The Burdens We Bear

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

Psalm 34:18

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The silence stretched between them, a chasm filled with unspoken regrets and shattered dreams.

Serval stands still, examining her father, Lev Landau. It's been a while since they've spoken, and she takes a moment to observe him. Gray now streaks his once-vibrant blond hair, lines of stress etched into his weathered face. Yet his piercing blue eyes still blaze with the fierce Landau intensity.

The office stands as a shrine to their storied legacy, aristocratic portraits of Supreme Guardians and heroes like Rhonda Landau adorning the walls.

Gepard's tight squeeze of her hand before leaving offers a fleeting moment of solidarity amidst the suffocating tension. Lev pockets the book he's holding and gestures for Serval to take a seat. She does so, a bit awkwardly, unsure of what to expect from this unexpected summon.

"Tea?" Lev grunts, not unkindly.

Serval nods, her throat suddenly dry. "Yes, please."

Lev prepares the tea with precise, practiced motions, the silence heavy with unspoken burdens. He places a steaming cup before her. "Mint. Your favorite."

Serval takes a sip, savoring the familiar flavor that stirs memories of her childhood. "Thank you," she murmurs.

"The questioning went smoothly, I trust?" Lev ventures after a tense moment.

Serval's eyes narrow, hackles rising. Of course he only cares about avoiding another stain on the precious Landau name.

"It went fine," she bites out. "No need to fret over further embarrassment."

Lev's jaw tightens, but he forces an even breath. "That was the least of my concerns," he states. "I knew you weren't involved in the Starlight incident."

"Oh? And what gave you such unwavering faith?" Serval arches a brow.

"I was apprised of the operation beforehand and received Gepard's report after." Lev sets his cup down solemnly. "Despite my 'retirement', I'm still consulted at times to advise the Architects and Silvermane Guards."

Fury ignites in Serval's veins. "You knew and didn't tell me?" she demands, voice rising. "Not you, Gepard, or even Pela—though that last one's hardly shocking."

"The decision wasn't about you," Lev chides sharply. "Secrecy was key to avoid jeopardizing the entire mission."

Serval scoffs bitterly. "Well, that worked out splendidly, didn't it? Maybe if I'd been in the loop, I could've caught Xander."

"You're no longer Silvermane," Lev snaps, words cutting deep. "That wasn't an option."

Biting back a caustic retort, Serval sips her tea and composes herself. "I'm sure you're itching to point out yet another failure on my part," she remarks acerbically. "Another disappointment for you."

Lev shakes his head, much to her surprise. "Your actions, and Pela's, showed poor judgment," he declares gravely.

Serval blinks, taken aback. "What?"

"You confronted a suspect with unknown capabilities alone, with no intel." Lev leans forward, pinning her with a stern glare. "Thank Qlipoth he only knocked you out."

Indignation flares within Serval, fists clenching. "We did what we thought was right in the moment," she argues heatedly. "We had intel, caught him by surprise, subdued him briefly—more than any other Guard managed."

"And what good did that do?" Lev counters, voice rising. "He still escaped! It's meaningless if you could've died in the process!"

Serval slams her palms on the table as she surges to her feet, patience frayed. "Just say it already," she snarls.

Lev frowns, confusion flickering across his features. "Say what?"

"That I'm a disappointment," Serval spits out. "Let's cut to the chase so I can go."

Lev's eyes widen, and he rises from his own chair, his voice rising in a shout. "That's not why I called you here!"

"Then why did you?" Serval shouts back, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

Lev's face contorts with a mixture of anger and something else – something deeper, more primal. With a roar of frustration, he hurls his teacup against the wall, shattering it into pieces.

"I almost lost you!" he screams, his voice raw with emotion.

The deafening silence that follows her father's outburst is suffocating. Serval stares at him in disbelief, her mind struggling to process his words. He almost lost her? What does that even mean? Her eyes dart to the shattered remains of the teacup on the floor, the ceramic pieces a stark contrast against the rich hardwood.

"What are you talking about?" she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lev takes a deep, shuddering breath, running a hand through his graying hair. "I didn't witness the operation firsthand," he begins, his words measured and deliberate. "But I read the report."

Serval's brow furrows as she tries to make sense of his statement. "The report?"

Lev nods, his expression grave. "A total of 130 Silvermane Guards were deployed to execute the operation at the Starlight Café. To capture a single man." He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "And still they failed. Over 70 injured, with nothing to show for it."

Serval feels a chill run down her spine at the sheer scale of the operation. She had no idea it was such a massive undertaking.

"I read how this… Xander… was seemingly able to shoot with lethal precision, disarming over 20 soldiers in two seconds flat," Lev continues, his voice tinged with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "Two seconds, Serval."

She swallows hard. No wonder the Guards were outmatched.

Lev's expression shifts, a haunted look crossing his features. "I sat down for over thirty minutes, doing nothing but staring at a wall when I read that," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. "My mind replaying memories of when you were but a little child, and I held you in my arms."

Serval feels her heart clench at the raw vulnerability in her father's voice, a stark contrast to the stoic, unyielding man she has known her entire life.

"I don't know the suspect's motivations," Lev pressed on, catching her gaze. "But in a way, I'm grateful. He spared you, though he could've easily..."

Shock ripples through Serval at her father's admission. Gratitude was the last reaction she'd expected, rather than fury or disappointment at her failure.

"I even prayed to Qlipoth in thanks," Lev says, barely audible. "Can you imagine? I can't recall when I last turned to prayer."

Serval's eyes widen. She manages to find her voice. "Why?"

Lev scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are smarter than that," he chides, his tone gruff but lacking its usual bite.

Serval bristles at his words, her temper flaring. "It's a valid question!" she hisses. "You disowned me, cast me out for tarnishing the sacred Landau name. Status meant more to you than your own daughter. You refused to believe my innocence." Eyes blazing, she pins him with an accusing glare. "So why suddenly care about an 'outsider'?"

Lev regards her pensively, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he speaks, his voice low and measured. "You're mistaken," he says, his words cutting through the tension like a knife. "You're not an outsider. You're a Landau. Have been for over a year."

Serval blinks, taken aback by his statement. "What?" she asks, her voice tinged with confusion.

Instead of responding, Lev turns and begins picking up the shattered pieces of the teacup he had thrown against the wall, his movements slow and deliberate. "I apologize for the mess," he murmurs, his gaze downcast.

Once he has gathered the broken ceramic fragments, he straightens and meets Serval's questioning gaze. "I signed the papers reinstating your inheritance—titles, assets, the lot—as eldest," he explains, his voice steady. "Gepard knew, but I swore him to secrecy."

Serval feels her heart skip a beat, her mind struggling to process her father's words. "But… why?"

Lev sighs, a weary sound that seems to carry the weight of a thousand burdens. "I wanted to tell you myself," he confesses, his shoulders sagging. "But..."

He trails off, sinking back into his chair, his expression one of resignation. "My ego and pride have long been both my greatest strengths and most glaring weaknesses," he admits, his voice heavy with regret.

Serval watches as her father's mask of stoicism cracks, revealing a vulnerability she has never seen before. It's unsettling, yet strangely captivating.

"Every time I resolved to reach out," Lev continues, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance, "resentment would rear its head, dredging up your perceived betrayal. Why should I lower myself to pursue you when you were the one who failed our family—failed the ancestors who bled for Belobog's sake for generations?"

He shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But then... I realized none of that mattered. Mistake or not, you're my daughter. I was being a fool, a prideful imbecile. Repeating the sins of my own father." Shame colors his weathered features. "Embarrassing, in hindsight."

Serval finds herself holding her breath, hanging on her father's every word. This raw, honest confession is something she never could have imagined from the man who had once been her idol, her hero.

"I was going to tell you after the operation," Lev says, his voice heavy with regret. "But what happened at the Starlight Café just made me realize how much of a coward I was being. It was a call to action."

Serval's brow furrows at her father's choice of words. "Call to action?" she echoes, her voice tinged with confusion. "Call to action? What's going on? Why the sudden urgency?"

Lev falls silent, his gaze distant as he seems to wrestle with his thoughts. After a long moment, he meets Serval's eyes, his expression one of grim resignation.

"I'm dying," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

The world tilted violently on its axis. Serval staggers, reeling as if physically struck. "W-what?" she stammers, voice quavering.

Lev meets her gaze, his expression solemn. "Follicular lymphoma," he says, his tone matter-of-fact. "Diagnosed over a year ago."

Cancer. The vile word echoes in her skull, draining the blood from her face. "But... but it's treatable, isn't it?" she insists, desperate. "With proper care, you can fight this, right?"

Lev shakes his head, a weary smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "It's been slowly progressing for years," he explains, his voice tinged with resignation. "The symptoms only became apparent recently. By the time we caught it, it had already reached an advanced stage."

Serval swallows hard, her throat constricting painfully. "How long?"

"A couple of years, if I'm lucky."

A heavy silence falls over the room, the weight of Lev's revelation hanging thick in the air. Serval struggles to process the information, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Disbelief, anger, fear – they all swirl together in a chaotic maelstrom, threatening to overwhelm her.

"Does anyone else know?" Serval finally chokes out, searching her father's face for any hint of falsehood.

"Only you," Lev affirms solemnly.

Serval feels a flicker of surprise amidst her turbulent emotions. "Not even Gepard? Or Lynx? Or... or mother?" she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

Lev's expression hardens, a flicker of regret passing across his features. "No. Not yet."

Serval opens her mouth to protest, but Lev raises a hand, cutting her off. "I've been reflecting, Serval," he begins, words heavy with intent. "On my life. My triumphs and failures. My... regrets."

He pauses, his gaze growing distant as he seems to retreat into the depths of his memories. "The things that haunt me most," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper.

Serval holds her breath, hanging on her father's every word.

"First... being powerless to secure a future for your mother, for you and your siblings." A mirthless chuckle rattles in his chest. "I failed to overcome the Fragmentum. To end the Eternal Freeze devouring our world."

Serval feels her heart constrict at her father's words, a familiar sense of dread settling over her.

"That's what gnaws at my conscience," Lev forces out, eyes glassy. "Knowing that once I'm gone... I can't guarantee your survival."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging as if bearing the weight of the world. "And second... disowning you."

Shock crashes over Serval anew, stealing her voice. Of all the things...

"Too fixated on status. On prestige and rank and our vaunted place in society. What does any of that matter when we teeter one generation from extinction?"

Serval watches, stunned, as her father's mask of stoicism cracks, revealing a vulnerability she had never seen before.

"Why should I have cared about your supposed disgrace," Lev croaks, "when I'm the family's greatest failure?"

Serval feels her own eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Lev quickly clears his throat, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He straightens his shoulders, composing himself once more.

"I don't expect us to be on good terms all of a sudden," he says, his voice steady once more. "I can't demand that, not after everything that's happened between us."

He pauses, his gaze meeting Serval's. "But I hoped, perhaps... you might visit sometimes. Take tea with your mother and I."

Serval finds herself rooted to the spot, her mind reeling from the emotional whiplash of her father's words. She opens her mouth, but no sound emerges, her throat constricted with a myriad of emotions.

Lev seems to sense her struggle, nodding in understanding. "You don't have to answer right now," he says, his voice gentle. "I've said my piece."

Mutely, Serval inclines her head, not trusting herself to speak. She turns for the door, needing air, needing space, needing—

"One last thing," Lev calls, halting her retreat. "Please. Don't share news of my diagnosis. I should be the one to tell the family."

Another robotic nod, and Serval all but flees, the click of the latch thunderous in her wake.

The walk back from Qlipoth Fort passes in a blur, the streets of Belobog's Overworld a mere backdrop to the tumultuous storm raging within her. Serval finds herself at the doorstep of the Neverwinter Workshop, her feet carrying her there without conscious thought.

She pushes open the door, flicking on the lights as she steps inside. The familiar surroundings offer little comfort, the tools and equipment seeming foreign and out of place.

Serval's gaze falls upon her customary electric guitar, resting against the wall where she had left it. A wave of memories washes over her, Xander's words echoing in her mind.

In spite of our differences, in spite of our failings and mistakes... I know that deep down, he truly meant well and wanted the best for me.

Serval feels a lump form in her throat as she approaches the guitar, her fingers tracing the intricate designs etched into the body.

And I... I miss him. I miss him a lot.

With a sudden burst of emotion, Serval snatches up the guitar, her knuckles whitening as she grips it tightly. She raises it above her head, her jaw clenched, and brings it crashing down onto the ground with a resounding crack.

The strings snap, the body shatters, and Serval lets out a guttural scream, the sound tearing from her throat like a feral beast. She raises the broken instrument once more, bringing it down again and again, unleashing her anguish upon the remnants of her beloved creation.

Finally, her strength spent, Serval sinks to her knees, the shattered pieces of the guitar scattered around her. Tears stream down her face as she doubles over, her body wracked with sobs.

The emotional dam has finally burst, and Serval can do nothing but surrender to the torrent of grief, anger, and sorrow that had been building within her for far too long.

——————————————————————

2157 AE / ~700 AF - Jepella - 8 months before the events at the Herta Space Station:

Sampo fidgets, a strained grin plastered on his face as he quips his way through the tension. "Hey now, no unpleasantries needed, friend. I brought the goods, so my job's done!"

Rufus, an anthropomorphic dog in a crisp suit, regards him suspiciously. Armed mammals in suits surround them, their vigilant gazes sweeping the grand hall for danger.

In the center, innocent men and women cower, bound and blindfolded. Terror etches their trembling faces under the captors' cruel watch.

Snipers take positions at the windows, scopes trained on the bustling streets of Jepella below.

Rufus turns back to Sampo, eyes narrowed. "You're in quite a hurry," he accuses. "How can I trust you're not hiding something?"

Sampo chuckles, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm a busy man! People to see, places to be." He leans in, eyes glinting mischievously. "Actually, I've got a big project brewing. Ever heard of Jarilo-VI?"

A sniper scoffs. "A planet frozen for centuries since the Antimatter Legion's attack? This dude's a clown."

Rufus snorts derisively. He signals another mammal to inspect Sampo's boxes with a loud bark.

The mammal rummages through, then nods curtly. All accounted for.

Sampo grins smugly at Rufus. "See? No problemo! Sampo Koski always delivers on his-"

Rufus levels his gun at Sampo's chest. The smugness drains from Sampo's face as he freezes, hands raised.

"Enough games," Rufus snarls. "Rumors of rebellion in Jepella. You're the only notable outsider to visit within 24 hours. Can't be coincidence."

Sampo glances at the hostages, perplexed. "Aren't they outsiders too? Why am I suddenly at gunpoint?"

"Border patrol nabbed them 48 hours ago. They've 'cooperated' post-interrogation. Clean, just merchants," Rufus sneers.

Sampo arches a brow. "Then why keep them?"

"Because we've yet to confirm if they're tied to you," Rufus retorts with contempt. "We know of you, Sampo Koski. Trouble stalks you. Many comrades eagerly await a chat..."

Sampo clutches his chest in feigned hurt. "You wound me! I'm the most transparent fixer around, in my humble opinion."

"Search him," Rufus orders, turning to the windows.

Two mammals approach, cracking knuckles. "Easy way or hard way," one threatens.

Sampo starts to retort, but a distant explosion reverberates through the city, drawing everyone's attention. Plumes of smoke rise from a faraway building, the sound of the blast reaching them a moment later.

"What the—?" a sniper mutters, peering through his scope to get a better look.

Before anyone can react, four smoke bombs hurtle through the windows, shattering the glass and filling the room with a thick, choking haze. Gunfire erupts, bullets ripping through the smokescreen as chaos descends.

Sampo drops to the ground, covering his head as glass rains down around him. He coughs and sputters, eyes stinging from the acrid smoke. A grave, distorted voice rasps from behind him.

"Stay down."

A vice-like grip shoves him prone. Gunfire pops deafeningly.

"The fuck—" a mammal howls in agony.

Sampo lies still, pulse pounding, peering through squinted eyes. Light flashes dance across the room with an eerie buzz, his neck hairs prickling.

Mammals collapse, convulsing unnaturally. Snipers slump with muffled grunts.

As the smoke dissipates, an imposing figure in sleek black tactical gear looms over Rufus, twin heavy handguns fitted to its shoulders, a curved sword at the hip. But it's the skull-like mask, soulless eyes boring into the mammal's, that sends ice through Sampo's veins.

The masked man's robotic voice rumbles ominously. "Rufus?"

The dog quakes. "Who... the fuck... are you...?"

"So it is you." The man summons a device, projecting a holographic screen of a fluctuating death toll.

"Over 1,000 lives taken. Children among them," he intones flatly. "Assuming two family members each, that's 3,000 lives irreparably altered by you. Without hesitation. Without remorse."

He zip-ties Rufus's hands, jamming a gun to his skull. "We'll have a long chat. I'll ensure you remember their names."

The man frees the hostages with ruthless efficiency, cutting their bonds with a razor-sharp blade. Sampo tenses to act, but the figure's warped words root him.

"Sampo Koski, the man who leaves no debts unpaid. Don't move, lest you forfeit my protection."

Another blast rocks a nearby building, showering the street below with concrete and glass. Screams of terror rise from the fleeing citizens. The man persists unfazed, soothing the distraught hostages.

"The explosions target Annihilation Gang offices and HQs," he explains authoritatively. "Comm centers we're hitting to cripple their city ops. My team guarantees zero civilian casualties. This is a surgically planned strike."

A pallid woman speaks once freed, voice quavering. "No casualties? What about these bodies—"

The man surveys the fallen mammals. "Unconscious, not dead. And they're far from innocent civilians."

He studies her. "Your name?"

"Oriana," she replies, wide-eyed with terror.

"A lovely name," he says gently. "Have a daughter? Husband?"

She nods shakily.

"I deeply regret these circumstances, Oriana," he says earnestly. "I vow you and your family, all of you here, will be compensated for this trauma. These criminals will never threaten you again. I swear it."

Suddenly, the sound of rotor blades throb nearby. As if appeared out of nowhere, a chopper now hovers outside the shattered windows, strafing the room with bullets.

"Watch out!" Sampo yells, tackling Oriana and another hostage down as rounds pierce the walls around them.

An orange forcefield shimmers to life around them all, hexagonal patterns deflecting the barrage effortlessly. Even the unconscious mammals are shielded, the projectiles ricocheting harmlessly off the glowing barrier.

The stranger turns to face Rufus, who's grinning wickedly prone.

"If I go, you all come with me," the dog wheezes malevolently. "Long live Nanook."

The man strides over and kicks the dog's head viciously, knocking him out cold. Bullets shred everything beyond the barrier.

He activates his mask's comm. "Silver Wolf, I need you."

A shimmering blue hologram of a young woman in black and purple sparks to life, sounding peeved over distant gunfire. "What's up? I'm occupied, if you can't tell."

"I need the chopper crew's names," the man says, brooking no argument. "And their families'. So I can personally ensure their wellbeing after this. Extract them, please."

Silver Wolf scowls. "Why even bother-"

"Silver Wolf. Names. Now," he overrides her.

She sighs in exasperation, keys clattering. "Got 'em. Sent your way. Seriously, I don't get why you care for this filth. If you saw their records, you'd-"

"Sara1," the man interjects, tone gentling slightly. "What have I taught you?"

Silver Wolf's shoulders slump, defeated. "Fine... Fine..."

"Attagirl," he says warmly. "I'll handle it from here."

"Be careful," she warns before blinking out.

The man retrieves a controller and a golden cross pendant. Amid the hailing fire, he raises the cross to brow, breast, left shoulder, right shoulder, then where lips would be beneath the mask.

Pendant pocketed, he hits the controller. The rotors sputter and die. The chopper careens down, crumpling in a heap of mangled metal against a nearby rooftop.

The man sighs heavily, the sound warped by his mask filters. Hand to ear, he speaks: "SAM, I need evac for over fifty."

Sampo starts at the grave robotic voice crackling through.

"Affirmative. En route," it confirms.

The stranger cocks his head. "Thank you," he says, warmth tinging his distorted words. "Has Kafka behaved?"

"She has. You know she wouldn't defy you. Not on this."

A low chuckle. "I know. Still good to hear you say it."

"You're impossible," the voice grumbles. "ETA, three minutes. Comms out."

Sampo holds his breath, mind awhirl at the surreal exchange. One thing was clear - this masked man was no common soul, with mighty allies at his call.

The stranger approaches, kneeling, extending a hand in startling camaraderie.

"Your part in this tale is yet to come," he promises cryptically.

Sampo swallows hard. "Who are you?" he whispers.

The mask retracts, unveiling striking angular features. Tanned skin, golden eyes, dark brown hair. Welcoming, unlike his former visage.

"Alexander Salvatore," the man says, voice pure and unfiltered. "Be my friend, would you? We have much to discuss."

——————————————————————

Sampo perches on the edge of the outlook in Boulder Town, the silence stretching between him and Alexander. Minutes have ticked by since he finished recounting their first encounter.

Alexander digests Sampo's words, his expression inscrutable. With a practiced motion, he fishes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, taking a long drag before offering one to Sampo.

"No, thank you, Alexander," Sampo declines, a polite smile on his lips.

Alexander shrugs, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Even if we've met before, I don't remember you." His tone is nonchalant, almost dismissive. "So drop the 'Alexander'."

Sampo watches as Alexander sits, the cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the silence growing oppressive. Unable to bear it any longer, Sampo clears his throat. "Credit for your thoughts?"

A wry chuckle escapes Alexander. "More like a dollar for what I'm not thinking about."

Ignoring Sampo's confused expression, he turns, his golden gaze piercing the self-proclaimed merchant, eyes sharp as a knife. "How long ago did this supposed meeting happen?"

Sampo considers, mentally calculating. "About eight months back."

"Eight months, huh?" Alexander murmurs, his gaze drifting, lost in thought once more.

Sampo interjects, his mischievous nature resurfacing, a grin splitting his face. "When we first crossed paths, I couldn't quite peg you. You were one of the few who managed to catch me off guard." His eyes dance with amusement. "It was a real trip."

Alexander's brow creases. "Did you know about the hostages at Jepella?" His voice is low, laden with unspoken implications.

Sampo raises his hand, crossing it over his heart, his expression earnest. "I didn't. I thought I was procuring goods for the people being held hostage. I had no idea I was actually supplying the Jepella Brotherhood." He hesitates, then continues. "I also got a heads-up from an anonymous source about an impending rebellion. I'm a man of my word, so I wanted to ensure my partners on the planet were safe."

Alexander's eyes narrow, the gears turning behind them. "Followers of Aha, by chance?"

Sampo blinks, taken aback, before a bark of laughter escapes him, his head shaking in disbelief. "This right here is why you fascinate me so much. You know things you shouldn't."

He looks up, a wistful expression flitting across his face, murmuring almost to himself. "You even warned me."

Alexander frowns, confusion etching lines on his forehead. "I warned you?"

Sampo nods, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Sure did! After that SAM character helped us evacuate everyone from the building—he sure was terrifying—you pulled me aside and laid out, in excruciating detail, my powers, my abilities, my exact plans, even the names of my pals in the Masked Fools. You made it crystal clear that if you ever caught wind of me stepping out of line – and you guaranteed you would – you'd make the rest of my days the most mind-numbingly dull existence imaginable, culminating in the most pathetic, anticlimactic death possible."

A low chuckle rumbles in Alexander's throat. Sampo shoots him a mock pout. "Laughing at my misfortune? How cruel."

Alexander's lips quirk into a faint smile. "I'm chuckling because you referred to SAM as a 'he'."

Sampo's eyes widen, surprise flickering across his features. "Wait, they're not?"

Alexander merely shrugs, offering no further clarification.

Sampo watches, bemused, as Xander's demeanor shifts abruptly, a frown creasing his brow.

"So I've taken lives, huh," Xander mutters, disbelief coloring his voice.

Sensing the shift in the air, Sampo adopts a slightly more serious tone, though a hint of his playfulness remains. "I can only speak to our one encounter, but... you didn't seem to relish it." He tries to reassure Xander. "Your aim was never to kill, only to neutralize. You only resorted to lethal force when backed into a corner, like with the hostage situation."

Sampo pauses, allowing his words to sink in. "You had no way to neutralize the chopper pilots shooting at us. The lives of the hostages hung in the balance, including yours, mine, and even the Jepella Brotherhood members you had previously incapacitated."

He leans back, gauging Xander's reaction. "And when you did take a life, you always had this tech whiz, Silver Wolf, track down the names of their family members, make sure they were taken care of. You were adamant about funneling funds to them anonymously." Sampo chuckles. "I even recall you butting heads over comms with another member of yours, Blade, I think, about this very thing."

Sampo's expression grows pensive. "If memory serves, you even strong-armed Silver Wolf into finding top-rated foster homes in one instance where someone you took out had a kid."

Xander's eyes widen, horror etched into every line of his face. Sampo quickly tries to reassure him. "The guy you killed was a grade-A psychopath." He waves a dismissive hand. "Trust me, I know the type. Based on what I overheard from your chat with the girl, he had ditched the kid ages ago and had a body count in the triple digits."

Xander seems far from appeased. Fury sparks in his eyes as he snarls, "You think that makes it any fucking better for me?" He hurls his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel.

Stalking over to the railing, Xander grips it, his head bowed as if under a great weight. "I still killed someone." He spits the words like venom, his fist slamming into the railing, leaving a sizable dent. "That's a burden I have to shoulder now."

Xander whirls to face Sampo, his golden eyes blazing brighter than ever. Sampo can't suppress the shiver that runs down his spine under the intensity of that gaze.

"You're not yanking my chain, are you?" Xander demands, his voice low and threatening.

Sampo raises his hands in a placating gesture, shaking his head vehemently. "No, no, absolutely not!"

Xander turns halfway, eyes narrowing to slits. "You're certain?"

Again, Sampo shakes his head, reaffirming his sincerity.

"FUCK!" Xander's scream reverberates through the deserted streets of Boulder Town. "I wish you had lied to me." He turns back to the railing, slumping against it in defeat. "God damn it..."

Sympathy pangs in Sampo's chest, his usual jovial air faltering. "Um... Xander," he starts hesitantly. "There's another reason I was so adamant about speaking with you."

Xander lets out a mirthless chuckle. "Go on. Not like this day can get any worse."

Sensing the need to lighten the mood, Sampo attempts a feeble joke. "Well, I suppose you could always call the IPC to come to Belobog to mine the entirety of the Geomarrow. That might make things a bit more exciting around here."

Xander merely stares at him, his expression utterly devoid of humor. Sampo's forced smile withers. "Just trying to inject some levity," he mumbles apologetically. "Anyway..." He clears his throat. "You actually asked a favor of me in return for saving my bacon. You wanted me to deliver a message to you."

This seems to pique Xander's interest, an eyebrow quirking upward.

"Apparently, you knew our paths would cross again in Belobog," Sampo explains with a laugh. "Honestly, at this point, I'm starting to suspect you might be some sort of prophet, but—"

Xander seizes him by the shoulders, his golden eyes burning with intensity. "What did I say?" he demands.

Sampo swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. "You said, and I quote, that you couldn't divulge much for fear of altering things, whatever that means, and because I might bungle it up." He scoffs, glancing away. "Ye of little faith."

Xander's grip tightens, his fingers digging into Sampo's shoulders. Sampo hastens to continue. "But you said you knew you were likely going through some serious trouble right now, that you knew you'd be scared, anxious, worried. You said you understood because you've 'been there, done that, got the t-shirt'."

He takes a deep breath. "You told me to remind you that no matter what, you should always fall back on your faith and remember Proverbs 3:5-6 and Joshua 1:9."

Xander frowns, confusion painted across his features. "What?"

Sampo raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Don't look at me, I don't have a clue what those words and numbers mean! You weren't exactly forthcoming with an explanation."

Xander's grip slackens. He looks down, brow furrowed in thought. Sampo watches curiously, trying to decipher the cryptic message.

"Maybe they're book passages?" he suggests. "Or TV channels? Radio stations? A food order?"

Xander remains silent for a beat before whispering, "Proverbs 3:5-6. 'Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.'"

He looks up at Sampo, his expression intense. "And the other one?"

"Uhhhhh..." Sampo falters. "Joshua 1:9, I think?"

Xander steps back, his brow creased in concentration as he processes the information. After a moment, he nods, reciting the verse. "'Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.'"

Sampo watches as Xander takes a minute to digest the words, pacing around. The worried expression that had been etched on his face moments ago has vanished, replaced by a pensive look.

For a fleeting instant, Sampo thinks he catches a glimpse of a content, albeit small, smile on Xander's face, as if he's just unraveled a particularly vexing puzzle, when suddenly...

Xander lets out an exasperated groan. Looking up, he begins pacing in a circle, frustration dripping from his voice as he exclaims, "Naa, es que soy un recontra pelotudo. ¿Sólo eso me mandé a decir a mí mismo? La que me re mil parió. ¿Cómo no me van a pasar estas cosas si soy así de boludo?"2

Confusion crashes over Sampo as he watches Xander continue his agitated pacing, shouting things in a language that even his synesthesia beacon can't decipher. He remains silent, not daring to interrupt Xander's apparent tirade.

"¡No joda! Es que uno no puede ser tan güevón, tan marica," Xander continues, his voice crescendoing with each word. "Si me tuviera al frente le parto esa jeta a punta de madrazos por pendejo. ¿Cómo putas espera que yo me arregle en este mierdero con solo esos dos putos proverbios? ¡Hasta San Pedro me habría caído a garrote, el hijo de la gran puta!"3

Sampo's eyes widen as he listens to Xander's diatribe, the meaning of the foreign words lost on him. Is he swearing? It certainly sounds like it, given the vehemence and vitriol in his voice. Hesitantly, Sampo tries to interject, "Uhhh, Xander?"

But Xander seems lost in his own world, switching back to a language Sampo can comprehend. "God damn it, you absolute fucking dingleberry, useless sack of moldy potatoes. No fucking wonder you got roasted like a rotisserie chicken at that Andrew Schulz show—"

Unable to contain his bewilderment any longer, Sampo raises his voice, calling out, "Xander!"

"WHAT?" Xander snaps, eyes flashing with irritation.

Sampo swallows nervously, his voice quavering slightly. "Uh... I don't... I don't understand a single thing you're saying right now."

Realization seems to dawn on Xander. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Good. Better that way," he mutters, dragging his hands down his face, massaging his eyes in the process.

"Okay, Alexander, think," Xander says to himself, his voice calmer now. "What the fuck do we do? Okay, we start by apologizing to March and Dan Heng. We convince them not to boot me from the Astral Express and come clean with the fucking truth. Don't let Bronya out of your sight, figure out what the hell is going down here and if there are any deviations from canon, keep an eye out for Svarog and... never-fucking-mind, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just adapt, like you always do. If your dumb-ass self could handle the Stellaron Hunters, then you can handle this too."

Sampo watches, intrigued, as Xander nods to himself, only to suddenly smack his forehead with an open palm, his expression one of self-recrimination.

"Dumbass, don't forget the most important thing," Xander mutters under his breath.

To Sampo's surprise, Xander reaches into his coat's inner pocket and carefully withdraws the cross pendant he had seen him carry months ago. The ornate pendant glints gold in the dim light, catching Sampo's eye. When Sampo had first noticed it, curiosity had niggled at him, wondering what significance this particular piece of jewelry held.

Xander stares at the pendant for a long moment, his eyes growing vulnerable and pensive. With a reverent motion, he raises it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss upon the metal surface before slipping it back into his pocket.

Straightening his shoulders, Xander gives a firm nod, as if steeling himself. "Faith, Alexander," he murmurs, his voice resolute. "Have some fucking faith!"

Sampo listens intently, trying to piece together Xander's words. It's clear he's formulating a plan, but the specifics remain elusive. Before he can ponder further, Xander turns to him, smacking him on the chest with his hand.

"I apologize for nearly strangling you," Xander says, sincerity ringing in his voice.

Sampo blinks, his mind reeling from the abrupt shift in Xander's demeanor. He's a Masked Fool, known for his ability to confuse and mislead others, yet here he stands, utterly perplexed by the man before him. It's a strange sensation, being on the receiving end of such bewilderment.

Xander's expression turns grave, his eyes boring into Sampo's. "Also, thank you, sincerely, for delivering the message and keeping your word. I respect that."

Pride swells in Sampo's chest, his characteristic roguish tone resurfacing. He closes his eyes, a smile spreading across his face. "But of course! My name is Sampo Koski! How could I not—"

But before he can finish, Xander cuts him off. "I know about that stash of masks you've been pilfering from Sparkle just to mess with her."

Sampo's eyes snap open, widening in shock. "Wait, what—"

A glint appears in Xander's eyes. "If you want to keep that little secret under wraps, how about you do me another solid?"

As Sampo processes Xander's words, a thought strikes him. Xander may be a Nameless and a Stellaron Hunter...

But with his cunning and knack for unpredictability and unearthing secrets, he'd fit right in with the Masked Fools.

——————————————————————

March's boots click sharply against the cobblestones as she paces back and forth, her brow furrowed and fists clenched at her sides. "Idiot... moron... fool... dimwit…" she mutters, each insult punctuated by a stomp of her foot.

Nearby, Dan Heng leans against a building wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. The tightness in his jaw and the tension in his shoulders betray his unease despite his calm exterior.

"Blithering fool!" March's voice shatters the quiet like a thunderclap. She whirls to face Dan, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with the heat of her frustration and worry.

Dan cracks one eye open, fixing her with a pointed look. "Language."

March blinks, taken aback. "I didn't even say anything that bad," she protests, hands flying to her hips.

"You were about to." He opens his other eye, regarding her fully, one eyebrow arched.

March opens her mouth, retort at the ready, but it dies on her lips. She huffs out a breath, shoulders sagging. "So what if I was? Maybe I should call him what he is. An ass—"

"Language!" Dan's voice cracks like a whip, his hand slicing through the air.

Pouting, March glares at him, hands still firmly planted on her hips. The air between them crackles with tension, thick with unspoken words and pent-up emotions.

Finally, she deflates, the fight draining out of her. "I just can't understand him completely," she admits, a note of sadness creeping into her voice, her eyes dropping to the ground.

Dan arches an eyebrow, pushing off the wall to stand straight. "He hasn't given us much to work with," he points out, spreading his hands.

March's head snaps up, her aquamarine eyes flashing. "That's not true. He has, even if he hasn't been direct about it." She takes a deep breath, fingers twisting together in front of her. "He's anxious, incredibly paranoid, more than I've ever seen. But beneath that, he feels things deeply."

"And how do you think he feels about the Astral Express? About us?" Dan tilts his head, studying her.

Biting her lip, March considers, her gaze distant. "At first, I think he saw us as an obligation, an unexpected burden he had to bear."

Dan nods gravely, his expression solemn. "Harsh, but accurate."

"I didn't like it, but I got it. From his perspective, he had a life before this, and suddenly he's saddled with a Stellaron and a crew of strangers." March shrugs, her hands falling to her sides. "I can't blame him for feeling that way, but..." She trails off, turning away.

"But?" Dan prompts gently, taking a step closer.

March meets his eyes, her own shimmering with resolve and disappointment. "I've really tried, you know? Tried to show him he can trust us, trust me." She thumps her chest with a fist. "And I think it's working, in flashes. Those brief moments of connection... I know you've seen them too." She points at Dan, eyebrows raised. "But he just..."

A growl of frustration tears from her throat, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "It's infuriating! Like talking to a wall. I just want to punch him—"

"Am I interrupting?"

They whirl around, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. Bronya stands there, arms crossed, with Seele a silent shadow behind her.

"Oh, Bronya." March laughs nervously, waving a hand. "Just some family drama. You know how it is."

Bronya's expression remains stoic, unimpressed. "Sure. Family drama."

Glancing at Seele, March frowns, jerking her chin towards the unfamiliar woman. "And who's your friend?"

Seele steps forward, purple eyes guarded, her posture stiff. "Seele. Natasha asked me to keep an eye on you two." Her gaze darts between them, sharp and assessing. "You're coming to the Great Mine with us. No arguments." She jabs a finger at them for emphasis.

March and Dan exchange a look, a whole conversation passing in that glance. A subtle nod from Dan, and March turns back to the others, hands raised placatingly. "We wouldn't want to cause Miss Natasha any trouble, especially after her help. We're happy to accompany you for now."

An awkward silence descends, broken only by the scuff of feet on cobblestones as they shift uncomfortably. March clears her throat, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Funny, isn't it? That we're having this chat when just hours ago we were shooting at each other."

Bronya's eyes narrow to slits, her grip tightening on her rifle. "In my book, you're still terrorists. But my hands are tied for now." She jabs a finger at them, her expression hard. "I'll make sure you get a fair trial, but the law will judge you."

Dan straightens, squaring his shoulders, brow knitting. "And what exactly are we accused of?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Bronya scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Conspiring against Belobog and the supreme guardian's authority."

March stares at Bronya, stunned by the gravity of the accusation, her mouth falling open. "That's quite a claim."

Dan meets Bronya's gaze unflinchingly, his chin lifting. "We've done no such thing. I suggest you provide proof of these alleged 'conspiracies' before throwing around such charges."

For a split second, uncertainty flickers in Bronya's eyes before she masters it. "The madam guardian had a vision of Xander that left her deeply troubled."

Confusion clouds March's features, her brow furrowing. But before she can respond, a derisive snort escapes Dan. "A vision? You've declared war on us over a vision?" He throws his hands up, shaking his head. "Listen to yourself!"

Bronya's lips compress into a thin line, her nostrils flaring. "Over the years, the supreme guardian has received many visions, gifted by the Preservation itself, that have aided our fight against Fragmentum threats." She draws herself up, her voice ringing with conviction. "Suggesting otherwise borders on heresy, which is not only frowned upon but punishable by law."

"Are you hearing this?" Dan asks March and Seele, a mirthless chuckle rumbling in his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Seele scoffs, purple eyes glinting with mockery, her arms crossing over her chest. "Listening to this nonsense is physically painful."

March steps forward, hands raised placatingly, her expression earnest. "Hey, let's not fight. We're all stuck down here. It's better if we put our differences aside, at least for now."

Bronya's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in her cheek. For a taut moment, it seems she might argue further. Then, with a sigh, her shoulders sag slightly, her grip on her rifle loosening. "I have no choice," she admits, gaze flicking to March. With a reluctant nod, she gestures to Seele. "You two, and her, I can tolerate working with. Just don't expect me to cooperate with your... demon." She spits the last word like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

"Demon?" March echoes, baffled, her eyebrows shooting up. She glances at Dan and Seele, who look equally perplexed, shrugging helplessly. "You mean... Xander?"

Bronya stares at them like they've all lost their minds, her expression incredulous. "Who else?"

March and Dan share a look of bewilderment, eyebrows raised. Turning back to Seele, March smiles wryly, shaking her head. "Yeah, she's lost it," she mutters from the corner of her mouth.

"I heard that!" Bronya flushes with indignation, her free hand clenching into a fist. "Xander is a threat to us all, and you're idiots for not seeing it!"

Ignoring her outburst, March changes tack, her expression brightening with forced cheer. "So, how's the Underworld treating you, Bronya? I know you went for a walk to scope out the streets." She spreads her arms wide, spinning in a circle. "It's huge down here! Stretches out forever."

Dan looks up, surveying the towering cavern walls, his head tilting back. "There could easily be a kilometer between us and the ceiling." He whistles lowly, shaking his head. "Surprising it hasn't collapsed."

Bronya shakes her head, her expression thoughtful. "Though not visible from here, support beams prevent collapse. It would take an incredibly powerful quake or impact on the surface to cause that." She taps her chin, considering. "Belobog hasn't recorded anything like that in over a millennia, long before the Eternal Freeze, and won't be doing so anytime soon for us to witness."

She sighs heavily, gaze dropping to the ground, her shoulders slumping. "That is, if we even survive that long as a civilization."

March and Dan exchange a glance, sensing Bronya's shift in tone. "Don't worry," Dan reassures. "If we find the Stellaron and seal it away, we're sure Belobog can be saved."

Bronya's head snaps up, eyes narrowing, shrugging off the words. "You mentioned this 'Stellaron' at the clinic, and the… demon… brought it up at the Starlight Café." She jabs a finger at them, her voice sharp. "What is it exactly?"

Taking a deep breath, March searches for the right words to explain, her hands twisting together. "Well, you see..."

"That explanation can wait."

Xander's voice slices through the tension like a knife. March's gaze darts to him as he drops from a nearby roof, Sampo close behind. Her heart leaps into her throat, a mix of relief and apprehension churning in her gut.

Bronya tenses, hand flying to her rifle, eyes locked on Xander, her finger twitching on the trigger.

Reacting on instinct, March, Dan, and Seele reach for their own weapons, muscles coiled, ready to spring into action.

Seele's voice cracks out, sharp and commanding, her hand raised. "Everyone calm down and hold your horses, or I'll put you all down myself!"

Sampo, caught in the middle, fumbles awkwardly with his pockets, eyes darting between the two groups. Finally, he shrugs and raises his hands in surrender, a nervous grin on his face.

"We don't need to go that far," Dan says calmly, trying to defuse the standoff, his hands raised placatingly. "We just need Bronya to cool it."

But Bronya doesn't budge, eyes fixed on Xander, her jaw clenched. "Not with him here."

Xander meets her stare, contemplative, his head tilting to the side. "I get it. I attacked the person you love most." He spreads his hands, his expression understanding. "I'd feel the same in your shoes."

Bronya's grip tightens on her rifle, her knuckles turning white. "I swear on Alisa Rand's name, I'll bring you to justice for your crimes." She levels the rifle at him, her voice cold. "Severe discipline is the least of your worries."

A wry smile twists Xander's lips, his eyes glinting. "You're too late. The Lord has already disciplined me severely."

March frowns, perplexed by his cryptic words, her brow furrowing. Even Bronya seems taken aback, eyes widening, her rifle lowering a fraction.

Xander's gaze turns distant, his voice dropping. "But he has not given me over to death." He looks at Bronya intently, his expression grave. "I know you don't want to hear my side. But please, listen to the woman beside you." He nods to Seele, his eyes pleading. "There's a lot you don't understand. Open your eyes and ears to what the people in the underworld are going through."

Without waiting for a response, Xander strides purposefully toward March, his coat flaring behind him. She tenses, heart pounding, wondering what he's planning.

Then, to her utter shock, he pulls her into a bone-crushing hug, his arms wrapping around her tightly.

"I'm sorry for what I said," he murmurs thickly, his voice rough with emotion. "I was scared, and I let my emotions take over. I tried to hurt you with my words." He pulls back, gripping her shoulders, vulnerability raw in his eyes. "You didn't deserve that, least of all my lies."

Stunned, March stands frozen, mind reeling at this unexpected apology, her arms hanging limply at her sides. The sincerity in his voice, the genuine remorse, is a stark contrast to his previous coldness. It leaves her reeling, her heart twisting.

Xander's hands tighten on her shoulders, his gaze searching her face. "I don't have a good explanation. I don't know if you'll even understand, but I'll try to tell you everything... you deserve that much."

He glances at Dan, who watches pensively, arms crossed over his chest. "That goes for you too, Dan. I'm sorry." He dips his head, his voice rough. "You were right."

Eyes downcast, Xander's face is etched with remorse, his shoulders sagging. "I get it if you don't want me on the Astral Express crew anymore, given everything. But please, let me explain." He looks up, his eyes pleading. "It's crucial that you hear it. And let me keep supporting you while we're in Belobog." His hands fall from her shoulders, clenching into fists at his sides. "I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you because of me. I've made too many mistakes already, and—"

Surprising herself, March hugs him tightly, blinking back tears, her throat tight. "I've heard that brothers fight sometimes," she confesses, voice strained. "I wouldn't know. I can't remember if I had family before the ice..." She pulls back, searching his face. "Is it supposed to be like this?"

Xander's arms tighten around her. "I'm setting a poor example, to be honest... it shouldn't be," he murmurs regretfully, shaking his head. "I swear I'll do better."

Gulping past the lump in her throat, March nods, stepping back, swiping at her eyes. "After we return from the Great Mine with Seele, we'll talk," she promises in a near-whisper.

Xander nods, expression pensive, his hands falling to his sides. "Right. The Vagrants." He glances at March and Dan, his jaw tightening. "We'll talk after."

A loud "Awwww" pierces the moment, shattering the fragile understanding. Everyone turns to see Sampo grinning, face a mask of exaggerated adoration, hands clasped over his heart.

Bronya's expression contorts into a mix of confusion and disgust, her nose wrinkling. Seele's eyes narrow, flickering between annoyance and revulsion, her lips curling.

Irritation surges through March, her hands clenching into fists. Dan merely regards Sampo, unsurprised, one eyebrow raised.

"What?" Sampo throws his arms wide, his grin widening. "They looked adorable!"

Xander chuckles wryly, shaking his head. "Way to kill the mood, Sampo." His expression sobers, his eyes hardening. "We'll be having words later."

Sampo visibly tenses, swallowing hard, his grin fading.

Turning to Seele, Xander arches an eyebrow, his head tilting towards the path ahead. "Shall we?"

Seele huffs, rolling her eyes. "Let's go." She starts walking, then pauses, glancing back at Sampo, jabbing a finger at him. "You're coming too. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

Sampo pouts dramatically as they follow Seele, his shoulders slumping. "Why am I always treated so unfairly by my friends?" he whines, throwing his hands up.

Xander's voice drops, low and ominous, his eyes glinting. "I might just have to pay Penacony a visit, let someone know about that secret stash of masks—"

"Okay, okay, zipping it! No need to go nuclear!"

——————————————————————

Cocolia Rand paces like a caged animal in her office at Qlipoth Fort, her wild, bloodshot eyes darting frantically. She snatches a book from her desk and hurls it across the room with a primal scream of anguish. The once pristine office lies in disarray, papers strewn about and broken objects littering the floor. Cocolia's usually immaculate appearance is a disheveled mess, her hair tangled and her face contorted in pain.

"Lies! All lies!" she shrieks, her voice raw and desperate. Vivid images assault her mind, as if she's experiencing reality through another's eyes. Strong, unyielding hands latch onto Bronya's neck. With a sickening crack, her daughter's lifeless body crumples to the ground.

An agonized howl rips from Cocolia's throat as the searing vision brands itself into her psyche. The whispers of Belobog's Stellaron slither into her ear, their tone a mix of comfort and manipulation. "It's the truth," they murmur. "The demon has taken her to the Underworld and snuffed out her precious life."

Tears cascade down Cocolia's face as she clutches her head, trying to block out the horrifying images. "How can you know?" she demands, her voice quavering. "How can I trust you aren't weaving a web of deceit?"

The voices crescendo into a harsh, judging cacophony. "You dare question us?" they hiss. "We, the eternal guardians of this planet, who have guided and nurtured each generation of Rands?"

Cocolia's legs give way, and she crashes to the floor, her body wracked with sobs. "It can't be true," she whispers brokenly. "My golden light, my sunshine...she can't be gone..."

The Stellaron's voices shift to a tender, almost caring tone. "Seize your anger and despair," they urge. "Forge them into weapons. Wield them for the salvation of the Belobogians. Ensure your daughter's sacrifice was not in vain. Reunite with her in the new world, but only if you thwart his path of destruction."

Cocolia rocks back and forth, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold the shattered pieces of her soul together. "It can't be true, it can't be true, it can't be true," she chants, her voice edged with desperation. The whispers of the Stellaron swirl through her mind, their words a sinister symphony of solace and manipulation.

The once proud Supreme Guardian is reduced to a broken husk, consumed by grief and despair. The crushing weight of her loss presses down on her, splintering her spirit and leaving her vulnerable to the influence of the Stellaron. Cocolia's world lies in jagged shards at her feet, and in the midst of her suffocating anguish, she grasps at the fragile promise of reunion with her daughter in a new world, untainted by the demon who ripped her away.

But even as she clings to this thread of hope, doubt and disbelief gnaw at her mind. The gut-wrenching images of Bronya's death replay in an endless loop, each iteration more vivid and horrifying than the last. Cocolia's anguished screams rip through the halls of Qlipoth Fort, a haunting dirge of unfathomable loss.

The Stellaron's voices swell to a roar, their whispers morphing into an inescapable maelstrom in Cocolia's fractured mind. They goad her to act, to transmute her pain into a righteous inferno that will scour the land clean and avenge her fallen child. But Cocolia remains mired in a purgatory of denial and despair, unable to fully accept the soul-crushing reality of her loss.

As she lies broken on the cold floor of her office, surrounded by the wreckage of her once meticulously ordered life, Cocolia teeters on the knife edge of madness.

——————————————————————

Countdown to Belobog's Long Night of Solace: 3̴̛̪̿̈́͑̀͛̒̔̈͝͠͝͠ ̷̛͍͉̲̲͖̭̹͔̗̺͉̥̦̞̟̝̫͂̅̇͋̈́̀̇͗̈͜ḋ̶̢̻̳̻̳̯͎̭̓̈̾̑͒̐̂̕͝͠ͅa̷̡̡̮̞͖̤̙̮̟͎̥͚̽̌́̒̇́̎̍͌̚̕͝ͅÿ̷̢͍̮͈̥̬̙͎͎͈̪̹̙́s̶̛̪̩͎̟̟͛́́̾̆̇̉̒͌͘͠ͅ remaining.