Autumn winds drifted gently through the outskirts of London, carrying the scent of damp soil, rotting leaves, and the ash from the kitchen chimneys of commoners. The gray sky hung oppressively low, as if refusing to witness the filth of the human world.
Amidst narrow alleys stitched together by red bricks and rotting wood, stood a small, unremarkable house. Its paint had peeled, its windows were clouded with dust, and its door remained tightly shut. No one knew who lived there. No one cared.
But inside that house, not a single moment was left to waste.
---
"The report from the palace servant has arrived," Vespera said calmly, placing a folded letter on the wooden table. The fire crackled softly behind her in the hearth.
Charles sat across from her. His frame was taller now, stronger—and his eyes… darker. Not the darkness of cruelty, but the stillness born of hell.
He reached out slowly, taking the letter without a word. Silence filled the room, broken only by the rustle of paper and the whisper of burning wood.
"The von Argeric family is involved in the trafficking of orphans," he muttered. "They're working with three eastern barons, including Wightworth…"
His shoulders stiffened. His fingers clenched the letter until the parchment crumpled.
"This… never ends."
Vespera stepped closer. Her long black gown swept the floor, and her silver hair flowed like moonlight rippling on a dead pond. She gazed deeply into Charles's eyes.
"Are you growing tired?"
Charles exhaled—slowly, heavily.
"No. I'm beginning to understand... this goes beyond revenge. This needs reform."
---
Seven years had passed since that cursed night in the dungeon.
Seven years of shadows, whispers, and blood gone cold.
Charles had become a young man with the face of marble—striking, yet unreadable. His gaze was sharp, but never volatile. Like embers that never died out, quietly smoldering beneath the surface.
And throughout those years, they infiltrated the underbelly of London.
They slipped into archive vaults.
Spied on the banquets of nobles.
Waded through foul alleyways to speak with thieves, harlots, and hired killers.
---
"Charles," Vespera said one night, standing beside him on the rooftop. Below them, the noble towers of London loomed like fangs, ready to devour the moon. "The Grand Assembly draws near."
Charles didn't turn. His face was bathed in mist-covered moonlight.
Vespera smiled faintly.
"Are you ready to show your face to the world once more?"
He was silent. Then, slowly, he turned.
His gaze was calm.
But his lips curled upward, forming a cold, steady smile.
"Yes.
Let them see the ghost they buried—
now risen, cloaked in black wings."
---