The winter nights grew colder the further one moved away from the city's golden lights. Beyond the guarded estates and regal manors, deep into the fog-covered eastern docks, the cold didn't just bite; it burrowed in.
A crooked warehouse sat nestled in the ruins of an old shipping yard, its iron beams rusted with neglect. The wind moaned through shattered windows, scattering soot and salt into the corners of the darkened floor. The snow didn't reach inside, but the chill had long ago made its home there.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old smoke, blood, and burnt paper.
There were no guards, no passwords, no security—just silence and shadows—and that was all Morris needed.
He sat hunched in a tattered armchair, legs spread, one boot absently tapping against the concrete floor. In front of him lay a cracked table littered with scorched notes, weapon schematics, and a glass ashtray overflowing with embers. A single bulb flickered above him, casting jagged halos against the peeling walls.
His hands were stained; his gloved fingers twitched as if recalling something violent.
"Still no trail," a voice said from the shadows behind him. A man stepped into the dim light, his coat damp from the snow. "We've searched the tunnels. The girl's too well protected."
Morris didn't look up. Instead, he reached for a file near his elbow. It was thin, old, and creased, labeled only by an alias: Seagull.
He flipped it open with one hand, revealing blurred photos, half-burned documents, and a few scrawled lines in blood-red ink.
"Funny," Morris murmured. "You'd think someone who flew so high would leave feathers behind."
The other man cleared his throat uneasily. "We believe he's gone north—into Reinhardt territory."
Morris chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "North, south—it doesn't matter. He'll show up. They always do."
He leaned back in his chair, and the light swung lazily above him.
"You know what I hate?" he asked suddenly.
The man stiffened. "What, sir?"
"Silence," Morris said softly. "But not the kind in rooms. I mean the silence people leave when they disappear. That kind of quiet feels like guilt… like unfinished business."
He tossed the file onto the floor and stood. His long, dark coat, tailored in an old-fashioned style, shifted with him, revealing the faint outline of a blade beneath the lapel.
Morris wasn't loud; he didn't need to be. He was the kind of man whose presence felt like a closing door—soft, certain, final.
"They think I vanished," he muttered. "Reginald. Claw. That over-polished little heir with his father's voice but none of his spine."
The room creaked under the weight of his fury.
"He forgets who taught him fire," Morris said, pacing slowly. "Who buried bodies so deep that the sea stopped counting."
He stopped at a wall lined with old photos—most yellowed, some ripped. A few depicted faces that had once ruled the Westdentian underworld: The Raven Circle, The Ashen Three, The Thorns. All were defunct now.
Except one.
A crest, faded but unmistakable, was scrawled on a section of the wall: King's Claw. Below it, written in jagged handwriting, was a single name: Claw.
Morris laughed. "What a joke."
He reached into his coat and pulled out an older version of the same crest. Not printed, but carved—wood, blackened with age.
"I was there when that name was born," he said. "Before Reginald. Before the Smiths put on crowns and drank wine with diplomats."
He glanced at the man beside him. "Do you even know who the Smiths were before all this?"
The man blinked, unsure.
"They weren't just rich," Morris continued. "They were bred for war. They were shadows in the royal court. Bodyguards. Poison testers. Kingslayers, some say." His grin widened. "And I was one of them."
The silence deepened.
He dropped the crest. It clattered against the concrete and spun until it lay still.
"I wanted to build something darker. A kingdom beneath the kingdom. But Reginald wanted handshakes—legitimacy. He got his seat at the table, and I got buried under it."
His voice lowered. "But they never finished the job."
He turned slowly, a strange light in his eyes. "And now they've made another mistake—Giselle's alive."
That name—Giselle—unsettled him. Not because he feared her, but because she reminded him of something he couldn't quite name: the way she moved, the precision, the look in her eyes that whispered of old ghosts.
"She disappeared after that last contract," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. "Seven years gone. Like she never existed. But now she's crawling out of the dirt, and I know why."
His voice trembled—not with fear, but with hunger.
He stepped to the window, his silhouette framed against the falling snow. The city sparkled beyond the docks, distant and cold.
"They all think they're players. But I'm the one with the board."
Behind him, the man hesitated. "What do you want us to do?"
Morris didn't turn around.
"Light the match," he said.
Outside, several figures waited by rusted trucks. Their eyes were hollow, their movements practiced. They weren't soldiers—they were monsters bred in silence.
They didn't speak as Morris walked out.
And in the distance, far past the glimmering lights of the Reinhardt estate and the quiet shadow of the Smith compound, the ghosts of the past stirred—because Morris had returned.
And he wasn't finished.
...
Far from the docks—beyond even the borders of Westdentia—a man stood in the quiet confines of an obsidian-paneled room high above the world. The walls were smooth and reflective, and the only light came from an old oil lamp flickering by his side, casting strange shadows on his sharp, unreadable features.
He watched the screen in front of him as a silent drone fed back visuals of Morris leaving the warehouse. There was no sound—just images, enough to confirm the movements.
He didn't blink or shift. He simply smiled slowly.
"So predictable," the man murmured, his voice smooth with the faintest hint of an old royal accent, as though he had studied power longer than anyone should.
He lifted a glass of dark wine to his lips but didn't drink. His eyes, a piercing shade of storm gray, narrowed thoughtfully.
"Let the old beast stir," he said to no one. "Let him set fire to the past. He was always meant to be a weapon... not a victor."
The flames in the oil lamp flickered slightly as if reacting to his words.
"He still believes he's owed something," he whispered with quiet amusement. "But this revenge... this war... it won't belong to him."
He turned away from the monitor, his coat whispering behind him like silk brushed by the wind.
"It will belong to me."
Then, as if on cue, the screen blinked black. The room fell into silence once more, save for the steady pulse of the lamp's flame and the sound of one man's quiet satisfaction.