"Be still, my brothers and sisters, and hear these words, the words of our king Balor Pallas Barn," the Loyal Knight promptly called for, drawing the eyes and ears of everyone around. ""Should I fall in this bout, let the truth be known: his name is not Raphael Béla. His birth name -- his true name -- is Raphael Divus Barn, the third son of Lord Divus Nomos Barn, heir to the throne, and the true inheritor of our father's legacy. He and I share the blood of the king, wear the face of the king, and shine the light of the king. And should I perish, I order all of you to stay your blades from his flesh and adhere to his voice, unless the word of Queen Lucia possesses you otherwise. You will obey this command, even if I am left bleeding on the floor and begging for my life. He is a Barn and my little brother, therefore he deserves to be rightfully treated as such.""
After this decree, there was a significant shift in the atmosphere, a most unusual crossbreed between elation and defeat. But it mattered little how the Loyal Knights felt, be it sorrow, horror, shock, or outrage. They swore an oath of blood and fidelity to the Barn family, and if Balor declared Raphael, the rebel, a Barn, then so he was.
A mass session of scraping steel rattled the airwaves as those combatant Loyal Knights withdrew their weapons, a sight which declared Raphael and his rebellion victorious. After that, every knight placed their left hand upon the right side of their chest and dropped onto a knee, displaying their faith and devotion to their new prince.
Every Loyal Knight respectfully bowed before Raphael, their new prince. And Raphael stood above all of them, his weary purple eyes locating his master Malik in the disorderly scene. His master's face gleamed with pride at the sight of his pupil and his implausible accomplishment. But Raphael's mind went elsewhere, eyeing the wide, bloody span of the battlefield before him. There were quite a few dead, nigh-equal on both sides.
But most costly to Raphael was the injury and loss of some of his own, a toll which Shakir and Calvin appeared to already be attending to. In this instance, Raphael's eyes beamed strongly onto his Loyal Knights. "Go, I order all of you to go into the city and stop the invaders," the prince commanded with authority.
"As you command, my lord!" Each and every Loyal Knight acknowledged, then lifting off of the ground and throwing themselves thoroughly into their assignment. Even the Loyal Knights who participated in that tiresome battle went headstrong into their duty, making some around scowl in envy of their apparently infinite stamina.
With the Loyal Knights rapidly departing their presence, Raphael urgently walked across the courtyard. There, laying up against the wall adjacent to him, was the toll of this day. The silver-haired rebel's eyes fixed upon each member of today's wounded and lifeless, careful not to allow his concern to get the upper hand.
His eyes found Shakir, the always angry-looking Lamian, as he attended to the injured. And the night-haired worshiper noted footsteps approaching him with great haste, turning around to locate its source. The sight of Raphael came as no surprise, yet it humbled the Lamian. His neck broke in Raphael's presence, lowering his head in respect, not for his Barn heritage, but for he was the vessel of Lamia.
"
Drág Essa,
" Shakir humbly addressed, daring not to gaze upon Raphael.
"Ah, I believe
Kéz
is attending to the
laacrán caza,
" the Lamian pointed, his finger heading in the direction behind Raphael. Raphael's head turned to where Shakir pointed, immediately locating Calvin. And with quickness, the image of that frail dark-robed youth was found. He saw as Calvin found the boy surrounded by the corpses of several Loyal Knights, knights whose faces had been horribly mutilated.
To Raphael's relief, Daevarro was still alive. Yet his condition was quite poor, his body trembling like he were hypothermic, his breathing shallow and weak, and he was drenched in sweat. His clothes were appallingly tattered, his cassock now in near-shreds. And its darkened nature was tarnished with blood, unknown whether it was his blood or not. The only sight to explain this bizarre, startling sight was located in his abdomen, where there appeared to be a large stab wound which seemed to have been almost melted shut.
Regardless, Calvin laid Daevarro down like he were made of glass, carefully laying his back up against the wall. Shakir scorned Daevarro's sight, whipping away from him like he rejected his presence. Instead, he attended to the merchant-turned-assassin Kereske, who suffered a grave wound in the conflict.
Both Raphael and Calvin noted this startling affliction which swept Daevarro, giving him a grayish appearance. It wasn't the first time they saw him weakened due to an overuse of his powers, but to this magnitude? Raphael thoroughly inspected him, making certain that there were no wounds to explain his ailment.
"It's...okay, I-I'm not hur-hurt," Daevarro assured with his quiet, shaky voice.
"Well, if that's true, then what's wrong with you?" Raphael questioned, believing Daevarro's assurance merely an attempt to alleviate his concerns. Despite Raphael's push for answers, Daevarro uttered not a word. He cloistered up beside the wall and turn away from Raphael, alerting him like a smoke signal. He concluded that Daevarro seemed to simply reside himself to his malady, a thought which only aggravated the silver-haired prince. He had no desire to witness anymore of his companions suffer, driving him forward.
"Hey," Raphael aggressively pursued, "answer me!"
"Easy, Raphy," then suddenly Calvin sprung in to the defense of Daevarro. "If Shady don't wanna talk, ain't right ta jus' force 'im ta, y'know?"
Before his temper got the better of him, Raphael noticed as Daevarro's shaken hand tugged upon that pendant around his neck, that sinister-looking stone referred to as the Master's Pendant. It once belonged to his sister, Raphael knew, yet the expression on his face implied something else entirely. Begrudgingly, Raphael relented, having no desire to bully an answer out of someone who's suffering enough as it were.
"...Where's the boss?" Calvin then asked curiously, scouring the area in search for her. Upon this question's appearance into this bleak threshold, Raphael's eyes forcibly diverted. His face grew darker and heavier, his body tensed up. Calvin's question like reopening a wound that had only just begun to close, and the golden-haired assassin acknowledged this fact almost instantly.
"She...didn't make it," Raphael somberly answered.
"O-oh, I-I see," Calvin stuttered grievously, feeling his own heart grow heavy and sorrowful. Yes, news of that wonderful woman's death was a terrible burden to bear. His memories of her came flowing into his mind, this teacher he learned from, this woman he respected. Yet, in the wake of this loss, Calvin couldn't allow himself to wallow in his despair and sorrow. Instead, a most goofy smile ruptured from his face, pouring over this mournful expression.
""I order all of you to go into the city and stop the invaders."" Calvin quoted Raphael from earlier in a playful, comically-authoritarian voice, then chuckling in his normal voice. "Man, if she 'ad 'erd dat, I can only 'magine 'er reacti'n! Ya sounded like ya ain't ev'r giv'n orders befor'!"
"She died protecting me," Raphael turned to Calvin, completely ignoring his triteful remark and breaking his light laughter."The only real thing anyone ever told me about my mother was that we have the same eyes. And when I looked at Libitina, her eyes were purple, exactly like mine."
Calvin's face dropped, sagging under the lamentation of his departed mentor. He turned away, both sorrowful and mortified of a simple fact. Indeed, that fact which Raphael knew in his heart. "You knew she was my mother, didn't you?"
Calvin then sighed. "...Yeah," he truthfully confessed, making no intention of deceiving the grieving son.
"We...all did," suddenly chimed in the gravely wounded Kereske, barely able to contain his screaming as Shakir attended to his severed arm.
"...All of you? And none of you said a word?"
"You know why that is,
Palaemmir,
" the Neheztelian goddess Lamia then jumped into the conversation, defending those who worship her.
"That doesn't—!" Raphael angrily shouted, then halted himself. "...It's like I was the only one who didn't know."
"I'm sorry, Raphy," Calvin apologized with honest regret, bravely returning his gaze onto Raphael. "I woulda said somethin', but Boss asked me not ta."
Raphael deeply exhaled, letting go of his pent-up ire. "...It's fine," he replied as he stood up onto his feet.
"Where ya off ta?"
"...To kill Lucia," Raphael sternly, heartlessly responded, beginning to walk away.
"Aaaan' yer jus' gonna launch-a one-man-army-style manhunt fer her?"
"I know where to find her," the silver-haired prince boldly proclaimed, stunning the laid-back assassin.
"...Eh?" Calvin was notably perplexed, watching as Raphael's legs sprung back to life. "Balor told ya?"
"No." Raphael's short replies were certainly frustrating, but the weighty expression on his face definitely explained everything Calvin needed to know. This course of action was a path he did not wish to travel. It led to a destination he did not wish to arrive to, an end he did not wish to meet. Calvin threw everything to the wind, jumping onto his feet. He walked at a brisk pace, catching up to the son of that very important person.
"Ya can't be seri'sly thinkin'-a takin' 'er on all by yerself 'n yer condition," Calvin continued to convey his growing concerns, yet each word seemed to fall on deaf ears.
"I have no choice," Raphael stated briefly.
"Well, then I'm comin' wit'-ya!"
Both the stoic Raphael and his eagerly concerned follower Calvin stepped outside of the courtyard, beginning on this straightforward path leading into the great Adamas Road, Governanti's metaphoric aorta. Finally out from behind those towering walls of the courtyard, a brilliantly orange celestial dome became clear to them.
Smoke and embers ceaselessly polluted this wondrous sight, blood-chilling shrills broke the soundplane, the smell of death and fire everywhere. It filled Raphael's heart with grief, recollecting these from the attack upon Lumbridge. But he staved off his nausea, his terror, remaining composed and focused on his path forward. He walked along like a valiant march, yet unbeknownst to him, Calvin's legs had suddenly ceased to function.
"You've got things to do, just like I've got things to do," Raphael told Calvin, continuing to step forward, unaware of Calvin's halt. "Shakir, Kereske, they need you here to help with the injured and the dead. Killing Lucia is my responsibility. I don't want anyone else having to bear that burden."
As he finished his sentence, Raphael realized something was amiss. All was quiet after his conclusion, a concern which stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked back, his eyes fixing upon the face of the laid-back assassin. And its sight was certainly startling...
Raphael found Calvin's head turned to the sky, his expression aghast. With a face as agape as his, one could practically hear as his heart dropped. Exuding both concern and curiosity, the silver-haired prince settled his eyes upon the very same sight as Calvin, hoping to unravel the cause of his abnormal reaction.
And with utmost ease, he located just what frightened Calvin: nothing. There was nothing in the sky before them, apart from the billowing smoke and embers which blended in with the bright orange backdrop. An alarming sight, for they could no longer find that massive behemoth as it penetrated the skyline.
"...Dammit," Calvin muttered under his breath, then making haste. His legs jolted off of the ground, sprinting as fast as his body would allow. As much as it bothered him to abruptly drop a conversation, Calvin quickly abandoned his conventional beliefs and zoomed past Raphael like a gale.
Indeed, all that mattered to Calvin now was simply finding his dear friend. And Raphael was not about to be left behind, rushing forward just behind the worried Calvin. His last conversation with Telvern Thaddeus flashed in his mind, the state-of-mind that he appeared in. And that thought only hastened his pace...
As both Calvin and Raphael dashed down the great Adamas Road, the mean-spirited Lamian Shakir was left on his own. But the loneliness was not a deterrent, for he briskly cared for the injured. But now there was one last thing to be done: attend to the lifeless. He began with somber earnest, taking the body of a certain soul into his arms.
Yes, this soul possessed a face of familiarity, a face which was once so vigorously outspoken. This cold, limp body belonged to the red-headed archer Shinon, who had succumb to a horrific stab wound inflicted by the former Orderer of the Loyal Knights, Drakon. Shakir knelt down at Shinon's side, withdrawing an beautifully ornate dagger from its scabbard. It was clear that this dagger was purely ceremonial and in no way intended for combat, given its unusually circular shape.
"Cazu ma soom zo Oza..."
Shakir recited in a mournful, musical tone, his singing voice comparable to the average person, unlike Calvin's, whose voice was as delightful as a heavenly choir.
As Shakir continued to sing, slicing his dagger straight down the middle of Shinon's torso, the Lamian detected movement from the row of injured. That motion belonged to the dark-robed youth named Daevarro, the so-called 'fallen one.' Shakir appeared to pay him no mind, but he carefully observed him at the corner of his eye. A multi-task of suspicion, giving Shinon his final rites whilst keeping a very close eye on the cultist boy.
Shakir watched as the greatly fatigued Daevarro struggled with his own inner dialogue, a conversation he held with his own self. His face winced, glancing down upon something he held very closely to his heart, both figuratively and literally. His hazel eyes fell upon this pendant which he had burdened, this pendant which once belonged to his dear sister.
It laid there in the palm of his shaken hand, possessing an unnatural black darker than even a moonless midnight. Indeed, despite its gemstone-like quality, it reflected not a light in this beginning of dusk, a sight which saddened and urged Daevarro. Yes, despite his adoration for it like a treasure, he also hated it like a curse...
Ever since that day, the day that Daevarro lost everything, something changed within him. His fragile mind was ravaged, decimated with tremendous sorrow, suffering the anguish of being left alone. As he wailed, as he grieved, he endearingly placed this pendant around his neck in rememberance of his sister. But it had become like a slave collar, making him into a captive of hatred. No, not to
his
hatred, but to the hatred and wrath residing within this pendant. Daevarro had always suspected its involvement, but upon this day, the truth became truly lucid.
As much as he wanted to forget, Daevarro could remember everything with striking imagery. An unfathomable indignation possessed him like a demon, and it had an insatiable lust for the blood of every god he saw.
He could still feel that ravenous urge to brutally murder everything and everyone, even his own comrades. Throughout the battle, he demanded himself to stop, yet his body just didn't. It continued to madly dash ahead without his consent, and as a result, Daevarro laid here in exhaustion and confliction.
Despite the great distress it caused to his body, Daevarro sluggishly picked himself up off of the ground. He tightly wrapped his hand around the pendant, putting his other hand up against the wall to help maintain his balance. Shakir immediately glared at the dark-robed youth as he grew on the move, slowly inching his haggard body along.
"What are you doing?" Shakir questioned with a sting of ire in his voice.
Daevarro would not reply. He wouldn't make a sound, save his laborious breaths and frustrated seethes beneath his teeth. Shakir's dark brown irises followed along Daevarro, digging into his back like a well-placed dagger. Daevarro pushed himself onward, even whilst dragging Shakir's glare along.
He stepped closer to it, drawing to it truly as though a moth to a flame. He wrestled with his thoughts almost as much as he struggled to move, submerged in a rip current. The shore, his reason, was where he wished to reach, yet the sea, his emotion, pulled him away, dragging him down further.
As he came closer to it, Daevarro had a chance to closely gander upon the death toll he created. Each knight whose helmet was practically coated in their own blood, even bits of their eyeballs, were all his doing. And the greatest loss to the Imperial Kingdom was the death of General Gallows, who also perished to the formerly berserk youth's hand.
Daevarro recalled their battle quite vividly, the unnatural way he moved, Gallows's sword entering his body, and their final confrontation. And regretfully, the dark-robed youth could still feel the moment that his sister's katana became sullied, cleanly slicing open Gallows's body like a mortician's scalpel.
Here he was, having finally dragged along his gravely fatigued body to his destination. Daevarro weakly fell onto his knees, overcoming with exhaustion. But no, he couldn't allow his body to fail him. Directly, intently, his feebly glowing hazel eyes beamed onto a rock, one of the few among the grass allotments within the courtyard. And reluctantly, his hands reached behind his neck and began untying this pendant, this emotional burden, this prison warden.
In this moment, a blitz of bittersweet recollections filled his frail mind. And as his hand held the pendant's entirety, he could see them all again; the mentors, the family, the sister he'd lost. Indeed, all this time, he had devotedly carried this pendant along with him. It wasn't just any simple baggage, it was a comfort-of-mind. Through this pendant, Daevarro felt his family was always here with him, soothing the loneliness and the fear.
Yet, there was another truth to this truth, something Daevarro knew he needed to confront. While the pendant was a memento, it was also the key to the cage of a monster. Its very nature was corrupt, warped by an incomprehensible malice. And Daevarro, who had experienced death and catastrophe not dissimilar to the pendant's original owner, became this monster.
Yes, everytime his eyes gazed upon the winged lion, the distinguished sigil of the Barns, he became a conduit to the pendant's hatred. He was just some vulnerable kid, susceptible to these hateful impulses. And today, he unwillingly cooperated in this quest for murderous vengeance...and aided it. It was a thought that disturbed Daevarro, for this...was not him.
Daevarro took one final, meaningful sight upon this pendant, feeling his heart swell with emotion and grief. He didn't want to stop staring at this pendant, this representation of his family, this keepsake of his sister. Yet his mind wandered, questioning the exact purpose his family would cherish such an evil trinket.
