Lancelot the Schemer

"Tell it to me again, Mirak. Slower this time," Lancelot said, his voice calm and soothing, though the weight of his command was unmistakable.

Mirak stared down at his hand, his thoughts a storm of regret and frustration. "Everything was wrong from the start," he murmured, his voice heavy. "There were more guards than we expected. And no civilians. It was like they knew we were coming." He paused, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled into a fist. "But we made it to the vault. Then they came—out of nowhere—acting just like Revenant. Everything went from bad to worse."

He raised the gauntlet of the Nall for Lancelot to see, the cold, polished metal glinting faintly in the light. This was all he had to show for the heist: a single gauntlet and a massive crater where the bank once stood. Was it worth Menis' life? The answer, bitter and damning, hung in the silence.

"Shadows," Lancelot murmured, his voice soft, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

Mirak's gaze drifted to Damion, who rested in the corner, his monstrous form eerily still. He whispered, almost to himself, "Do you know who killed Menis?"

"And what would you do if I did?" Lancelot asked, his tone as even as ever.

"I'd kill him," Mirak replied, his voice tightening with conviction. "He murdered one of the Revenant—my family."

For a long moment, silence filled the room. Lancelot and Mirak stared at one another, the unspoken weight of their shared loss thick in the air. Finally, Lancelot spoke, his voice steady but tinged with warning.

"If you seek revenge as you are now, you will lose," he said simply.

Mirak's gaze hardened as he leaned forward, his voice low but forceful. "Then what should I do?" Harmony swirled faintly around him, a reminder of his power, but it felt useless. It hadn't saved Menis. Just like it hadn't saved Akash or Daenys.

Lancelot's eyes softened, and he leaned in, gently clasping the gauntlet in Mirak's hand. "We mourn the death of one of our own," he said, his voice gentle yet firm. "And in that mourning, we dream of a better tomorrow. Don't let your thirst for revenge blind you to that dream."

Mirak scowled, his grip tightening on the metal of the gauntlet. "Menis never cared about a better tomorrow," he shot back bitterly. "All he wanted was to fix Damion… and to feel something."

Lancelot nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "He was a good man," he said quietly. "One who used Entanglement not for himself, but to understand his best friend's pain. I'll miss him—and the quiet strength he brought to the Revenant."

Mirak fell silent, his hands gripping the edge of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. He needed to do something. Anything. But what? The weight of helplessness bore down on him. He had once called the Revenant slaves, yet now he mourned Menis like a brother. What was wrong with him?

"Follow me," Lancelot commanded, his voice breaking through Mirak's spiraling thoughts.

They stepped out into the main hall, where a handful of Revenant members sat in mournful silence. Lock, seated casually in a chair, raised an eyebrow as they passed.

"Going out?" he asked, his tone light despite the heavy atmosphere.

"It's a mission," Lancelot replied curtly.

Lock pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his coat. "Mind if I join? We need at least three members for a mission, don't we?"

"This trip is only for Mirak and me," Lancelot said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

But Mirak spoke quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. "Let him come."

Lancelot glanced at him for a moment before nodding. "Very well."

The three left the Hall of Glass and entered the city's thief amphitheater. The air was thick with the whispers of onlookers, their gazes darting toward the hooded figures as they passed.

"The Ghost of the Lunar Storms… and the Bloodless," murmured one of the barkeeps, her voice tinged with awe.

Lancelot walked ahead, his expression almost amused, as if the rumors swirling around Mirak and Lock were some private joke. Though he himself carried no title, the other two drew all the attention. The shackles they wore—relics of their past—marked them for what they were, their Publici origins etched into every movement.

"Quite a reputation the two of you have built," Lancelot said casually, his tone carrying a faint undercurrent of mirth.

The whispers persisted, growing louder as they walked.

"I heard he was born in shackles," one voice murmured.

"They say the Samael ripped a Saki's heart out and poured its blood onto the ground—it sizzled at his feet," another added.

"Did you hear about the Enare? He killed one of the Princes' generals barehanded," said a third, their voice hushed but brimming with reverence.

The rumors swirled, grand and unbelievable, but neither Mirak nor Lock acknowledged them. They moved in silence, pressing forward into the Lunar Storms.

The storms swallowed them whole, the mist curling greedily around their forms. It pricked at Mirak's skin with a cool, familiar touch, as though greeting an old friend. In moments, they were nearly invisible, the only clear markers in the storm being the twin planets, Rhea and Titan, glowing faintly in the sky. A single red light blinked in the distance, faint but constant, offering the only illumination.

Lancelot led them further from the city, past the slums and into the countryside. The wooden shacks and makeshift homes became sparse, giving way to farmland stretching endlessly into the mist. The soil, rich and dark from the river, lay heavy with crops tended by Publici. The clinking of metal tools against dirt filled the quiet, rhythmic and unending.

Mirak's gaze lingered on the Publici. Their shackles, engraved with the names of their masters, caught the faint light of the Lunar Storms. A sour taste filled his mouth as memories resurfaced—voices of regret, of loss.

"Why bring us here, Lancelot?" Mirak asked, rubbing the shackle on his wrist. Though unbound, the weight of it still lingered.

Lock grunted. "Yeah. I'd like to know too. Not a fan of reliving old memories."

Lancelot stopped at the edge of the field, his gaze sweeping across the land. "When you joined the Revenant, your pasts were washed away," he said softly. "You are no longer what you once were."

Lock raised his wrist, shaking the shackle for emphasis. "We still carry these, don't we? And Mirak—he'll never get his hand back."

Lancelot nodded. "Yes, you have scars. But scars are reminders of what has been, not what is. They are old, withered things. In the coming weeks, you'll need to abandon them entirely. To accept the truth of what you are now."

"But what does that have to do with—" Mirak began, but the words caught in his throat.

In the Lunar Storms, Lancelot looked different. The mist clung to him, swirling around his shoulders as if alive. It danced along his form like it adored him, sang for him. Where Mirak had always felt content in the storms, Lancelot seemed to command them, drawing their devotion. It was unsettling and mesmerizing all at once.

"You wish for power, Mirak?" Lancelot asked, his voice calm and deliberate. "Power to right the wrongs that haunt you? And you, Lock—you seek to tear down an order so ancient it predates Koona itself. That kind of power requires sacrifice. It requires that you accept who you are and let go of what you were."

He placed a hand on each of their heads, pulling them into a gentle embrace. "You are my Bloodless and my Ghost. Together, we will change Koona and free the Publici. That is our purpose."

When he pulled away, his voice hardened. "Your first step is to deal with the King of Thieves. His usefulness has dwindled. He is little more than a puppet now. We are close—so very close—to the greatest revolution in Koona's history. But a few loose ends remain. Take care of them."