Niko's chest tightened at that name.
"And then," Chalice continued, his voice low, dangerous, resolute, "we summon the Devil of Light. And we destroy him. Once and for all."
There was no dramatic swell of music. No thunder cracking in the distance. Just silence between two people who had both been carved by fate.
Niko's heart thudded in his chest.
Tomorrow is today.