Cyn stepped out of the laboratory, with Tristan accompanying him. The poor fellow kept glancing left and right, trying to figure out where he was. It was a narrow corridor made of bricks and stone, leading to a spacious hall adorned with chandeliers.
Cyn walked toward one of the torches mounted on the marble walls. He grasped a tal piece of the sconce and pulled it forward.
Creaaak!
The sound of shifting walls echoed. Tristan froze in astonishnt. A hidden door opened, revealing a staircase leading upward.
Tristan asked, "Where are we? And where are we going?!"
Cyn smiled at him and asked calmly, "Do you know where you are right now?"
Tristan swallowed hard. "Gulp!" He shook his head slightly, as if to say he had no idea.
In a mocking tone, Cyn said, "What can you see when you look out from the southern temple grounds?"
Tristan replied, "The elevated temple lands, where sacrificial rituals are held for the god. Yes... you can see the three towers—"
As if realization struck him, Tristan blurted out in horror, "Damn it! The three towers... we’re in the palace?!"
Cyn scoffed. "No, you idiot!"
Tristan stared at him. Was there another possible answer? Still, he felt slightly relieved—at least they were not in the palace.
But Cyn’s next words unsettled him again.
"You’re beneath the towers. Beneath the royal palace of the king of Corvanis—Esmond Urhan Veyran."
Tristan was stunned. Was Cyn toying with him or what? They were clearly in the palace—but under it? What difference did that make? They were still in the palace.
Cyn began to drip fragnts of truth onto the poor man.
"The Ravenline... there is soone supporting them from inside the palace. Do you know who that is? Yes. It’s ."
Tristan stood frozen. The very person he and Valgean had followed and cornered—the one backing the Ravenline from within the palace—was standing right in front of him. Judging by his build and handso features, he looked like a prince. Judging by his behavior, he seed like a future king of so sort.
Tristan dropped to his knees.
"I’m sorry! My lord! I an—Your Majesty—Prince—I never expected—"
Cyn cut him off. "You may call Cyn. I am rely a consort of the king’s wives."
Tristan raised his head. "Eh?! Just a consort?!"
He seed to relax instantly, as if a massive burden had been lifted off his back.
Cyn echoed him. "Just a consort? What do you an? Consorts hold a high rank within the palace!"
The Scar of Pride laughed.
"Ahahahaha—just a consort!"
Cyn stared at Tristan, who was now smiling. In a cold tone, he asked, "Are you not afraid of ?"
Tristan grinned mockingly. "Why should I be? In the end, you’re just a consort."
Cyn knew this was the Scar’s doing and ordered it to stop.
"Enough of this nonsense. It’s not funny. Since your role is over for now, why don’t you return to your slumber and go feast on that fog and that mass of pain?"
The Scar refused.
"I don’t want to. You made this way!"
Cyn fell silent, thinking. After everything that had happened between them recently, he hadn’t expected the Scar to beco like this—especially not with behavior that contradicted its very na. But in any case—
He turned his attention back to Tristan.
"Hey—what are you doing?!"
Tristan was trying to pull open a door he had found along the upward passage.
"Can’t we see what’s beyond it?"
Cyn scolded him sharply. "Don’t touch anything! There’s nothing there—just so rats!"
The stairs ended. Before them stood a small iron door. Tristan rushed forward and tried to force it open, only to rebound backward and inspect the damage.
Cyn smiled. Did he really think brute force would work on doors like these? He stepped forward and pressed sothing beside the door. It swung open smoothly.
When Cyn passed through, he entered a study—desks, books, and a pleasant fragrance in the air.
Tristan was amazed. He had never seen furnishings or decorations like these before. But what captivated him most was the scent—feminine, alluring, almost appetizing. He began exploring like a newborn taking its first steps, pulling books from the shelves.
Incidentally, the iron door was hidden among the bookshelves themselves.
Tristan kept inhaling the fragrant air, sniffing the objects around him.
Cyn noticed Tristan ddling with Xyrene’s belongings and intended to stop him before he touched sothing he shouldn’t.
But—unexpectedly—he heard sothing.
Footsteps. Voices approaching from outside.
He glanced at the hidden door—it was closed. Then to the other side of Xyrene’s study. Then at Tristan.
He had to act—fast.
But was there enough ti?
Creaaak.
The round doorknob turned slowly. The door opened little by little.
Xyrene entered, speaking as she did.
"I didn’t expect to receive you at this hour—no, that’s not what I an! You’re welco at any ti! It’s just that my assistant didn’t inform . I didn’t receive a ssage from Mr. Watson. But since you’ve read his letter, then—"
As Xyrene opened the door and stepped into the study, she encountered soone already inside, bent over to pick up a book lying on the floor.
"And here’s the last one."
Cyn straightened, a smile on his face.
"Oh, I didn’t realize we had visitors at such an hour. I was just doing a bit of cleaning."
Cyn examined the people before him. He recognized two of them standing beside Xyrene.
The first was Astrida—sharp-eyed, golden-blonde hair, and a captivating figure that Cyn had yet to taste.
The second was an old man in a black robe embroidered with white and gold, bearing a theological symbol of a dove. Long white hair, deep wrinkles, and a suffocating presence—especially when his eyes t Cyn’s. He was a forr archbishop.
Cyn knew this man. They had t before. He used to visit Xyrene frequently in the past due to work that once connected them.
He went by the na Burgvall Duncan.
He hailed from House Duncan, rulers of the Duchy of Duncan.
Currently, he served as the headmaster of the Halo Knights stronghold—both a school and an academy for those who possessed Halo. It was the foremost institution in the kingdom. From there graduated the geniuses who would one day carry and elevate Corvanis’s ambitions. They would beco the future pillars of the Church, the Temple, their noble houses—and the Queen herself.
Gaining admission alone was an honor. The academy enforced extre rigor, with brutally difficult entrance exams. Not out of cruelty, but because they refused to waste resources on failed talent. Only true prodigies were admitted. Corruption existed—but only marginally.
"As long as you are talented, your family na does not matter.
As long as you are talented, your bloodline does not matter.
Rember this well—if you are talented, you are chosen by God.
And if you are chosen by God, who among His servants may judge you?"
This was the creed of the Halo Knights Academy.
Talent ant divine selection. And if God had granted you that talent, then you stood above all others—even those of higher rank upon this earth.
Yet corruption, as always, had many paths and many hands—especially when pride was involved.
Cyn stared at the old man, who seed to glare at him with murderous intent, though Cyn felt nothing from him beyond his Aura and presence.
Xyrene excused herself softly. "Pardon ."
She stepped very close to Cyn, her chest brushing against him. She raised her head and whispered in his ear:
"You reek of blood."
Of course, the others heard it too. The room was deathly quiet—every whisper carried.
Cyn looked toward the remaining figures. They were doing the sa.
A blond man in a black robe embroidered like Burgvall’s stood among them. Slightly taller than average, his features resembled Astrida’s—sharp eyes, handso face, and strangely shaped wavy daggers resting in sheaths at his waist.
Beside him stood a girl. Cyn couldn’t tell whether she was truly staring at him—or at sothing behind his back. Her eyes were white, webbed with veins, tinged gray. Perhaps she couldn’t see at all. She was thin, dressed like the others. Multiple rings adorned her fingers, her neck heavy with wooden necklaces and an iron cross. Black hair streaked with gray, brittle like straw. No aura emanated from her at all—only the sense that she was a peaceful person.
Two others remained.
A girl with brown hair tied in a ponytail, smiling warmly. Rosy cheeks, a full figure, and scars from old wounds—not true scars, rely healed injuries. Unlike the others, she wore an under-robe. Cyn noticed it had stitched compartnts for weapons—multiple sheaths sewn directly into the fabric.
Beside her stood a man wearing an iron helt. Slightly bulky, yet appearing short due to his width—like a bodybuilder. He was odd. n built like that usually carried shields, axes, or massive swords.
Why, in God’s na, did he have a bow?
Cyn stared blankly for a mont, then looked away.
He forced a smile.
"Welco. Please excuse —I have a few matters to attend to. Make yourselves comfortable. I hope my sudden presence didn’t interrupt anything important. I need to find soone to fix a broken window—it won’t repair itself."
Cyn walked past them toward the exit.
Only to be stopped by a voice.
"Wait."
It was Burgvall’s.
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