Chapter 12: A Plunge into Shadow

Understanding settled over Lucine’s face.

“That explains everything,” he murmured, guilt softening its grip. “Your anger, the people’s distrust… We have a lot to fix.”

Charlotte wiped the last of her tears and straightened.

“Self-pity won’t help Father. We need to find him, Lucine. I couldn’t bear it if—”

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through.

“I’ll ready the Royal Guard. We can—”

Lucine raised a hand, gaze steady.

“No more dragging others into this. It’s our mess. We fix it.”

He turned to the Hermit, whose weathered face creased with concern.

“That includes you, my friend. This is a family matter.”

The Hermit sighed.

“I wouldn’t dream of stepping into that cursed land. But I’ll watch over Finsternis from its border. Just… be careful.”

Gratitude flickered in their eyes. They nodded.

***

By morning, they stood at Rougemonde’s border, the sun glinting off their armor.

Charlotte addressed the gathered BlancSoldats, her voice steadier than before. She briefly explained their mission, appointing Seraphina as acting leader in their absence.

The reaction was mixed. Some citizens remained skeptical—wounded by betrayal and secrets—but others saw the beginnings of change. Responsibility. Hope.

With the Hermit in tow, Lucine and Charlotte stepped into the shifting horizon.

Eventually, the trio reached the edge of Finsternis’s border.

The Hermit paused and looked at them with a faint smile.

“Well, this is where I stop. I won’t be going any farther, but I’ll keep an eye out for anything dangerous from here.”

Lucine and Charlotte pressed forward, crossing the threshold into Finsternis. The air itself seemed to warp around them as they entered—the midday sun dipped unnaturally, and twilight folded over them like a shroud.

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Then came darkness. Absolute. Oppressive.

No moon. No stars. Only silence, pierced now and then by distant, blood-chilling screams.

Before them stretched a city unlike anything they had ever imagined. Every building was sculpted from jet-black stone—not merely dark, but a void that devoured light. Each structure took the form of a monstrous raven, wings poised in frozen flight, their hollow eyes carved into permanent, unblinking glares.

A crooked network of flickering streetlights cast grotesque shadows that danced across the wings and cobbled streets. In the distance, Lucine caught a glimpse of a vast coliseum looming like a monument to nightmares.

Their approach was halted by two hulking guards. Faces hidden beneath black helmets. Voices rough.

“State your business.”

Lucine didn’t hesitate. He struck like lightning—kicks, punches, a silent storm under the flickering lights. The guards dropped before their weapons left their belts.

Panting slightly, Charlotte moved to his side. But then they saw it.

No shadows.

Not from the guards. Not from themselves.

Unease settled in their bones.

They stripped the unconscious guards of their black uniforms—barely armor, but enough to pass. After tying the guards to a nearby tree, Lucine and Charlotte donned the rough garments and pushed deeper into Finsternis.

***

Chaos hit them like a wave. Screams tore through the air, steel clanged against steel. In the next alley, a savage street fight raged. Moments later, a mob cheered as a man was set aflame in a public execution.

The city was madness given shape. Lawless. Colorless. Brutal.

A man named Starke stood over the charred corpse, grinning with pride.

“I’ll win this tournament,” he bellowed. “The king will be mine!”

Charlotte stepped forward, voice cold.

“Tournament?”

Starke squinted at them, eyeing the black uniforms Charlotte and Lucine wore.

“You two are Huters, huh? Must’ve been stuck at the border if you haven’t heard.”

Charlotte’s tone sharpened.

“Get to the point.”

Starke smirked but relented.

“Some idiot king came snooping around, babbling about his son. They caught him. Finsternis does love its slaves. So—tournament time. Winner gets the king.”

He jerked a thumb toward the coliseum in the distance.

“Rabe Colosseum. Big event. Three days. Fighters lining up from every pit in the city like a bunch of vultures.”

Charlotte’s heart froze.

“What’s the king’s name?”

Starke scratched his chin.

“Retis? Remis? Regis?”

A companion snickered.

“King Regis. That’s the prize.”

It hit like a hammer. Charlotte and Lucine stared at each other, horror written across their faces.

“Well,” Starke said, bowing mockingly. “Pleasure chatting.”

He vanished into the crowd, leaving behind the still-smoking corpse and the stench of cruelty.

Charlotte and Lucine stood in silence. Whatever horrors they’d imagined—they now seemed mild.

***

Far below, in the Hunter Dungeons of Finsternis…

Two hulking Huters lounged outside a dank cell.

Inside, King Regis slumped against rusted bars, blood dried on his cheek.

“Remember when he showed up?” one guard mocked.

‘Where is my son? You promised me my son!’”

The other chuckled.

“I’d love a shot at him. Knock some sense into the old fool.”

“Patience,” the first guard said. “Tournament prize, remember? Personal slave to the victor. Hell, I might join myself.”

Their laughter echoed through the stone corridor.

Inside, King Regis remained unconscious on the cold floor, broken and alone.