"Emilia, oh Emilia." Raeburn's muffled exasperation echoed through the room as he used a textbook to shield his face. "How can someone so studious and sharp still confuse salt and sugar? Twice! Three times?!"

Emilia pouted, her cheeks flushing red. "Hey! Don't rub it in! I thought you'd be impressed by my studying!"

Raeburn fought a smirk, "Everyone looks studious to me, Em, since I'm the study-challenged one. Your dedication deserves a reward, and I was going to teach you how to cook my secret recipes! Now, thanks to your sugar-coated disaster, my dream of making you the building's best cook is toast."

"Don't abandon me after three tries! I can learn, I promise! I'll never confuse sugar and salt again, just wait and see!"

Raeburn raised an eyebrow. "If Sloth doesn't kill me first by turning my insides to mush, maybe I'll live to see that day, like, a hundred years from now."

"Raeburn!"

Their banter continued as they embarked on Raeburn's second-day plan: becoming friends. Morning began with their regular routine - stretches, exercises, and a light jog around the mansion with Tank, followed by a crucial skill for their upcoming play: a dance fight.

The goal was simple: exchange controlled, wide swings with bare hands and kicks, always missing your partner without looking awkward. It's a dance of telegraphed strikes and fluid movements, creating an illusion of combat for the audience.

Raeburn started Emilia off with beginner-friendly moves, his own strikes exaggerated and slow. To his surprise, she took to it naturally, her form surprisingly graceful. He upped the intensity in the second round, and she kept up effortlessly, her counter-attacks anything but amateurish. By the third level, she was a whirlwind of movement, her agility and instinctive reactions a force to be reckoned with.

It was clear her physical talent was raw and unrefined. She didn't need rigid training; she simply moved with an innate flow and confidence that left Raeburn, the analytical learner, in awe. He had to see, analyze, and adapt, while she danced with her instincts, and it worked beautifully. He was a student of combat, while she was a dancing spirit.

Convinced of Emilia's talent, Raeburn unleashed the full intensity of the dance-fight. Flips and rolls met Emilia's spins and swift kicks, while Tank playfully joined the chaos. His Snakebite Club held firmly in his jaws like he owned the damn thing, he danced with surprising grace, using his large form to bounce between them, even employing his rear as a playful weapon. His snout, nimble as a hand, switched grips on the club with practiced ease.

Lost in the flow, thought and emotion dissolved, their bodies dictating the movements. Just as Raeburn thought it would never end, the maids' announcement of breakfast startled Emilia. Her leg, surprisingly powerful, swung out and connected with his head - a rock-hard impact! Though his arm blocked the blow, it sent him tumbling. Quite the hit for someone built like her.

A worried Emilia hovered over him, only to be flattened atop him by Tank's enthusiastic belly flop. Puck, ever the party animal, piled on top, transforming the scene into a human-sized cuddle puddle.

Drained but happy, they devoured breakfast. After separate baths, Emilia dragged Raeburn to her room. It was simple by noble standards, with few personal belongings. The only interesting feature was her study desk, overflowing with books and papers.

Seizing the opportunity, Raeburn offered to help her study. While not a fan himself, his exceptional comprehension allowed him to simplify complex material into digestible chunks. He could quiz her or boil down the material for later review if she wanted.

Emilia proved a quick learner. Each successful quiz earned her a culinary adventure - a taste of Vollachian delicacies or Pandemonian specialties Raeburn whipped up with delight. It had been ages since he'd cooked for someone else, and the shared meals offered a much-needed break for both. Her enthusiastic enjoyment fueled his own satisfaction.

As dusk approached, the books closed. Playtime began. Tank's playful antics or strumming melodies under the gazebo filled their evenings before dinner, a welcome break for both.

The days flowed, each one mirroring the last, with Emilia shedding her initial shell and blossoming into a more animated, even touchy-feely presence. Seeing her confidence soar made Raeburn feel his efforts worthwhile. Though her attachment to him felt unusually quick, but he can excuse that to her circumstances.

Reaching the end of a chapter of intermediate-level economics, Raeburn finally grasped the complex concepts, simplifying them in his mind. He yawned, closing the book with a sigh of relief. "Man, that was dense for no reason."

Beneath their effectiveness, the kingdom's policies held disturbing loopholes. They enriched the wealthy while squeezing hope from the lower classes, even threatening the middle-class in the long run. If these flaws were known, why the hell weren't they addressed? What role did the Council of Wise Men play when there's no King? The sprawling slums were a stark reminder of systemic neglect. If Emilia intended to rule, she needed to understand this crucial issue.

Perhaps he could simplify it, sparking strategic brainstorming sessions. Together, they might find solutions amidst the complexities.

With a sigh, Raeburn shut the book. "Almost finished with this chapter. Ready to delve deeper into the kingdom's societal issues? Social class disparity, anyone? I was thinking I could even compile some notes for you, something you can use during your debates. Who knows what the other candidates are planning, but imagine the look on the Wise Men's stupid faces when you point out their reliance on a silent Dragon instead of addressing the growing social divide themselves, like proper stewards of the crown, not..."

His voice trailed off as he noticed Emilia's silence. She was fast asleep, her textbook lying forgotten on the floor, nestled against his shoulder. Raeburn hadn't even realized when she'd drifted off.

A chuckle escaped him, laced with exasperation and affection. "What a child," He muttered in amusement. Sleepy minds couldn't learn effectively. He'd let her indulge in a well-deserved siesta.

With a gentle movement, he placed a blank page on the open book as a bookmark and scooped her up in a princess carry, one arm around her back, the other supporting her legs. She remained remarkably undisturbed despite the not-so-gentle lift. Must've overworked her brain too hard.

Instead of laying Emilia on the pillows, Raeburn carefully positioned her with her head resting comfortably away from them. He sat beside her and gently cradled her head in his lap, cushioning it with a soft pillow for added comfort.

Without disturbing her, he placed another pillow against the headboard to create a backrest for himself. He cracked his neck with a sideways twist and settled in, his hand instinctively reaching to stroke her hair. He kneaded her temples and forehead, his touch light and soothing. Sometimes, he'd playfully nudge her nose or tug at her pointed ears.

This calming ritual, whether with Tank or someone else, always lulled him into a peaceful state, a welcome respite from his Pandemonium-forged insomnia. The quiet atmosphere, a stark contrast to the chaos he knew, soothed his mind and beckoned him towards sleep.

Emilia's face, serene and free of worry, seemed to melt away the burdens of her lineage. He felt a familiar urge, the same one that made him want to nuzzle Tank's head, rise within him. But he wouldn't cross that line, not yet. There were other ways to express his care.

He brought his hand to his lips, brushing his fingertips against them before gently tracing a path across her forehead. It was a small gesture, but filled with unspoken tenderness.

[That's quite smooth of you, honey~] Damn it, that saucy tone is even worse inside his head.

His face didn't twitch, [Shut up, Puck. It's been 4 days already. The wife-jokes' gone old.]

[Tehehe. It was fine while it lasted.]

[Never going to be your wife, ever.]

[So you mean to be somebody else's wife?]

[You do realize that I like Frederica, right?]

[So you're going to be Frederica's wife?]

Now his face grouched, [Fuck you, Puck.]

[Hehehehe. You're so fun to be around with. I'm glad Emurdol's presence allowed you to stay, even though we're probably gonna end up fighting him tonight.]

"Hmm." Raeburn hummed audibly. [But I'm glad that I could do more for our kid here. She needs it more than anyone.]

[I'm thankful, Raeburn.] Puck spared no bit of gratitude in his voice, [You're the best thing that's ever happened in her life and I can't thank you enough. I've never seen her so...loud, talkative and mobile before.]

[I saw the problem, Puck.] Raeburn felt surprisingly nonchalant about the praise, perhaps because he was now dealing with an actual child – mentally, at least. There was no glory in it. [Sometimes the right person in the right place is all someone needs. Since I'm here, and I couldn't stand by, and with nothing else going on, I might as well. Now I'm committed to go all the way.]

[Does that mean you can handle the unintended consequences?]

Raeburn turned a curious eye at the empty air, imagining Puck to be afloat there. [What kind?]

[You do realize that by being a male and a source of care and comfort besides me to Lia, she ends up growing feelings for you, right?]

Raeburn's eye twitched, now hit with the truth he had been trying so hard not to think about.

Raeburn wasn't naive. He understood the potential consequences of his actions, the dangers lurking in emotional attachments, especially in hindsight. He and Puck had discussed it before - Emilia, emotionally stunted and starved for affection, could easily misinterpret her feelings.

Isolated for so long, an elf like her wouldn't have the emotional intelligence to discern the nuances of love. Any warmth she felt towards him, Raeburn knew, wasn't genuine love. Love, in all its complexities, was beyond her grasp at this point. It is extremely complex, comes in many forms, and makes no fucking sense.

He could handle platonic affection, even familial bonds. But romantic love from Emilia? Was it even that? Did she even have the vocabulary for it?

He worried she wouldn't be able to discern the nuances, potentially leading to confusion and heartbreak. Ideally, he would have guided her emotions towards another, but being her sole source of comfort that wasn't her father placed him squarely in the crosshairs of her burgeoning emotions.

He didn't understand the nature of her affection. If it was indeed romantic, how could he reconcile it with his own feelings for Frederica? He wouldn't betray either of them. No way.

He fancied Frederica deeply, yet he genuinely cared for Emilia's well-being. Some might call him selfish, arrogant, even greedy but he doesn't care. Pandemonium had molded him, its darkness forever etched in his heart. He wasn't a saint, the good ones had vanished with the Rapture. He craved both connections, clinging to the impossible hope of balancing them.

But how? What path could he tread?

He sighed, his head sagging. And he thought the Necro was the only worry he has in his life...

Puck's voice softened, tinged with understanding. [I understand that this is heavy for you, especially with your sweetheart around, but if you have your answer, Raeburn. I just want you to know one thing.]

Raeburn turned his head slightly to Puck's direction, or wherever he is.

Raeburn turned his head slightly, searching for the invisible imp. For the first time, Puck's voice was devoid of its usual playful lilt. It was firm, chillingly cold. [If it makes Lia cry, then I'll understand because it'll help her grow as a person. I can soften the blow before the day it comes. However, if you only destroyed her world without even giving her the ability to rise up from the ruins...know that you will never know mercy from me.]

Raeburn, never one to dismiss threats, glared in the direction he sensed Puck's presence. The imp remained unseen, but his message was clear. Silence followed, heavy and unsettling.

Raeburn sighed, exhaustion settling over him. He spent the next hour battling internal conflict. Should he comfort himself by holding Emilia close, or focus on the looming emotional storm?

The only solace came from the girl on his lap, her hand reaching up to clutch his patting fingers and pull them closer for a silent cuddle.

In that moment, all else faded. Emilia was simply…adorable.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

Rage fueled his steps, club crackling with magic stones ready to unleash. He and Tank, a shadow against the night, arrived at the heart of the Souls' Panic. The yellow glow of emergency fires assaulted his eyes, banishing the darkness as they leapt over the fence. Earlham Village buzzed with frantic activity, torches casting flickering shadows on worried faces. This wasn't mere concern, it was the precipice of panic.

"What in Pandemonium did the Necro do?" He muttered, his voice tight with unease.

A voice pierced through the chaos. "Master Raeburn! Master Raeburn! An emergency!"

He turned to see a teenager, eyes wide with fear. "What's the situation?" Raeburn asked, urgency tempered with forced calm. He stroked Tank's neck, calming the liger whose fur bristled with the charged atmosphere. "Why the panic?"

"The children! They're gone!" The teen's voice cracked.

Raeburn's composure shattered. A fierce grimace contorted his features. "Gone?! What do you mean gone? Explain!"

"I-I don't know!" Frantically, the teen answered, barely able to hold still, "There were 6 of 'em, went missing! It's past curfew and some of the kids haven't returned yet! We're still looking for them!"

"Past curfew?!" Raeburn's voice hissed, every syllable laced with fear. An hour? That was far too long. His mind raced with possibilities, each one grimmer than the last. Could the Necro be behind this? No, surely not. He was an asshole, yes, but targeting innocent children? Even the Souls confirmed he never sank that low.

Panic gnawed at his insides, but he forced it down. He'd faced down monsters and titans, fear was a luxury he couldn't afford. Yet, the thought of children in danger, especially given his upbringing of Pandemonium's filial traditions, sent a tremor through him.

Even in the darkest corners of Pandemonium, children were rarely in danger. There, love was a powerful shield, a force that surged through parents upon their child's first breath. It was a primal instinct, a community-wide commitment to protect the young and raise them stronger than their parents.

But here, in this human village, those protections were absent. The children, vulnerable and alone, had vanished. Raeburn, a stranger thrust into the role of protector, felt a surge of responsibility, a promise echoing in his heart. He wouldn't rest until they were found, safe and sound.

But here, in this strange, unfamiliar world, the rules were different. The kind of protection children in Pandemonium enjoyed aren't here. Fear and uncertainty gnawed at him, but it wouldn't consume him. He had to find those children, no matter the cost. His instincts, honed by years of battle, screamed at him – this was more than just a disappearance. There was something sinister at play, and he wouldn't rest until he uncovered the truth.

"Shit...! Shit...! Okay…okay….! Did you, at some point, see anything weird?" He demanded, his voice firm despite the tremor within. "Anything! Like a black, smoky cloud?" He remembered the Necro's ability to transform, becoming invulnerable in a swirling mass of darkness.

"N-no, Master Raeburn!" The teenager stammered. "We've searched for hours! Nothing! No sign of them, no strange occurrences... just... gone!"

He seethed internally, his knuckles turning white on his grip on Snakebite, "Okay, okay….uh, the children….the children—when did the village last saw them? I'm thinking me and Tank could track them down somehow! Who were the kids!?"

Another villager ran up to him, a preteen boy that he had seen teasing Petra at some point, his horrified face clear from the shine of his torch, "It's Petra, Dain, Cain—uh, who was it…..uh, Meina, and that fat kid, the lumberjack's kid—the shirtless kid—"

"Hiya!" Recognition flashed in Raeburn's eyes. The names, the descriptions resonated with him and the Souls. Without hesitation, he spurred Tank forward with a kick, the liger howling as they raced in the direction his instincts and the Souls pulsed. It led them straight to the forest barrier, a place children were forbidden to go.

As they neared the barrier, a chilling sight struck him.

"Stop!" Raeburn shouted, bringing Tank to a screeching halt. His heart plummeted when he saw it - a dark anomaly on a tree trunk, an unlit gem meant to ward off forest monsters. One broken gem meant potential disaster, and these children were now paying the price.

Rage and frustration boiled within him. What the fuck are the villagers doing!? Aren't they supposed to monitor this thing!? Didn't they understand the importance of maintaining the barrier!?

Raeburn cursed under his breath. "Fuck….they've ran off through there. HEY! PEOPLE! OVER HERE!"

Tank echoed his urgency with a series of barks and howls, his own concern for the children bleeding into his powerful voice. Within moments, a surge of villagers, some with frantic recognition as the missing children's parents, emerged from the village.

A chorus of questions erupted: "What's going on!?" "Master Raeburn!" "My son! Where's my son!?" "Did you find them!?"

Raeburn, momentarily overwhelmed by the clamor, silenced them with a gesture towards the unlit gem embedded in the tree trunk. "The fucking barrier's gapped! Go and warn everyone to be cautious! There could be witchbeasts running around!"

"Yes sir!"

"Okay, you and you, come!"

His command was met with immediate action. Men and a courageous woman ushered the frightened youths back to the village square to spread the warning. He was left with the worried parents, their desperation echoing the Souls' Insistent whispers. Their pleas finally broke through the wall of noise, their voices reaching him loud and clear.

Oh no, he hated looking at them. Don't make him remember the last time he saw such looks!

"Our children! What about our children!? Where are they!?"

"Please find them, Master Raeburn! Please!"

"We're begging you! Our daughter's all we had!"

"Can't your wolf track them down or something!?"

The villagers' pleas, laced with the searing echoes of his own childhood trauma, threatened to drown him. Helplessness, the memory of his parents' faces as he was dragged away, the knife flashing... it all came crashing down.

But Raeburn wouldn't succumb. He slammed the head of his club on the ground, the fire magic stone igniting a brief burst of flame. Tank mirrored his roar, a guttural sound that silenced the crowd.

With a voice barely controlled, Raeburn spoke, the memory's scars threatening to consume him. "They're still alive! Your kids still live!" Relief flickered in their eyes, but he extinguished it before it could solidify. "Don't calm down yet. They're inside the damn forest! I'm gonna go in there! I'm gonna find them and bring them back! I swear to God! Just be careful! There could be some—"

Before he could finish, a blur of fur charged at him. Instinct screamed before his mind could react. He leaped off Tank's back as the liger swerved, avoiding the collision. Raeburn raised his club high while in the air, ready to slam it down on the beasty's head.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

"Kids, come on, give the boy some space." Tank, the avatar of Mighty Vollachia, found himself swarmed by children - not the ferocious beasts he faced in battle, but something equally demanding: their enthusiastic affection. They clambered over him, their laughter echoing through the village of Earlham. The liger allowed it, rolling onto his back and exposing the fluffiest underbelly ever seen on a creature.

This tour with Frederica was supposed to be a relaxing stroll, but somehow, it had turned into crowd control.

Frederica, the lovely maid, was likely watching the scene unfold with amusement. He could practically hear her laughter in the wind.

"Nice weapon, Mister!"

"What's it called?"

"Is it some kind of club, mister?"

He recognized these three - fiery boys with more exuberance than the girls or other calmer lads crowding the liger. Untamed pups, these ones, future protectors in the making if properly guided.

"Oh ho, you wanna know?" He grinned, grabbing his trusty club from his shoulder. With a flourish, he brought it forward, letting it float horizontally at eye level. The boys gasped at the intricate carvings and the shimmering mana stones and metias embedded in the handle. "This, young sirs…" He declared, "….is no ordinary stick. This is Snakebite, and she has a bite as sharp as her name."

"Snakewhat?"

"Snakebite, dummy!"

"What does it do?"

"Nothing special, I just bonk people on the head with it." He wasn't lying - the magic resided in the embedded stones and the metias, not the physical impact. "And some friends made it pretty with all the gems and all."

"I bet it hurts." One boy commented.

"Yeah, just look at all the buds on the head." The boy's brother supported, feeling the hexagonal column of the club's head. "This thing could break somebody's bones or something."

"Can I hold it, Mister? Please?" The shirtless kid pleaded, already reaching for it.

"Ha!" Raeburn laughed, levitating the weapon within the boy's reach, "If you even can. This thing's heavy."

A shirtless boy puffed out his chest, biceps straining. "Heavy? I can carry it! I'm gonna be a lumberman! Do you see this much meat on my arms, Mister!?" He flexed, showcasing surprising strength for his age.

"Then show me!" Raeburn released the club with a grin. He enjoyed these displays of bravado, endearingly misplaced in children yet hinting at future potential. "If you can't even hold it up, then you aren't worthy of the axe!"

Suddenly, small hands gripped his pants. "Hey, Mister! Me next!"

Another tugged at his shirt. "Me too! I get it after him!"

"Sure, sure." Raeburn ruffled their hair, lowering himself to their level to watch the impromptu strength test. "My name's Raeburn. What's y'all names?"

"My name's Cain, he's Dain."

"We're brothers! I'm the youngest though."

An instant connection formed. If all went well, Raeburn would turn these two into formidable warriors. With a forest teeming with monsters right next to their village, they'd need all the strength they could muster by the time they were grown.

As a Pandemonium native, Raeburn couldn't stand seeing children who wouldn't be physically prepared for adulthood in this world. Sure, playtime was good, but it wasn't enough. Their growth wouldn't reach its peak without pushing their limits daily. He envisioned them pushing their limits everyday, building strength for when adulthood arrived. A jog, a swim, a mountain climb, even a hundred swings with a stick - anything to cultivate potential.

He had the time, resources, and most importantly, the patience to guide them through it. Sloth wouldn't bother him for 31 years if he does.

"Good to meet you, Cain. Dain." He greeted, meeting their high fives. He then gestured towards the struggling Lucas. "Let's see how our little lumberjack is doing."

"Go, Lucas! Didn't ya say you can carry it!?"

"Give up already and let us try!"

Raeburn snorted.

"Shut up! I can lift iiiiit…..! Just wwaaaaaaaatch…!" Lucas strained, not with a proper grip, but with a determined glint in his eyes. While Raeburn doubted he could swing it, especially with the awkward grip, the sight was impressive. The club's massive head, longer than the boy himself, hovered off the ground.

Snakebite, true to its name, was no featherweight. Forged like a warhammer, it packed a magical punch capable of shattering even enchanted armor. So, when Lucas managed to lift it off the ground on his first try, Raeburn's eyebrows shot up.

This boy had potential. Raeburn envisioned a future where Lucas stood tall, a towering 6'5" giant known as "Woodsbane," felling trees with ease and wooing women with his strength.

A secret chuckle escaped Raeburn's lips.

With a subtle nudge from Snakebite's bonding metia, which allowed it to return to his hand on command, Raeburn secretly assisted Lucas in swinging the club down onto the ground. The boy, believing it all his own doing, flexed and roared in victory.

Raeburn's intervention was discreet. He didn't coddle Lucas. The effort was real, leaving the boy's hands trembling and muscles screaming their first major workout. Tomorrow's backache was guaranteed.

But in a week, those muscles would heal back, stronger than before. And with it, Lucas would grow, even if just a little.

His impromptu playtime with the children stretched longer than expected. An hour flew by as Tank, the ever-patient liger, granted the children rides around the village, and Raeburn regaled them with fantastical tales of his adventures in Pandemonium, careful to omit the world's name. Only Frederica's gentle reminder brought him back to reality – he was on a tour date with her.

"Quite the charmer with the young ones, Raeburn," Frederica remarked with a smile as they walked away from Earlham, strolling towards other parts of Roswaal's domain besides the village.

Frederica studied him with an unreadable gaze. "Were you isolated as a child? Is that why you enjoy their company so much?"

Tank let out a soft whine, sensing the unspoken tension.

A faint smile touched Raeburn's lips, a flicker of bitterness in his eyes. He stroked Tank's fur, his gaze fixed ahead. "Not isolated," He replied calmly, "More like nonexistent. Taken from my village to be an attack dog for some cultist bastard. You miss out on a lot of growing up like that. So, playing with these children, without a care in the world...I wanted that for a long time."

The Souls whispered of Frederica's shock and regret when Raeburn didn't turn to her, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "I'm truly sorry, Raeburn," She said softly. "I shouldn't have pried."

"No need," He replied, his voice genuine. A newer, even deeper pain had eclipsed the ache of his stolen childhood, a truth hidden from Frederica. "I learned to live with it. And if these children let me, I'll make up for lost time with them." He turned to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Of course, you'll have your share of my time as well."

Frederica's smile was gentle, her fingers reaching tentatively towards Raeburn's hand on her shoulder. She hesitated, then settled for three delicate fingers instead of her whole hand.

Raeburn recognized the unspoken boundary; it was too soon. Still, her sharp green eyes locked onto his, sending a warmth through him he couldn't explain.

"Even with Lady Emilia needing so much of your attention," She asked pointedly, "Can you offer such devotion to your future love?"

Oblivious to the teasing glint in her eyes, Raeburn chuckled. His fingers playfully combed through her silky gold hair, drawing a blush on her cheeks. "Don't be silly! I'm practically drowning in free time," He laughed, "A state Sloth could very well exploit. You're practically saving my life by giving me something to do, a savior in the flesh!"

He clapped her back – a bit too enthusiastically, assuming her beastman strength could handle it. Surely, she wouldn't mind…

Wait, why did her back feel so jelly soft?

Then it hit him: she was taller, and his playful swat landed directly on...not her back.

The realization dawned as quickly as the pain did as the playful mood evaporated instantly, his miscalculation sending him flying across the ground with a single, well-placed punch to the face. Yep, progress on their relationship had definitely taken a nosedive.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

"Wait! Calm down! It's me!"

A voice, distinctively Frederica's, echoed from the massive yellow beast before him. But wait... a yellow beast?

Confusion spurred him to attack early, swinging Snakebite mid-jump. The hexagonal head detached, held back by its chain, and slammed into the ground before yanking him down. Dust flew as he landed, club firmly in hand as he wrenched the weapon free, confronting the massive cat. "Okay, who the hell are you!?"

Emerald eyes glared down, exasperation shimmering in their slit pupils. "Raeburn, must you be so dense? Even in this form, can't you recognize me?"

"Frederica!?" Raeburn's surprise morphed into acceptance. Vollachia had shown him the shapeshifting abilities of some demi-humans. He quickly refocused. "Oh whatever! Frederica! We got a problem! Missing kids! They're gone into the forest! Come with me! We'll cover more ground!"

"Missing children? Oh no…." Frederica's lower jaw moved as she spoke, her gaze landing on the unlit barrier stone. "This is worse than I thought…"

"I know! Now come on! They can't save themselves!"

"WAIT!" Her voice held a near-roar, freezing him in his tracks. "There's something going on in the Mansion!"

"Huh!?" He snapped, impatient.

"It's Rem! She's cursed! Something bit her with a curse and it's eating her alive! I came here to warn you about it!"

|||| « ҉ » ||||

"What are you doing, Master Raeburn?" Rem's voice, soft and curious, broke the silence.

He turned, not a flicker of surprise on his face at being caught peeking into the Necro's room. Instead, he pressed a finger to his lips, a mischievous grin playing on his features "Shhh," He whispered, beckoning the little maid closer, moving to the other side so she can have a peek as well.

Rem tiptoed over, a single blue eye peering through the crack. Lady Emilia, a whirlwind of gesticulation and breathless chatter, occupied the guest room. Seated beside the comatose Emurdol, she seemed to be conducting a one-woman monologue, her words flowing endlessly without a single pause. Raeburn, his amusement evident, could practically see the wall of text she'd create if she ever put her thoughts on paper.

"An hour and a half, Rem," He murmured, catching the astonished echo of Rem's reaction through the Souls. "And we've barely done anything today, except for my brief tutoring session. How the hell does she think up so many topics at once?"

"Rem has never seen Lady Emilia be so expressive and talkative before." The little maid observed, her voice filled with wonder.

Hearing Rem, and even Ram, refer to themselves in the third person always ignited a warmth within Raeburn. It was endearing and strangely funny, like a tiny spark that threatened to melt him with its charm.

In this instance, his amusement morphed into suppressed laughter. "That's probably her way of saying 'sorry,'" He chuckled, barely containing himself. "If she felt bad for depriving the man from death by mutilated guts, maybe she figured fuckin' talking him to death would rectify it….!"

His amusement threatened to erupt into full-blown guffaws. His body trembled, hands clamped over his mouth to contain the explosion of laughter. Even his posture contorted, struggling to hold in the burst of hilarity his own joke had triggered.

Rem's face remained impassive, no snickers escaping her lips. But Raeburn, attuned to the subtle nuances of emotions, could detect the hidden amusement even behind her trained mask. He didn't need the Souls to confirm it – she found his joke funny.

"Indeed, if only the good guest understood Lady Emilia's noble intentions," Rem remarked, a hint of playful sarcasm in her voice. Yet, a discordant note resonated from the Souls – a flicker of disgust mixed with amusement. Raeburn chose to ignore it for now.

Peacetime brought out the strange in people, compared to the straightforward, primal emotions of battle. He barely knew this young maid, let alone her hidden thoughts. She was entitled to her own opinions, even if they mystified him.

Leaning closer, he peeked through the crack again, a grin spreading across his face as he observed the half-elf's animated hand gestures, resembling swimming motions.

How on earth did that connect to her current discussion of apples and seeds!? The hell!?

Raeburn nodded, keeping his voice low. "Yes, but..." He placed a gentle hand on Rem's shoulder, mindful not to touch her bare skin. "Can you see it?"

Rem tilted her head, her blue orb fixated on the Necromancer. "What should Rem see, Master Raeburn?"

"Look closely," He murmured, his gaze fixed on the Necromagus. "He's...breathing."

He scrutinized the figure under the blanket, searching for any sign of movement. His sharp eyes noticed it - a subtle rise and fall of the man's abdomen. Not the steady rhythm of a healthy human, but nearly twenty seconds between inhales, exhaling in half the time. Yet, despite the unnatural stillness, he seemed more lifelike. More akin to a human in a deep coma than the rigid corpse he usually resembled.

With a tap on Rem's shoulder, he gestured towards the stairs, seeking a space free from curious ears. He wouldn't want to witness the half-elf girl melt into a puddle of embarrassment if she were to catch them discussing her private interactions.

Once they reached the second floor, just above Emilia's room, Raeburn started his explanation, keeping his gaze on the Necro's room. "He's… never actually breathed before. At least, not visibly. He's always looked and moved like a corpse, remember? Seeing him like this… alive… it's unsettling. Makes him seem more human, which is strange and wrong because he's not. Even in my world, humans aren't as isolated as he is around me."

"Is that so?" Rem's voice held a hint of… something. The Souls around her flickered with disapproval, but Raeburn couldn't tell if it was directed at him or his words. Was she drawing conclusions about the Necro based on his limited description, rather than personal experience? It was a fair point; the man wouldn't exactly be welcoming to everyone.

"Only happens when she's around." He thumbed to the direction of the room, turning to Rem, "Emilia, I wonder what's so special about her that the Necro could see. I can't."

A subtle twitch in Rem's left eye was his only response. Then, silence. Not the comfortable kind, but a heavy, suffocating silence punctuated by a tension that crackled in the air.

Hate.

Kill.

Destroy.

Now.

Silence.

Crush.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Raeburn, despite eagerly awaiting a response, felt an unnerving silence descend upon him as the sheer weight of her hatred pressed down. Though her physical form remained unchanged – an emotionless statue with clenched fists and unblinking eyes –he could feel the storm brewing within her, a potent cocktail of rage and resentment.

"Rem?" He cautiously ventured.

Even his voice seemed muted against the backdrop of her suppressed fury. She blinked rapidly, the only movement betraying her inner turmoil. He sensed a conflict within her, a battle between two unspoken choices.

And then, with surprising swiftness, she made her choice. Raeburn felt it echo in the Souls, marveling at the swiftness of her internal deliberation.

"Master Raeburn," she spoke at last, her voice calm and measured, despite the turmoil beneath the surface. "Do you think… the guest might be a… Witch Cultist?"

…..

…..

Raeburn's gaze bore into Rem, a silent inferno simmering within him. After a tense moment, he scanned the hallway for listeners, finding none. He then grabbed her hand, leading her to the secluded end of a corridor before releasing it. This time, his voice held a chilling edge, laced with the weight of past trauma.

"Listen closely, Rem. This is no joke." He paused, taking a deep breath to control his rising anger. "Before I turned ten, a different cult used my village as pawns, demanding me as a bargaining chip. They held my people hostage, forcing me into servitude for years. They molded me into a weapon, silencing anyone who dared oppose them. The things they did… the things they made me do… I still bear the scars." His voice trembled with rage as he clenched his fists, the raw pain echoing in the silence. "It took years to finally see them dead, and I made sure of it."

He felt heat rise up to his neck.

"I know the Witch Cult, Rem" He continued, his words laced with venom, the memory of his brutal interrogation of their members fueling his anger. "You do not forget the fucking scars they'll leave on your soul….! I'll torture them for a whole fucking eternity if they ever set their foot here….!" He hissed, smoke practically escaping his clenched teeth as he recalled disobeying his saviors and uncovering a horrifying child slave ring near Vollachia's northern border. "Don't speak their fucking name so casually! It signals their presence, and where they tried, innocent people die….! That should never happen….!"

Rem remained impassive, her body stiff but devoid of surprise. Instead, a quiet fury simmered beneath the surface, replaced by a sudden flicker of understanding, perhaps even satisfaction of a shared fury. They were on the same page regarding these fuckers.

But Raeburn wasn't appeased.

"Answer me honestly and plainly, " He demanded, his voice hard. "Rem. Why the hell are you thinking the Necro's one of those twisted motherfuckers…!?"

"You dislike the guest yet defend him so fervently," Rem stated, her voice devoid of inflection. "All you speak of are his misdeeds, his potential evils—"

"Because he'd do what we would!" Raeburn interjected, a low growl in his throat. "He's a fucking twisted motherfucker that wouldn't hesitate to use your family member's corpse to make a better fucking mousetrap, and I'll never stop saying it, but there are others worse than he is! Unlike them, his kind doesn't kill for no reason! His voice barely above a whisper, yet infused with raw indignation, echoing through the halls like a tormented spirit.

The Necro's a hateful, coldhearted, and a dislikable asshole, but Raeburn refused to let that image be twisted into something that denied any flicker of good within him.

"It'll be without hesitation or question, Rem." He continued, his voice dropping further, fists clenching at his sides. "The sooner he finds out that the fucking Witch Cult is nearby, he'll take matters into his own hands. No permission, no plan. He'll be instantly out the door, and the fate of those fuckers are sealed. It'll be like those fuckers never existed the next day."

Rem blinked, her expression unchanged. "Then why does he smell like them?"

Raeburn froze, shock coursing through him. "What smell?" He demanded, his voice sharp with sudden concern.

"Rem detects the Witch's stench, the same miasma that clings to all her wicked servants and zealots. And it hangs heavy on the guest Lady Emilia fawns over—"

Raeburn's denial was swift and unwavering. "No," He declared, his gaze locking onto the petite maid. "Rem, that's impossible. He can't be one of them.".

"Rem isn't—"

He cut her off, a frustrated stomp echoing in the hallway. "I'm not denying what you're saying. You smell the Witch Cult, and I believe you. The Necro? He bears their stench? I believe that too. Him being part of the Witch Cult? No. That's not possible. It's as possible as fish could breathe on land. Fish can't breathe on land, they die. He doesn't associate with the fucking Witch Cult—he's part of a congregation, something far beyond some cult, and it is not the fucking Witch they revere. He worships a Dragon, and it's not your great Volcanica either. Something ancient, something only they comprehend."

Rem's voice was sharp. "What proof do you have? What if he's a double agent?"

Raeburn's face instantly grouched at the word, "Out of the damn question. Don't fucking insult me with your ignorance, Rem. You know nothing of his kind. Double agents lie, manipulate, deceive. His kind doesn't. Lies…." He spat out the last word as if it tasted like venomous shit, and on the Necro's behalf, he wasn't happy about it, "….will go against every part of their Soul. They wouldn't dedicate their very essence to something as twisted as the Witch."

His voice hardened, laced with a protectiveness that surprised even him. "They have their flaws, Rem, but lying isn't one of them. And I trust them on that, more than I trust your suspicions."

The icy glare emanating from Rem shattered Raeburn's image of the sweet, docile blue-haired maid. It was as if a ferocious beast lurked beneath her seemingly harmless exterior, ready to spring forth. Frederica's explanation confirmed his suspicions - Rem and her sister were demons, a rare kind of demihuman with horns that granted superhuman strength.

"Rem won't be swayed," Frederica declared, her voice laced with urgency. "The guest carries the stench of evil, the same evil that stole countless lives. Every life that suffered because of them….the ones tortures, rapes, defilements, corruptions, abominations, and killings…..!"

Raeburn felt the heat rising in her, mirrored by the Souls chanting her rage in a chorus that gnawed at his sanity.

"Don't think you understand, Master Raeburn," Rem spat, her voice laced with pain. "The fires and the murders…they killed everyone, without mercy and without remorse….! Only Rem and Dear Sister survived, and thanks to Lord Roswaal's kindness, we had lived to this day…! But my Dear Sister…..Dear Sister…..!"

Her voice cracked, the fire replaced by a raw, agonizing wound.

Before the grief could consume her, Raeburn's hand gently grasped her shoulder. The surprise in her eyes momentarily quelled the flames. His chastising expression had softened, replaced by a deep understanding.

His voice, low and soothing, broke through the storm. "Calm down, Rem. Speak quietly. We don't want to wake the others."

His gesture surprised her. A gentle finger wiped away the tears she hadn't noticed tracing down her cheeks. The same hand then found its way to her head, a soft touch accompanied by soothing words.

"Take a deep breath," He urged softly. "I'm here to listen. Tell me everything, at your own pace."

With a light pat, he let go of her shoulder and head before standing back, waiting for her to continue.

His touch, surprisingly comforting, lingered for a moment before he withdrew it, giving her space.

Rem wiped her eyes on her sleeve, a muffled sniff escaping her. When she composed herself, she stood tall, shoulders squared, but her eyes remained red-rimmed. She offered him a small, grateful nod. "Thank you….thank you for your patience. Forgive Rem for losing composure like that."

He nodded in understanding. "When you're ready." Patiently, he said.

Following his instructions, she took a deep breath, drawing air slowly into her lungs and releasing it in a long exhale. As the tension eased from the Souls around her, Raeburn felt his own anxieties melt away.

Discussing this cult bullshit certainly agitated him.

Composure regained, Rem met his gaze, her voice steady but laced with a hint of pain. "Rem's sister used to be special. Very special. She was good at everything, capable of everything—even the entire village revered her as if she were a god. And they'd be right. Not only in menial tasks and official meetings, she was an extremely powerful magician. She performed feats that only Lord Roswaal could compare….Rem could never be like her."

Raeburn nodded, his belief unwavering. The Souls remained silent, offering no whispers of deceit. Ram had been a force to be reckoned with, yet her love for her younger sister remained constant, a truth confirmed by the unwavering emotions resonating from the Souls.

A wave of respect washed over him for the haughty maid.

However, the past tense hung heavy in the air. He knew what was coming, the tragedy that had fractured her world.

His suspicions were confirmed when Rem uttered the next sentence. The Witch Cult, stealing her sister's horn, had stripped Ram of her power, reducing her to a shadow of her former self.

Yet, despite her diminished abilities and awkward domestic efforts, she held her head high, refusing to be defined by her loss. There were no apologies for her curt demeanor or witty barbs, neither wallowing in self-pity nor any yearning for what was lost. Ram carried herself with an unyielding dignity, a testament to her inner strength. It was a feat few could achieve, and Raeburn couldn't help but admire her for it.

Yet Rem's grudge against the Witch Cult festered like an open wound. The years hadn't dimmed her rage, a fire fueled not by her own suffering, but by the devastation they inflicted on her beloved sister. The damage they wrought transcended words, leaving scars deeper than he could ever comprehend. Perhaps she even carried the burden of self-blame, haunted by whispers of "what if" and "if only." Such thoughts were insidious toxins, hindering growth and poisoning the soul.

He shared her hatred for the Cult's depravity, their followers akin to the foulest Hellpawns of Pandemonium. But he wondered, both cursed and blessed as he was to see beyond mortal lies, would he have blindly accepted Rem's accusations about the Necro? Without his spectral companions whispering the truth, would he have succumbed to suspicion as readily?

Raeburn closed his eyes, clicking his tongue and exhaling heavily. He leaned against the wall, the weight of her pain pressing down on him.

Damn it all, how blind he had to Rem's losses, his were mere scratches. His village and family lived, albeit scarred, while the cult met their demise. Rem, however, had lost everything to a cult that predated her birth and still thrived. The weight of her burden pressed down on him, each breath a struggle.

The weight of her grief pressed down on him, a physical ache in his head, shoulders, and arms. He yearned to collapse against the wall, to find solace in a stolen slumber, but something stronger tugged at his heart. He needed to comfort her, to offer solace in the face of her storm.

Raeburn's journey homeward to the village he was stolen from was abruptly cut short. One moment he was traversing the perilous landscape of Pandemonium, the next, he was ripped into a new world governed by vastly different laws.

The irony was cruel, a twisted fucking joke targeting his very essence – his summoners, the ones responsible for this unwelcome arrival, were none other than fucking cultists.

Their aim, it seemed, was to ensnare a powerful entity from another dimension, a plan that backfired catastrophically. Instead, they summoned him. In Pandemonium, he'd endured countless torments under the rule of monsters masquerading as men, forced to conform to their depravity. Now, in this strange land, these cultists sought to do the same – to bend his will and serve their twisted desires.

Rebellion roared within him, swift and fierce. But it only plunged him into the unforgiving maw of the Arena. The authorities, already hunting the cultists, found him amidst the chaos and deemed him guilty by association. His pleas of innocence, his lack of proof, fell on deaf ears. The Arena became his hell, a brutal crucible where his strength and sanity were tested.

He swore an oath, etched in the fires of his torment: no one would endure what he had. No innocent would be ravaged by the cultists' depravity. He would be their bane, their nemesis, their harbinger of retribution. Five years in Vollachia fueled an undying hatred against the Witch Cult, a promise to unleash his wrath upon them at the slightest whisper of their presence.

Yet, despite his vow, despite his burning rage, the suffering continued. Rem, Ram, countless others bore the scars of the Cult's cruelty. The bastards were still out there, their evil festering, innocent lives snuffed out with chilling indifference.

With his power to track elusive prey and unmask hidden malice, Raeburn felt powerless against the pain etched upon Rem's soul. Even the imagined taste of their tainted blood on his club offered no solace, especially if the Souls couldn't locate them.

Even surrounded by her sister and newfound family, the wounds remained unhealed. A proof of the futility of simple hugs or whispered words – merely bandages on gaping wounds.

Tears welled up behind closed eyelids, mirroring the sorrow resonating from the Souls. He yearned to offer more than words, something tangible, something to truly mend the broken pieces. But words were all he had. They were weapons, yes, but not the ones to heal the scars left by monsters.

"Why do you cry, Master Raeburn?"

Rem's concern grated on him, a stark contrast to her own unspoken need for comfort.

Wiping at his tears with a forearm, he kept his eyes shut, his voice strained, "I'm sorry I wasn't there to save you both, Rem. Even if I might not be able to save everyone….at least one would have been enough, so you two wouldn't have to be alone…"

A small hand clasped his, a gentle squeeze. "Please, don't say that. If you were there, you'd be gone too. Back then, you weren't who you are now."

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his impervious palm. "But if I could trade my life for one more… just one…" Her grip tightened, not with pity, but with a strength that mirrored his own pain.

Spawns of Pandemonium weren't meant to be special. Abandoned by God during the Rapture, the deserving ones were taken, leaving the rest to suffer under the Hellspawn's reign. They bore the sins of their ancestors, the trauma of deserved suffering, and an inherent self-loathing. They could deny it, cling to the chance of redemption God gave, but the truth would always linger – they were all sinners, left behind with little to earn forgiveness.

Raeburn accepted this long ago. His life held no value. But in this world, untouched by Pandemonium's wrath, where innocence bloomed fragile and precious, he felt a burning anger at their suffering. It should be him, only him.…..

He yearned for an end, a release from this self-inflicted torment. But that too, was a part of his penance, a burden he had chosen to bear.

"Two cults... fucking two," Raeburn's voice cracked, each word laced with pain. "I survived them all, crawled out alive…! But if fate asked for a third victim, even if it meant taking your place, Rem, even as a child, I wouldn't fucking hesitate….! Let me take another bite of hellfire, just to shield others from that agony….!"

His voice nearly rose, filled with desperate fervor. "Let them tear me apart, limb by limb, if it saves one innocent life…! Even if I breathe my last in the process… my soul was damned before birth, anyway! Why did you suffer, Rem, when I could have borne it all….!?"

Her arms, small yet strong, enveloped him. He felt the steady rise and fall of her chest, her gentle shushing a soothing balm against his storm. "Never speak like that, Master Raeburn. You have worth, too. Frederica, Lady Emilia… even Dear Sister wouldn't agree with this self-condemnation. Rem doesn't believe you're beyond saving. Your warmth, your kindness – they light up their lives. Don't you dare utter those words again."

By God, he never felt so pathetic.

His instincts screamed against the comfort. His hands clenched her sleeves, wanting to push her away, to reserve this warmth for someone more deserving. Raeburn shouldn't have this solace – his past held enough. But the self-loathing festered, silent and heavy.

He swallowed hard, his face contorting in an internal struggle. With a deep breath, he summoned his composure and gently untangled himself from her embrace. His gaze remained downcast, unable to meet Rem's hopeful eyes.

"Feeling better now?"

Raeburn offered a flat, emotionless "For now," turning his gaze to the floor. His eyes saw past the physical layers of the room, down to the pale figure sprawled on the bed below. The man, Emilia's savior, lay in a conscious coma, clinging to the edge of death by his own will.

He exhaled, returning his focus to Rem. His voice, devoid of opinion or prejudice, held a stark reality. "I'm sorry, Rem, but you need to be the big girl for this. Don't attack the Necro and don't even consider it. Witch Scent or not, he saved Emilia. Your anger won't win you allies, no matter how justified it feels. I don't know how strong you are, but underestimating him is the last thing everyone in the world should be doing. He's not a human fighter. You can't fathom the things he's capable of, the lives he could take in a blink. By the time you understand, it's often too late."

"I know how he fights. I know how he moves, the magic he uses, how to deal with them, how to dispel them, his curses, his monsters—I have a track record of surviving the fucker when he went berserk before he found a better target to take it out on. If you want something done, you talk to me and only me. And right now, your current course of action is just going to end in disaster. Forget it. It's dangerous, and reckless. It'll get you and so many others killed. You need a better plan."

The bitterness clouding Rem's face softened, replaced by a flicker of hope. "So you'll help Rem?"

"I will, and I know how. I'm going to help you, Rem, and I'll do it without you asking me. I have an idea. But I need you to trust me on this, because I know you're not going to like it. But my way's going to keep all of us alive and give us answers….or we might have to fight for our lives when it doesn't work. I don't know what else could avoid any fighting so this is all I have."

Rem stared into the distance, the Souls around her mirroring her internal struggle. The offer hung heavy in the air, its weight evident in the conflicted emotions swirling within her. Raeburn could see the turmoil, the hatred for the man she sought to kill warring with the risks his plan presented – risks to her colleagues, to the very mansion itself.

Yet, after a tense pause, the internal debate subsided. The Souls settled, their murmurings fading. With a sigh, Rem turned back to him, a single, hesitant nod betraying the turmoil within.

Raeburn acknowledged her agreement with a nod, his hand lingering on her shoulder for a moment before he turned towards the stairs, "I'm going to have a talk with your master about your opinions."

Rem's touch stopped him before he could ascend. "Please don't," She pleaded.

"He needs to know." He insisted, "Everybody in this mansion has to know. This is the fucking Witch Cult we're talking about, and it's the fucking Necro of all people related to it. That's two things I don't want associating together, and I hope it isn't. If it makes you feel any better, I won't say anything about you wanting him dead. You found the smell on him, that's all."

He continued his ascent, feeling her grip loosen gradually. Reaching the first step, he was free from her grasp, his steps echoing silently on the stairs.

"Master Raeburn."

He turned, one hand on the railing, the other in his pocket. "Yes?"

"Thank you….for hearing Rem out…..and for understanding my perspective….for Sister's sake….."

Raeburn frowned, disliking the subservient gesture.

"Rem, kindly do this one thing for me." He began, pausing to gauge her reaction. The Souls remained neutral. "Hug your sister. She was like a god, you told me, someone who loved you unconditionally. Show her that love now. Embrace her and let her know how much she means to you."

Within himself, Raeburn felt only terror. His body language showed none of that, however.

We'll definitely lose lives over this.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

Raeburn's resolve surged. "Cursebane" wasn't just a name; it was a promise he intended to keep. He was about to bolt back to the mansion, his mind ablaze with the urgent need to break the curse.

But then, reality slammed down. Rem's predicament hung heavy. Was the Necro involved? Had he sensed Rem's murderous intent and acted first? No, the Souls denied it. A third party, then. But who? The Witch Cult? An attack on the mansion? Should he prioritize the children or the curse? His mind churned, torn between two desperate paths.

Oh, he hates choosing! He can't think straight! "SHIIIIIIIIT!"

Suddenly, Frederica's voice cut through the storm. "I'll find the children," she declared, her calmness grounding him from his panic. "You return to the mansion. I can track them by scent."

Worry spiked. The Souls' whispers confirmed his fear: the Necro roamed the forest too. "No! You'll end up running into the Necro! He's in the forest as well. I don't know what he'll do to you if you find him."

Frederica's resolve mirrored his. "But we can't both go! Rem's life hangs in the balance! You said you can cure curses, right!?"

An idea clicked, swift and seemingly safe. Confidence replaced his panic. "Bring Rem here," he instructed, looking Frederica in the eye. "To the square. Once I come back with the kids, I'll try to cure her. I'll handle the Necro if I see him."

Frederica nodded, the forest briefly claiming her attention. "Doable. But be quick. If your descriptions are true, he could harm you too."

A contradiction pricked at him. "If they were accurate," he said, his voice sharp, "he'd save the children himself, wouldn't he?"

|||| « ҉ » ||||

"This conversation better be worth it, I suppose." Beatrice said, impatience lacing her voice. "Betty's only here because Bubby insisted, in fact."

Raeburn's gaze shifted towards Rem, meeting her blue eyes. The maid's gaze dropped under his scrutiny, a flicker noticed by Ram but left unspoken. Frederica, too, observed the exchange, her brow furrowing with curiosity.

He pursed his lips, then calmly redirected his attention to Roswaal, silently beckoning him to prompt the meeting's start.

Roswaal, acknowledging the silent request with a small nod, gestured dramatically. "Soooo, Raeburn, my boy, since you called for this meeting after interrupting my private moment with Ram last night, would you pleeeaaaase start?"

Uncomfortable but resolute, Raeburn took a deep breath. He had known this moment would come, but the weight of it still pressed down on him.

Emilia, sensing his unease, reached out and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Is something going on, Raeburn?"

He met her gaze, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "It's about your savior, Emilia," He began, his voice heavy. "He may be about to become our enemy."

Shock shattered her serene expression. "What?"

His grip tightened, a wave of regret washing over him. He didn't release her hand as he turned to the assembled group. "Let me be clear," he began, his voice heavy. "Since the very first day, I already know how to wake our man up."

A chorus of surprised gasps and disbelieving "What?!" filled the room, followed by a wave of questions demanding to know why he hadn't spoken sooner.

Raising his hand for silence, Raeburn addressed the group. "There isn't anything complex about it. Think of it like tending to somebody grieving. They lose their appetite, withdraw, shut out even those trying to help. As far as I can tell, being surrounded by nobility – Roswaal, all of you by association – grates on him. He's never had a good experience with them."

He felt the tremor of misery and guilt radiating from Emilia's hand in his. He knew exactly where her thoughts were headed.

He gave her hand a light jerk, giving the girl a firm look, "I know what you're thinking, Emilia. You think you've been annoying him ever since or just not helping with his condition when he's been feeling depressed the whole time. Don't think that way."

He lowered himself to her level, taking her hand in his other while placing his left on her head. "It's the opposite. You were helping him. He listened to everything you said and enjoyed it. You're giving him something to think about besides his depression and that is exactly how you help people when they're miserable. You did good. You hear me? You pretty much done a lot of good for him than everyone else did, including me."

He smiled softly, his hand gently stroking her silky hair. Her face brightened, and he pulled her closer, his lips brushing against her locks in a wordless gesture of praise.

He raised himself back up, transferring her hand back to the first hand, he continued, a frown now crossing his brow, "But sweetness alone won't wake him. He needs more than gentle coaxing to open his eyes and share his troubles. We can't let him drift further into the idea of a sleep-induced death. We need to be forceful with him without going too far. Fortunately, I know how, and I'll be the one to do it."

Silence fell, thick with unspoken apprehension. Raeburn's tightened grip on Emilia's hand and his distant stare betrayed his own anxieties. His voice, when he spoke next, lacked its earlier conviction. It was emotionless, laced with uncertainty and a flicker of fear.

"Since I'm the only one he's familiar with, he can get receptive with me…..but that meant we'll be risking so much property damage and potential loss of life."

Roswaal raised a curious eyebrow, "Whhyyyyyy is that?"

He took a deep breath, and exhaled, already feeling the exhaustion even though bones haven't flown and rifts to the Afterlife haven't shown up. "As soon as I begin, he'll likely erupt in fury and try to kill me… again. So, I ask this favor: stay out of sight. He shouldn't feel threatened by others while I fight for my life and ensure he doesn't harm civilians."

Emilia's hand tightened around Raeburn's, her voice laced with fear, "No! Raeburn, what are you saying!?"

Before Raeburn could respond, Frederica interjected, her voice cool and firm. "If I may speak, Master Roswaal?"

"Graaaanted."

Frederica turned her emerald eyes on Raeburn, her disapproval evident. " I object strenuously to your proposition. The risks to yourself are simply unacceptable. Forget the potential property damage – what justifies endangering your life in such a manner? And to ask us to simply stand by and do nothing?"

Raeburn met her gaze, his own resolve hardening. "Yes, but, Frederica, you're not seeing the big picture here. You're saying that like it's the only outcome."

Her eyebrows rose up in surprise, "Pardon?"

Even as he spoke, Raeburn couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. But the days spent observing the comatose man had given him enough to back up his theory.

"In the state he's in, he's in a completely different mood than the other times I see him as. Before, weeks ago, just being in the same building meant he'd make my life hell. That stopped when we arrived here… after the Bowel Hunter incident." He ignored Emilia's hand tightening nervously in his.

He grimaced at the memory, an image of the once untouchable man brought low by a serial killer. It was unacceptable.

"Just days ago, I was within three feet of him, and he didn't react. He did try to kill me, as you all saw on the first day when my head suddenly got pushed upwards, but that was it. No harm to anyone else, no damage. He targeted only me, and only after I went on a defensive rant, acting like I knew everything about him."

Ram's response surprised him. No snark, no sarcasm, just genuine curiosity. "So, you're saying the guest is more docile now, open to a peaceful and non-hostile conversation?"

"Yep. Ram gets it." Raeburn acknowledged with a grateful nod. But the dark shadows returned, blotting out the hope. "But that's still a risk. There's still a chance that he'd explode….but in this state, it's my only shot for a peaceful conversation. Still, a gamble with high stakes."

A cautious silence descended, each member at the table weighing the implications. Uncertainty flickered amongst the Souls, but Raeburn couldn't miss the simmering embers in Rem's gaze. This wasn't a conversation she relished.

Roswaal's voice broke the stillness, drawing attention to a crucial detail. "And there's your mention of my Dear Rem having caught the scent of a, shall we say…..Witch Cultist about him?"

Shock and suspicion met his gaze, but only from Emilia and Frederica. Everyone else wore either knowing expressions or steely determination.

Raeburn's eyes darted to the Spirits. Their lack of surprise told him they, too, could detect the Witch Cult's scent. A realization dawned – they weren't ignorant, just silent.

This gave him an idea. Maybe he should form a contract with one, even if it's a weakling, just so Tank will have somebody to compensate his inability to talk and maybe a new best friend for him.

He ignored the large clamoring from the Souls, telling him that, no, not all Spirits could smell a Witch Cultist.

Fuck their opinion. He's getting a fucking Spirit, goddammit! He wants one to inhabit his club so it could turn into some kind of living weapon and do half the job on the battle!

His gaze swept across the table, landing on the two. "I doubt this news surprises some of you." He gestured towards Beatrice and Puck. "Both Great Spirits, you caught the scent too, didn't you?"

Beatrice huffed. "Hmph. Astute observation, I suppose."

Puck, nestled in her arms, offered a playful grin. "Yeah, you could say that. How'd you know?"

Raeburn tapped his chin, "Reactions, buddy, reactions. You're a kitty but your cuteness is making you too expressive. Beatrice over there isn't very subtle with her lip."

"What are you talking about, in fact!? Cease your leering at Betty's lips like a lecher, I suppose!"

Raeburn chuckled, undeterred. "Whatever you say, munchkin."

"Who are you calling 'munchkin,' you shrimp?!" She shrieked.

Raeburn snickered, finding amusement in their bickering. While their interactions were brief, he relished the opportunity to tease the tiny mistress. Her colorful insults and third-person references to herself as "Betty" were simply too entertaining.

His mirth, however, was fleeting. The gravity of the situation returned. "Alright, back to business. Rem mentioned the Necro smelling like a Witch Cultist, leading us to a rather obvious conclusion, wouldn't you say?"

Nobody reacted, the answer already known among them.

Raeburn shook his head, his voice firm. "I don't believe it. Not one bit. While I believe he smells like a Witch Cultist, he is actually not a Witch Cultist. Big difference there, which means one thing. It may be a first for all y'all but it's time we stop conflating the two as the same. It sounds stupid, even for me, but the Necro's existence disproves the original assumption without a doubt."

Frederica's expression turned incredulous. "Are you serious, Raeburn? Jokes have their limits, and that…" She glanced at Rem, whose icy glare echoed her disapproval, "…that crosses a line."

Uncharacteristically, Raeburn felt a surge of heat. The implication that someone like Frederica, who wasn't even born in Pandemonium, could understand the Death Mage better than himself was infuriating.

"So…." he began, his voice hardening as he locked eyes with her, hand outstretched towards Frederica, "….you're suggesting somebody who barely knew he existed until three days ago knows more than I do? Fine, let's prove me wrong. Why don't you join me wake the Necro together so you could ask him yourself? Surely he won't start clawing your face off for the inconvenience of meeting you."

His unexpected aggression and accusatory tone stunned Frederica, hurt flickering in her eyes.

Raeburn felt a pang of guilt, but his conviction held him firm. He could apologize later. It can wait, but the truth won't.

Ram, sensing the rising tension, interjected with the deliberate mispronunciation of his name, a familiar needle. "And what makes you certain of your claims, Brearan?"

"Because, once again, I know him better than all of you. I've had years to see a pattern in his behavior. Oi, I can't believe I'm repeating myself here. First of all, he's a Priest, not a Cultist. Secondly, his devotion doesn't go to the Witch. He worships a Dragon. Not Volcanica, just so you know, and he serves only himself. Whether that Dragon he worships is malevolent or not, that's none of our business and isn't the point. The point here is that he doesn't have the capacity to be a Witch Cult."

"Hoooooow so?"

"He's a bad man, no doubt. A cold-blooded, brutal son of a bitch. But compared to those twisted motherfuckers, he has his limits. I know he does. He's not completely wicked, otherwise I would have called Reinhardt on him long ago, and I didn't."

A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips, his face twisting into a cynical smile. Exasperation radiated from him as he faced the truth he held.

The weight of it all seemed to drain him. He sank into a chair, releasing Emilia's hand and rubbing his face wearily. A groan escaped his lips as he continued, ignoring the surprised looks his behavior elicited.

"And the reason why is something I'd like to describe…as the biggest joke the world has ever played on me."

A muffled, deranged laugh erupted from behind his hands, unsettling the others. Emilia, her concern evident, reached out and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Raeburn? Are you okay?"

He ignored her concern, though not without a flicker of gratitude. His voice, now heavy with defeat, uttered the final bombshell: "…..he hates evil, perhaps more than any of us."

As if on cue, one hand abruptly shot out from his face, slamming into the table with a resounding thud that startled everyone present. Raeburn immediately facepalmed with the other hand, his grimace hidden but his annoyance palpable.

"That's where you see their true inhumanity," He growled, his voice tight with frustration. "They spill blood, spread chaos, feel no remorse in doing it…yet have the gall to rage when others cause the same kinda damage, just because they lack the same label. The most insane part? His hatred for evil is genuine, unquestionable. It makes you wonder how their minds twist and contort, doesn't it? And we can't even ask! They'd rather silence us than explain themselves."

The room remained heavy, everyone absorbing the bizarre revelation. Through the Souls, Raeburn felt their confusion, their struggle to reconcile this new information. Even he, with his years of observing the Necro, couldn't fully grasp the picture.

But there was something he'd discovered back in Pandemonium, a revelation gleaned through speculation, whispered truths from the Souls, and stubborn resistance to believe it due to his own youthful rage. But now, with age and a more seasoned perspective, he knew when to doubt and when to believe.

And this particular truth, he was determined to believe.

"He was the first to know about a nest of greedspawns that had kidnapped children and had done unspeakable things to them. He was already gone before me and my adventuring party understood why he up and bolted out like that. The search party was too slow. We were trying to assess the situation, gathering our equipment, or figuring out what to do, but when we did….every single monster there was obliterated, nothing but paste on the walls. All the Necro's doing….It was the first time I saw him so furious, yet…controlled. His rage wasn't indiscriminate, it was focused, directed at a specific target."

Anticipation crackled in the air. The most important part of his story remained untold.

"And the children…..?" Frederica inquired cautiously.

"Did he kill them too?" Rem interjected, her voice laced with suspicion, almost a hope for a dark confirmation. Her words mirrored Raeburn's own youthful assumptions, a fact that didn't sit well with him.

His voice remained hollow as he continued, "We were too late. An hour was an eternity. He was early, but not early enough. Those monsters had done the children in….they were either dead…or beyond saving….they already lost too much blood, traumatized….broken….healing magic wouldn't have helped. It would have been… pointless."

"Are you saying he spared them? That a creature like him, according to your description, chose not to harm the innocent?"

"Rem," Ram intervened firmly. "Let him finish."

Frederica joined in, her voice surprisingly firm. "Such presumptuousness regarding our guest is unbecoming of a maid, and unhelpful to our understanding. Compose yourself, Rem. I trust you were taught better manners."

Raeburn ignored the apology that followed, its hollowness grating on him. The accusation stung, echoing his own past doubts.

Raeburn stared into the distance, his eyes clouded with regret. He cursed his past self, the one who shared Rem's damning conclusions that day. Precious time spent returning the children's bodies to their families was squandered, replaced by accusatory outbursts against the Necro. The accusations, fueled by his own prejudice, were demonstrably false, yet he refused to believe it. The Souls echoed their pleas for the Necro's innocence, their voices blurring with the living in his mind for days.

"We're the same. Just like you, Rem, I didn't want to believe it at the time." He admitted, his voice heavy with emotion. "I wanted him to be the evil bastard I always thought he was that day. I convinced myself that the children were still alive when he got there and he didn't hesitate to get them caught in the blast when he massacred those monsters…"

The memory sent tremors through him, a potent mix of shame and anger. Oh, how he wished he could go back in time and beat his younger self with the same amount of agony he suffered from his time in Vollachia, to instill the sense he'd so desperately lacked. Maybe then, that moron would finally learn to think for himself and listen to the Dead who saw everything.

"But it wasn't him," He emphasized, each word a hammer blow. "It. Was. Not. Him. Why would he go there if he wanted them dead? Why not let the monsters finish their work? If he were responsible, the scene would have been different. Clean cuts, hearts pierced, bodies 'gone' without a trace. No splatter, no viscera. Instead, it was a nightmare – ripped flesh and desecrated innocence."

His teeth clenched, his voice barely a growl.

"Ripped genitals and anuses…..those are not the methods of his kind. They are above such depravity. They would never… and the fact that he couldn't prevent it… it shattered him. The Necro I knew then died that day."

Righteous fury echoed through the dining hall, fueled by Raeburn's tale. Emilia's anger burned the brightest beside him, igniting a similar fire within him. The Souls clamored for a "Purge," a cleansing fire to eradicate all evil and prevent such tragedies.

But Raeburn knew better. He, and everyone else from Pandemonium, understood the futility of such a solution. Evil wasn't a monolithic entity, easily expunged. It pulsed in every heart, waiting for the right spark to ignite. Even in this world, untouched by Pandemonium's blight, evil would find its way, insidious and silent until it was too late, leaving good people to pay the price.

His voice, hardened by the memory's sting, carried the weight of shame. "He was livid—he never calmed down ever since. He looked ready to explode at any moment. Back then, I thought it was a constant rage…until that day, I learned we weren't even worthy of the kind of anger he reserved for the vilest monsters. But his anger… it was useless. It didn't save anyone, not even those kids. So, he turned it on everything – enemies, allies, anyone unfortunate enough to be in his path. He became worse than the monsters we hunted, a liability we ostracized, hoping never to see his face again."

A heavy sigh escaped Raeburn as he leaned back, exhaustion and memory swirling. He recalled the weeks before, when the same man, ripped from Pandemonium, materialized in this world. The bewildered Necro scanned the unfamiliar world with wary eyes and he nearly struck down an innocent demihuman, mistaking them for a hellspawn in his panicked state. Then came Raeburn, shouting the man's familiar nickname in a mix of surprise and relief. Sickles and Krises whirled, their points turning towards him – annoyingly predictable, yet strangely nostalgic.

But this Necro was different. He changed. Subtle at first, but over the past week, Raeburn realized the transformation was deeper. Acts of unexpected kindness, performed when the man thought no one was watching. The once perpetually raging inferno had dimmed, replaced by a melancholic shadow, bordering on resignation. The hate-filled monster was gone, replaced by a being burdened by a past etched in sorrow.

"Destiny seems to have a twisted sense of humor," Raeburn mused, his voice heavy. "Weeks ago, I found him again in the Capital, by sheer coincidence or some cruel joke of fate. And the moment he saw me, he wailed on me. If it wasn't for Reinhardt, there would have been so much collateral damage. People could have been hurt….shows that he changed for the better, even if a little."

"He changed? What do you mean?" Emilia's question echoed the collective curiosity.

Raeburn nodded, a flicker of grim amusement in his eyes. "The old him wouldn't have cared about collateral damage. Years apart seem to have brought him… maturity. He no longer drags bystanders into his personal vendettas. He kept his attacks focused on me, avoiding everyone else, unlike before when he'd just blast anything in his path. No bone puppets, no stray curses, just spikes and claws aimed my way and trying to rip me open. A refined bloodlust, you could say."

"In ooooother words, we're fortunately acquainted with the most reeeaasonable side of his violence." Roswaal remarked, amusement lacing his voice.

"Fortunately." Raeburn managed a humorless smile. "But it changes nothing. Even this 'improved' Necro will resort to violence before words upon waking, especially toward me. Violence is his default."

Yet, beneath the pragmatism, a flicker of hope, unsettling and irrational, refused to be extinguished. There were a hundred reasons not to pursue this, every one rooted in logic and the safety of others. But still, this fucking hope persisted, stubborn and tenacious.

He sighed, the weight of his own transformation settling upon him. He, too, had changed, perhaps more than he realized.

Besides, all those attacks from the Necro weeks ago felt like pebbles thrown in his direction. Like a broody kid telling him to get lost.

He straightened, his gaze sweeping across the room, meeting each face individually. "But… if there's a sliver of a chance he'll choose dialogue, I'm the one to talk to him. Despite our differences, they're just that – differences. I understand him in a way none of you can."

He paused, his voice firming. "And I'll approach him with the same patience I'd offer a child throwing a tantrum. A chance to calm down, to talk."

"Buuuuuuuuut….." Roswaal raised a finger up.

Raeburn already saw this one coming, but it's still annoying.

"….what would you do if he were to become hostile?"

Raeburn met his gaze, a flicker of resignation in his eyes. "Then my decision is made."

|||| « ҉ » ||||

Frederica's shock passed unnoticed as Raeburn mounted Tank, the loyal wolf's nose already leading them deeper into the frozen forest to track the missing children. He had Snakebite extended in front, its metal tip crackling with subzero frost. Any branch, shrub, or tree unfortunate enough to touch it instantly froze and shattered under Tank's powerful stride.

The silence was unnerving. He expected ambushes, the snarls of witchbeasts, – anything from those bastards. Yet, the forest remained eerily silent, broken only by Tank's powerful sniffs and the crunch of frozen vegetation under Tank's feet. Had the Necro preemptively cleared the way, using the dead as skeletal vanguards to kill the beasties? He couldn't yet smell blood, perhaps this section was naturally devoid of beasts.

The Souls signaled a break in the treeline, and Raeburn and Tank burst out with a relieved growl, frozen foliage scattering in their wake. Open space stretched before them, a grassy field leading to a gentle hill. And on the hilltop, sprawled motionless, lay the missing children.

But they weren't alone. Above their small frames, a chilling spectacle unfolded. Silver hair and light-devouring robes billowed ominously. The Death Mage hovered, his eyes were blank white, his mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. Gestures, both furious and precise, were tearing at the air as if ripping apart an unseen beast, tearing out organs with his gnarled claws.

From each child, a tendril of black mist emanated, converging into a swirling orb before the Necro. Its darkness pulsed with an unnatural power, sending shivers down Raeburn's spine.

"Hey!" Raeburn's voice echoed through the clearing, a simple declaration of his arrival. He guided Tank towards the man, carefully avoiding any aggressive movement. For now, he clung to the fragile hope that the man was saving the children, expelling whatever plagued them, not delivering a cruel mercy. A quick, clean death from a bone knife would have ended their suffering quickly, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Fighting here meant risking Rem's life, and more importantly, the lives of the children mere steps away from the Necro. His sole mission was to reunite the children with their families and ensure the maid's recovery.

The scene mirrored their first encounter in the Cathedral from Pandemonium – suspicion, silence, and no understanding of each other's motives. Whether the past held any lessons remained to be seen. One thing was certain – protecting the children was his sole focus. As for the Necromagus... for the first time, Raeburn found himself willing to tolerate the unknown and let him do whatever he wanted, anything to ensure the children's safety.

As Raeburn and Tank neared, a realization dawned on the former. For the first time in days, the Necro stood, hunched over, an animalistic frenzy evident in his flailing movements. A thick, smoke-like cloud billowed from beneath his robes where his missing legs should be. Raeburn wisely chose not to dwell on the unseen horrors beneath.

Dismounting Tank, he moved towards one child with deliberate slowness, fearing he might disrupt the unknown ritual. Despite the Souls' assurances, a sliver of doubt lingered – was the Necro saving them, or something more sinister?

No one can ever be sure with his kind, especially when they can literally control the same Souls that are informing him right now.

Finally touching a child's head, he kept his eyes glued to the Necro, waiting for any sign of aggression. When none came, and the strange black energy continued its siphoning undisturbed, Raeburn dared to look down. Gently, he checked their forehead, limbs, and finally, their Od.

A scowl of fury contorted his face. There was a curse. A parasitic one, latched onto their mana and life force.

What kind of twisted bastard would inflict such suffering on innocent children?

"Bastards…" Raeburn snarled, a furnace of rage igniting within him. He fought the urge to unleash it on a personal crusade, the image of brutalizing the fucker flashing before him. But Rem, likely cursed herself, needed him. Through gritted teeth, he spat, "Whoever did this…..I hope they get what Pandemonium would have done for this…..!"

With his own expertise in curse removal, Raeburn swiftly dug beneath the weed the Necro was pulling, accelerating the extraction of the parasitic curses. The Necro's silence and lack of objection was appreciated. As the children's faces eased, freed from the parasitic curse, the black orb swelled to the size of a basketball.

As the final curse lifted, the Necro's mouth snapped shut, emerald irises glowing in his empty sockets. His arms spread wide, palms radiating green energy. The earth shuddered, and from the churned soil birthed the familiar foot soldiers of necromancy – skeletons. But these were no ordinary undead. These bones, artificially crafted by the Necro's unique magic, bore no mark of a previous life.

These ivory figures moved with a mechanical click and clack, bits of earth clinging to their bony frames. Each scooped a sleeping child in their spindly arms, then stood at attention, awaiting their master's command.

Raeburn's breath hitched as a pale finger pointed directly at him. The six pairs of black sockets swiveled in unison, locking onto him with an unsettling intensity. The Necro had chosen him. He was to be followed by the undying.

Raeburn's jaw dropped, slowly stretching into a smile – perhaps the first genuine and unguarded one he'd offered the Death Mage in their tense encounters. After witnessing him feed the entire slum and now saving these children, albeit in his unique way, a sliver of hope flickered. This act, despite its small scale compared to the Necro's grander feats, chipped away at the hardened image Raeburn held.

"Alright," He confirmed, beckoning Tank closer and mounting swiftly. "They're safe, six in total. This should be the last one."

But before leaving, a thought tugged at him, heavy and urgent. He hesitated, the weight of his words settling in. Pushing aside the doubts and the limited time, he cleared his throat and spoke with a sincerity that surprised even him.

"When this is over, come back. You have to come back…..Please." This was his first plea to this man, and by God, it better be worth it, "We still haven't had our talk. If we delay it now, we'll never get the chance again. We must know who we are. We need to know what we want from each other. We…..I want to know. I want to help you, Necro. So please, Emurdol Viandegroc, just for once, let me in."

The words hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the silence that had preceded them. Raeburn held his breath, the weight of his declaration settling upon him. There is no turning back now. The two-dimensional image he'd held of the Death Mage now crumbled, replaced by a complex, human reality. From this moment on, until his dying breath, Emurdol Viandegroc would be seen as nothing less than human, flaws and all.

The Death Mage remained still, the black orb of extracted curses hovering like a malevolent moon above his palm. His glowing green gaze pierced the distance, fixed on an unseen enemy amidst the trees, likely the perpetrator of this near-tragedy, judgment and torture already envisioned to be done under his wrathful hand.

Whether Emurdol had even heard Raeburn's plea remained unclear. Neutrality cloaked him like a shroud, revealing no flicker of emotion. Yet, the seed had been sown. The mere act of speaking his truth, of acknowledging Emurdol's humanity, had irrevocably altered their dynamic. The next encounter would be different, charged with the weight of this new understanding.

"So please," Raeburn repeated, his voice soft yet firm, "….come back." It was a plea, an invitation, a step into the unknown. The path forward would be paved not with fear and prejudice, but with a glimmer of empathy, a tentative bridge built on the fragile ground of shared humanity.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

"I know you can hear me," Raeburn declared, his voice echoing in the tense silence.

The Necro lay sprawled on his side, a stark contrast to the rigid, coffin-like posture he'd maintained for days. This aversion, this reaction to Raeburn's presence in this room where only Emilia ever entered, spoke volumes. It hinted at a recovering mind, one no longer lost in apathetic oblivion.

Raeburn himself wasn't keen on this confrontation either, but circumstances, as always, had a way of forcing them together. And Raeburn, burdened by the weight of his decision, knew he had to step up.

Everything rests on him to set things straight for the both of them.

"I don't need to explain why I'm here, do I?"

Silence. The usual, infuriating silence. But this time, something shifted. The Souls circling the Necro, usually dormant, flickered to life, mimicking the silent "yes" Raeburn sensed within the man.

The man's hearing him out.

Raeburn had braced himself for resistance, for an icy wall of indifference. He didn't think it would be this easy.

Raeburn shook his head, clearing the shock and forcing his voice steady. "Do you remember every moment we ever talked?"

He felt the shift – confusion, then a flicker of annoyance, a familiar spark of the Necro's usual irritation. The question seemed to offend him, as if questioning his mind and memory.

"Yeah," Raeburn admitted, nodding. "But that's the thing, isn't it? We never talk. I come to you and you just scream at me. You see me, you give me a dirty look. Even if I wasn't coming at you with a club, your response is to just swing a sickle or sling a few bones at my face. You never give me a moment to talk, even if it's just random bullshit like conversation."

Since finding him in the Capital, despite their initial violent reunion, the Necro's outbursts had lessened in intensity compared to Pandemonium. They were controlled, almost restrained, devoid of the genuine murderous intent he'd once faced. It felt more like a child's tantrum, fueled by hatred and frustration, not a true desire to kill.

Raeburn wouldn't dare voice this thought aloud, but he sensed a weariness in the Necro, a fatigue with the endless cycle of rage and aggression. Yet, trapped in the only reality he knew, he repeated the pattern, unable to envision another path. An animalistic and immature response.

"Don't you think that it's getting old? Do you want us to be always at each other's throats forever? Is that what you want?"

The question hung heavy, a challenge that stung. A familiar fury simmered beneath the surface, but the Necro remained motionless, his reaction a canvas of suppressed emotions.

"Don't you want to just….start over?"

Silence. The Souls, once vibrant reflections of the Necro's turmoil, dimmed to a neutral gray.

Panic clawed at Raeburn's throat. Had he misread the signs? Had he overstepped? Was his offer reaching him? Or should he back off before sparking an even worse reaction, prematurely bringing the worst-case scenario into the open?

But he pressed on, his voice steady despite the tightening throat. "This can't go on forever, Necro. I know it, and I believe you do too, even if you won't admit it. And you can't stay in that bed forever, expecting Sloth to slowly rot you on the inside until you get the Death you want. How would Emilia feel, especially when she feels very responsible for keeping you alive and taking that away from you and is trying her best to make up for it?"

A flicker of color, an echo of emotion within the lifeless cloud.

Raeburn immediately went for the throat.

"Just tell me, Necro. Just what is it you really want?"

The response was an eruption. Emotions flooded the Souls, a chaotic tempest. Rage, fear, confusion - but amidst the storm, Raeburn saw a flash of another, a raw and poignant hue.

Pain.

Raeburn stared, a chilling realization dawning. Had the Necro ever truly asked himself this question? In this world or the one before? The answer, he feared, was already etched in the agony radiating from the shrouded figure.

"I never once questioned that for as long as I knew you, Necro. And it's only after I learned that you did not want to wake up that I started asking. Now, I have no answers. Even Emilia, bless her heart, is at a loss. Do you want to stay there and wallow forever, doing absolutely nothing even though you were always going above and beyond to be better than us? We can't help if we don't understand. What do you want us to do for you? What do you want Emilia to do for you?"

He caught the flicker of surprise in the swirling Souls, a reaction that startled him more. Were his kind capable of astonishment? He'd thought them hardened against the world, expecting the worst, never disappointed.

Capitalizing on this emotional shift, Raeburn pressed on.

"Let's talk, Necro," He urged, his voice gaining strength with each word, hope building like bricks under his feet. "Don't be just the Necromancer hunter that's fixated on his own opinions. silencing everybody else's and enforcing your own will, yet come out forever unsatisfied. There has to be more than fury, self-interest, and death."

The act of giving to the people of the Slums. Saving Emilia without anybody else nearby suffering severe bodily harm. Even saving her from the taint of his presence.

A simple man consumed by hate wouldn't have done that, not once, not after everything they'd endured in Pandemonium. Years stretched before them, a chance for growth and understanding, free from the constant clash. Surely, there was more to the Necro than this shell of rage.

"Emilia shouldn't hear only negativity about you from me," Raeburn declared, his voice quiet but firm. "I suspect there's more to you, and I want to show her that. Look, I'm not asking for friendship, and my opinion of you won't change overnight, but… let's talk. No hidden agendas, just two people trying to understand each other. Nothing more. I want to understand you, who you are, what drives you, what you want from me, from everyone."

He had laid bare his untainted thoughts, words never shared with anyone but his loyal Tank, spoken to the very being he most feared judgment from. Yet, the Necro remained motionless. The air was neutral, not the chilling emptiness of before. He was absorbing every word, weighing them but offered no response.

Raeburn couldn't discern uncertainty from silence. But he had spoken his truth, and it had been received. His mission was complete. He could leave. Time would allow the Necro to process his words, to consider civility for when tomorrow comes.

"I'll find somewhere private for us to talk tomorrow," He offered, his voice laced with hope. "Just… think about what I said, alright?"

With a final hopeful look, Raeburn turned to leave. The seeds of dialogue had been sown, watered by honesty. Whether they would bloom remained to be seen, but the possibility, however fragile, fueled a spark of hope within him.

Then a cacophony of sounds assaulted Raeburn's senses: the sickening squelch of flesh, the grinding of bone, and the haunting echo of screams, all warped and blended into an impossible symphony. As the horrifying symphony coalesced, it morphed into words.

And words were heard.

"In the eve of Night. Free of light and life."

Raeburn, frozen in the doorway, felt the familiar grip of fear encase him for the first time in months. His heart pounded a monstrous rhythm against his ribs.

"See to the third story to meet. In a private forest….then we speak."

The final words hung heavy in the air, punctuated by silence. Driven by a primal urge to escape, Raeburn scrambled backwards, slamming the door shut behind him. He sprinted towards the nearest window, the urgency evident in his frantic steps.