The two men breathed a sigh of relief, letting triumphant smirks and thankful grins light their faces anew. Myre sank into the inviting embrace of his leather chair, while Nox simply settled for that of the wooden floorboard's. Knees weak, arms heavy, eyes barely able to stay open for much longer, they simply lay there, letting exhaustion and fatigue finally lay claim unto their body and mind. The ministry advisor was but seconds away from dozing off, if not for his overseer's shaky words.

​

"We. . . We did it, didn't we?" Myre said, resting his feet atop the mahogany desk, both eyes shut tight. A calm breeze swept through the open window, ruffling through his hair, coat, and uniform, and soothing the blistered skin underneath — an otherwise unfortunate effect of Void rituals.

​

"Yes, sir," Nox cupped his face in both hands. "Yes, we did it."

​

"This goes without saying. . . But not a word to any living soul, Nox. If Soleil were to stumble upon our little summoning, he'd have our heads on a pike before sundown, and I do not fancy passing quite so soon. Not while there is work to be done, and traitors to bring alight."

​

"Of course, colonel."

​

The room was an absolute mess: pictures large and small, colored and otherwise, lay scattered about the wooden floorboards; the sweet scent of burning incense and exotic herbs hung upon every piece of furniture; and to make matters worse, just about every inch of wallpaper saw itself cracked and tainted.

​

Of course, this was not to mention the massive pentagram spanning Myre's personal office from end to end. A thorough scrubbing would rid the wood of any traces, but how exactly would he come to summon the Voidspawn once more? Why, he'd have to draw up another circle, and such an arduous process is not one to be taken lightly. Perhaps a simple carpet would suffice — yes, that will do.

​

Myre snapped a finger, mouthed several incantations, and waited ever so patiently. The air before him darkened, twisted itself into a malformed shape, and bubbled black. Two glaring eyes, ghastly yellow and brightly shimmering, materialized from within the cloud of black, gazing deep into the minister's very soul, and later, into his advisor's. "You summoned me, sire?"

​

"Yes, Morvus," the minister forced himself upright, swiveled his chair to face the window behind, then stared long and hard towards the distant horizon. It was all Navylan claim, from the ground up, to the gentle sloping hills, to the wild Escardian seas beyond, and everything in between.

Navylan claim every inch of the way. The city he came to know and love, to cherish and protect, to care for in times of turmoil and moments of disaster, tearing itself apart for the sake of one civil war — it was more than one patriot could bear.

And yet, here he stood.

​

Day and night.

​

Rain and shine.

​

Always.

​

"Myre?" The jinn came to be by his master's side. "Is everything quite alright?"

​

Myre let his gaze drift. This was one war the crown could simply not afford to lose. Justice and her sorry band of misfits are to be stopped, crushed, squandered from existence itself, no matter the cost. He would never allow her free reign of the Navylan — no, not so long as he drew breath. But such and such grandeur battles are best left for tomorrow. Today, there was a matter of utmost importance — a matter of carpeting. "How familiar are you with wool-working, Morvus?"

​

"I beg your pardon?" The question itself served only to perplex the jinn. "Wool-work, sire?"

​

"Oh, yes. Wool-work, particularly carpeting."

​

"I suppose one could. . . Try, sire."

​

"That'll do."

***

Roughly a few hours prior to siesta, there came a light knock upon Myre's office door. Instincts sieged his thoughts at once, forcing the ministry advisor into action; Nox readied himself and reached for the pistol strapped to his side. In a matter of seconds, he had the firearm at ready, training one end of the barrel through a glass peephole.

​

Had it not been for Myre's intrusion, Nox would have sent a dozen bullets shooting through the wooden door, and into the unsuspecting visitor's skull.

​

The past few nights had not at all played well by both men. Exhaustion and stress plagued every waking minute of their day; one would be forgiven to think Nox finally succumbed to insanity's pestering.

​

The prior summon was to remain a closely guarded secret between Myre and his assistant; should even a single word leak beyond their lips, all hell would break loose within the department. For centuries past, and centuries more to come, Void summons have remained a privilege of the Higher Parliament. Anyone who dared disrupt the hierarchy would be left to rot within the twisting labyrinthine mazes that ran from one end of the Naylan to the other.

​

There was a guest at the door.

​

Worst still, was the choking smell of incense — a telltale sign of recent summonings.

​

A window was flung open; the ceiling fan whirred to life.

​

"Who's there?" Myre called out.

​

There was a good few seconds before the answer came fluttering through in a series of inaudible mutters and tangled stutters. It took Myre but a few words to recognize the trademark voice of Soleil's personal errand boy — oh, how he despised it. "I-It's Vinny, s-sir."

​

Nox breathed a sigh of relief and hesitantly lowered the pistol. Had he murdered the lowly messenger right there and then, it would take Lady Luck herself to set him free from the many, furious Navylan courts. That certainly would not better Myre's mood.

​

The heavy double-doors were promptly swung open, and its customary visitor, taken in.

​

"M-Many thanks, s-sir."

"Shut up."

​

"R-Right."

​

The scrawny messenger sheepishly made his way through the assemblage of litter and sank into the inviting embrace of a forlorn armchair; he fidgeted in place for a good few moments before revealing a bundle of white and brown. Not once did he bother questioning the proprietor of such messy government office. Nox showed little interest in the folder of jumbled state documents. He did, however, show quite an interest in the corner of one particular pentagram, just barely peaking from under Myre's fresh carpeting. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his left cheek.

​

Fortunately, it was far off in the shadows, and not quite as obvious to the naked eyes. Unfortunately, it was within full view of the messenger, and, had he been the slightest bit attentive, alarms would be rung in an instance.

​

Hands trembling and voice shaky, Vinny presented to both men an official government report, complete with evaluation notes, peer reviews, and, most notably, recent failures. Reluctantly at first, Myre scanned through the paperwork and passed it to his assistant with the flick of a hand.

​

"What is the meaning of this?" Myre asked, voice laden with hints of repressed fury and grounded rage. "Why has Soleil sent you?"

​

"W-Well, you see, s-sir. . ."

​

"Answer me, damn you! These are adjudication procedures; has there been a mistake?"

​

"Not quite, s-sir. S-Soleil thinks of you unfit to rule an o-office of such power, and t-thus, he has s-sent me to ensure t-that you receive these f-forms. H-He w—"

​

"And? What is to be of me?! What am I to do?!"

​

"H-He would like t-to have a final word with y-you, s-sir. T-Then, he would very much a-appreciate it if you would s-sign away your positi—"

​

Myre sent a fist straight through his tabletop; Vinny nearly leaped from his seat. "Sign my position away? Sign my position away, messenger?! Tell me something, please. Who, of all deputy ministers, is fit to rule an office of such authority? Who, of all deputy ministers, is burdened with the call of duty all year around? Who, of all deputy ministers, Vinny, is expected to lift the Navylan from ashes and restore it to its former glory?!"

​

Nox and the messenger remained silent.

​

"It's been fucking me! It's always been fucking me!" Myre continued, hurling an empty whiskey bottle towards one unfortunate picture of himself. "You have no right to strip me of my rank, and neither does that arsehole of a defense minister, Soleil!"

​

"S-Sir, please. I b-believe you a-are overreacting."

​

"You tell that bastard I want nothing to do with this adjudication bullshit. You fucking hear me, messenger?!"

​

"C-Calm down, C-Colonel. P-Plea—"

​

"Don't you fucking tell me to calm down, Vinny. All you've been is a god damn thorn by my side — every fucking time you stop by, I die a little more on the inside!"

​

"S-Sir. . ."

​

"Get the fuck out my office and out my sight, or so help me god I'll break every god damn bone in your body, boy!"

​

The messenger bit his lips.

​

"T-That's a legal threat, s-sir."

​

"The fuck'd you say to me?!"

​

Soleil's errand boy slipped out without another word; Nox let a sigh escape his lips, clearly relieved. Good along with the bad, he supposed — the summoning has remained a closely guarded secret.

​

"I've worked way too fucking hard for this, Nox." Myre lit a cigar. "Way too fucking hard."

“I understand, sir.”

“I will not let this empire crumble to dust — not so long as I live.”

***

The sergeant dropped dead before soldiers of his very own platoon, a gushing waterfall of red spilling from every inch of his open throat. He died slow; every second was pure, excruciating agony. He thrashed wildly atop the litter ridden backstreet pathway, mouthing the Navylan anthem through a series of guttural moans and disgruntled groans.

The states-guards watched in utter shock as their commanding officer choked on his very own blood. After a good few moments of gurgling, spitting, and cursing, the sergeant became no more than just another forgotten corpse soon to be buried under a patch of graveyard dirt.

​

Justice and Libra too stood befuddled, but not for the same reason.

​

Standing before the platoon of veteran states-guards was a creature of unparalleled horror: two sets of needle-like teeth lined its jaws; razor-sharp claws sprung from each fingertips; jagged bones tore through the once winsome suit and sprung from its back; skin, once beige and cream-like, saw themselves turned sullen and grey, stretched impossibly thin over blackened thews.

​

This was what became of the infamous Mr. 23.

​

Trickles of blood dripped from one end of his claws, painting the alleyway grounds a new tint of red. Libra could sense the breakout of an impending battle, and so, decided to act accordingly. He turned to face his sister, chipped blade in one hand, silenced pistol in the other. "We should leave."

​

Justice's words were shaky — far too shaky for someone of her stature. "W-What?"

​

"We. Should. Leave."

​

23 let his crooked claws run along the backstreet walls, scratching streaks of white unto the bricks. With a mighty bound, he leaped atop a nearby dumpster and unleashed an earsplitting roar; the states-guards stood their ground. "Leave, Libra? You can't quite leave just yet, I'm afraid."

​

"Oh, no. I think we very much will."

​

"An unwise decision, I should say."

​

23 lunged; the states-guards opened fire.

***

A barrage of gunfire erupted, showering the creature in a volley of silver shrapnel. Without so much as a reaction, 23 landed before a states-guard and slashed upwards, slicing the man's face in equal halves. From there, he worked his way past each Navylan soldier, reducing them to but lifeless corpses dismembered and mutilated: some had limbs abruptly torn, while others were bled dry strike after strike.

​

As for Libra and Justice, they decided to make their escape amidst such ensuing chaos. Sparing not another second, both delved yet deeper into the alleyway, taking turns at random and simply hoping for Lady Luck's blessing.

​

With each fleeting step, Justice and Libra scuttled further from the tumultuous battle. Though the many blood-curdling screams have long since vanished, and the orchestra of rapid gunfire had parted its curtains, they both very well knew death was but moments behind.

​

How, exactly, had they ended up in such a predicament, Justice wondered. How, exactly, had her life unraveled so quickly, so soon? Just a few weeks ago, she was nothing more than a lowly store clerk working amidst the throng of obedient commoners. She would clock in at every 9 in the morning, and clock out at every 5, then walk 10 minutes downtown for a loaf of the Navylan Capital's finest freshly-baked bread.

​

But now, she was part of something greater; she was part of the nation's very future. In a matter of days, Justice and Libra had sparked revolutions left, right, and center, possibly inspiring the first ever uprising to have erupted in centuries. It was a fool's errand, truthfully speaking. No man nor woman in the history of Escardia had yet successfully revolted against the crown, much less so break its chains of command. And yet, where there's will, there's a way — or so the old saying goes.

​

Libra came to a sudden halt; his sister did too.

​

Justice skidded to a stop, glaring at her brother who had seemingly long since lost all sense of himself. He stood in the shadows of the alleyway overhangs, staring at a nearby wall with utmost intent. His eyes darted to and fro.

​

"W-What is it?"

​

"Shush."

​

"L-Libra, we have to m-mo—"

​

"I said, shush. Please."

​

Only now did he begin to notice the deep yet subtle humming resonating from beyond the alleyway walls; Libra knew all too well what the shadows held in store, and it was most unpleasant.

​

Claw-tipped legs sprouted from the darkness; jagged fangs jotted from the black abyss; a massive, spidery figure emerged from the shadows and skulked swiftly through the dim alleyway. Libra stayed way clear of the mossy brick walls and stuck close to his sister, keeping the blade tightly within his grasps.

​

"S-S-Stray flies-s-s have wandered — wandered into the s-s-spider's web."

​

Justice watched her every step with utmost intent, unsure what exactly to expect. Judging by her brother's worried face, and his ever trembling hands, whatever was to come wasn't swell. And that voice — something about it didn't sound quite right. It was vile, malevolent, and for a lack of better word, pure evil. And yet, it was oddly familiar.

​

So very oddly familiar.

​

"And the queen comes-s-s forth, s-s-spinning a s-s-silken s-s-shroud."

​

Libra fired a shot into the darkness. To his knowledge, it hit nothing but the bricks of an alleyway wall. "Who's there?! Show yourself, fiend!"

​

"The flies-s-s s-s-struggle and thras-s-sh, but always-s-s to no avail."

​

"You."

​

The spider dropped from a nearby rooftop and landed before the two, head tilting from side to side; dust rose to meet the Void Spawn's fall and mask its ominous figure. "Why, hello there."

​

"Asi'Grayaa," Libra took a step back. "Who has sent you? Was it Soleil?"

​

"It's-s-s quite the s-s-small world we live in, is-s-sn't it?"

​

"Myre — that son of a bitch."

​

"I mus-s-st admit, he makes-s-s for a decent s-s-summoner. I never thought the likes-s-s of you S-S-Sinclair could drum up the courage to s-s-summon me back to this curs-s-sed world. And yet, I am mis-s-staken."

​

"Your arrival will be short-lived."

​

"You think s-s-so?"

​

"This blade of mine is pure silver; it will burn through your soul like paper, Void Spawn. Do not tempt me."

​

"Adorable creatures-s-s, you humans-s-s are. Thos-s-se were your father's-s-s very las-s-st words-s-s as-s-s well."

​

Asi'Grayaa stepped forth, venom dripping from one end of her massive fangs. Without sparing so much as another word, she lunged for the two and managed to catch Libra off-guard. The former Blackhat was promptly thrown of his feet and into the hands of his sister; both tripped over one another and was sent tumbling —

​

Unto the 23's bloodied feet.