40. A Sign To

The Vanguard Station buzzed with motion, though it was far from chaotic. The cold morning filtered through stained glass, painting the marble floor in faint tones of blue and violet. Officers walked with pace in their heavy cloaks, boots clicking against stone, papers being filed, murmurs of shifting duties. It was a cold day — but it was also Prayer Day for Jud religion followers, worshiper of God of Mysteries.

Inside the operations hall, Henry stood in full uniform — black-and-silver trench coat, feather-pin neatly fastened near the collar, a pair of clean leather gloves tucked under his belt. His newly wrapped scarf peeked beneath the cloak. Though bandaged from his last encounter, he bore no trace of fatigue. Beside him, Jeff leaned lazily against a desk, holding a half-eaten skewer of roasted mushroom, while Mary flipped through today's incident reports on her clipboard.

"Thirty percent," Mary said, voice edged with worry. "The city's crime rate has spiked. Petty theft, break-ins, even a few cult sightings near South Wane."

Jeff whistled. "All this while we're chasing shadows and monsters… figures the mortals start acting like demons too."

Henry shrugged lightly, his tone calm. "Maybe they're just adapting. When the stars go dark, rats crawl out."

Mary raised an eyebrow, "That's not in the manual."

Jeff leaned in dramatically, "But it should be."

Before anyone could reply, heavy boots echoed across the station hall. Officer Andrew Fritz, long coat swept behind him like a strategist's cloak, descended the staircase with an unreadable expression. He wore a different cloak today — deep violet with an embedded silver-threaded sigil on the back. Today wasn't just routine for him.

Everyone paused briefly — respectful, curious.

Andrew stopped before the trio.

"Today is the Day of Jude," he announced to Henry, Mary, and Jeff, his voice calm but clear. "I will be gone till dusk for the rite. Until then…"

He turned to the side, and everyone's gaze naturally followed.

Nelson Carter, unshaved, half-tucked shirt, and looking like he'd just rolled out of a drinking contest with a windstorm, stepped forward.

Andrew placed a firm hand on Nelson's shoulder.

"Nelson's in charge until I return."

Jeff blinked. "Wait— him?"

Mary's eyes narrowed with subtle dread. "This place is going to be on fire."

Nelson gave them a lazy salute with two fingers and a sly grin.

"Try not to commit any crimes until I'm done with breakfast."

Andrew ignored the ripple of disbelief and stepped forward to Henry.

"Keep your eyes open," he said, quietly. "Crimes like these — they happen in layers. The louder ones distract from the silent ones."

Then he added, with a glance toward Mary,

"Especially near East Wharf. I left notes in the Archive."

Henry nodded. "Understood, sir."

Andrew gave a curt nod, then turned and walked out, violet cloak trailing like a whisper of prophecy behind him.

As soon as the main door closed—

"Okay," Nelson clapped once, loudly, "New rule! No paperwork, only guesswork. Let's run this place like a proper haunted tavern."

Jeff groaned. "We're so doomed."

Mary looked up from her clipboard and muttered, "I should've stayed home today."

Henry? He smiled faintly and adjusted his scarf.

Because if there's anything he learned lately — it's that even on days of prayer, mystery never takes a break.

....

The sun hovered low in the western sky, casting a warm amber glow over the stone shingles of the Prada Vanguard Station. The cold breeze whispered through the iron railing that enclosed the rooftop, carrying the distant toll of bells and the echo of merchants closing their stalls in the far-off marketplace.

Alister Neo leaned against the railing, long hair gently tugged by the wind, his coat draped like a polished curtain behind him. He sipped a cup of spiced tea, steam curling around his face. Beside him stood Flynn Tie, still in uniform, arms crossed, gaze distant and thoughtful as the wind tousled his greying hair.

For a while, the silence between them was unbroken — comfortable, weighted with unspoken thoughts.

Then Alister spoke.

"You ever think about the Callinger Family? The throne of Zakrou? What they've become?"

Flynn didn't answer at first. His eyes traced a flock of birds slicing through the twilight above the city. Finally, he said,

"I think about it every day."

Alister glanced sideways. "So do I."

He took another sip before continuing, voice quieter now.

"Prince Callinger Zagreb… That boy didn't leave because of greed or politics. He left because he hated his own blood. Hated what Zakrou became."

Flynn's jaw tensed.

"A nation rotting from the inside. Ghurte temples burned. Citizens praying under broken ceilings. The noble court danced while children begged for dead meat."

Alister let the words hang in the air. His golden eyes narrowed against the setting sun.

"You remember what they called the prince?"

"'The Pariah of Porcelain Thrones.'"

Flynn scoffed bitterly.

"He ran through the capital gates with nothing but his boots and a satchel of poems. Left behind his crown and broke the blood oath. Some called him mad."

Alister chuckled dryly. "And others… called him right."

They both stood in silence again.

"Benz Callinger," Flynn muttered, the name falling like a curse. "His own father. Sat on a throne made of polished bones. Watched the temples burn, watched the starving eat sand and said it was fate."

Alister leaned back from the railing, eyes thoughtful.

"He never understood that sometimes faith is not in gods… but in justice. Ghurte wasn't a religion to Zagreb. It was a voice—one they tried to silence."

Flynn looked up toward the heavens, fingers tightening on the hilt of his sheathed blade.

"You think he'll ever return to Zakrou?" he asked.

Alister's answer came slowly, almost as a whisper:

"Not to reclaim it… but maybe to bury it."

The wind kicked up a sudden gust, swirling a few dry leaves past their feet.

Flynn pulled his cloak tighter, staring out across the rooftops and skyline.

"If he does… this time, I hope he brings fire."

They both fell quiet, listening to the silence of a crumbling kingdom far beyond the borders — a memory of a man who gave up royalty to fight shadows no one dared name.

The rusted door to the rooftop creaked open.

Jeff stepped out, rubbing his arms against the chill. His sweater was half-buttoned under his Vanguard cloak, and his breath clouded in the crisp air. He spotted Flynn and Alister near the railing and made his way toward them with a lopsided grin.

"Well, look at this—two statues carved out of silence," Jeff said, stretching his arms. "You both here to admire the air or just brooding for fun?"

Flynn gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment, barely amused.

Alister didn't even look at him. "We were enjoying a quiet evening until the wind brought in a stray mutt."

Jeff laughed, ignoring the jab. "Good to see you too, Mister Cold Aura. Don't worry, I'll warm this rooftop with my charm."

"You warming anything is a miracle," Alister said, sipping from his now lukewarm tea. "Last time you tried to flirt with a suspect, she confessed to a crime she didn't commit just to make you leave."

Flynn huffed through his nose, which in his language counted as a chuckle.

Jeff leaned against the opposite railing, trying to hide the slight flush in his cheeks. "It was a misunderstanding. And besides, she really did look suspicious."

"She looked suspiciously uninterested in you," Alister quipped.

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay, we get it. You're all tall and sharp-tongued and mysterious. But let's settle something real—between you and Flynn, who's better in a straight-up fight?"

Flynn raised an eyebrow. "Are we really doing this?"

Alister smirked. "He's trying to spark a fire between two glaciers. How cute."

Jeff threw up his hands. "Come on, it's a fair question! Cold iron versus cold wisdom. Blade versus brain. I'd pay to see it."

Flynn just gave him a sideways look. "You wouldn't afford the tickets."

"And you wouldn't survive the warm-up," Alister added.

Jeff sighed dramatically. "Why do I even try?"

"Because you're young," Flynn said, finishing his tea. "And foolish."

Jeff pretended to take offense, pointing a finger at the sky. "Someday, I'll be older and even more foolish."

"That's the spirit," Alister muttered, leaning on the railing again.

Up on the roof of the Vanguard station, the wind was gentler than usual. Three figures sat haphazardly around a small crate-turned-table—Flynn Tie, Alister Neo, and Jeff Riddick.

Cans of chilled cola clinked softly as they toasted to nothing in particular. A half-eaten pie sat between them, torn unevenly by hands that had seen more combat than cutlery. Jeff had insisted they needed sugar "for morale," and none had objected.

"Imagine," Flynn said suddenly, in his usual dry tone, "if the universe is actually a pastry. Every time we suffer, someone's just taking a bite."

Jeff choked on his drink, bursting into laughter. "That's... that's the dumbest thing you've ever said."

Alister cracked an uncharacteristic grin. "No. That might actually be the smartest."

Flynn blinked, serious. "Then why are we all filling?"

The three erupted into laughter again. Even Alister's laugh—soft, cautious—carried something warm, something human. For once, the air didn't feel heavy with unspoken duty or the weight of their pasts.

Alister leaned back, his long coat fluttering slightly in the breeze. He looked over at Jeff. Then at Flynn. The smile stayed for just a moment longer than usual.

This was the first time… he'd spoken like this with a Vanguard. So open. So real. Maybe… the world wasn't entirely doomed after all.

He exhaled and stood.

"I'll be leaving today," he said, adjusting his cuffs.

Jeff blinked. "So soon?"

Alister nodded. "The royal court back in Zakrou needs reports. They always need something."

He turned to Flynn. "What about you?"

Flynn looked out at the horizon. "Later. But soon."

There was a silence. Not awkward, just full.

Alister turned to Jeff. "I enjoyed this… moment. Strange how rare they are, and yet how much they matter."

Jeff gave a quiet smile, the kind that meant more than words. "Me too."

Alister adjusted his dark top hat, the insignia of his Vanguard post glinting faintly.

With one last glance, he said, "Don't die too quickly."

Flynn grunted. Jeff gave a mock salute.

Alister walked to the rooftop stairs, coat tails fluttering like the end of a song. He disappeared below, leaving only the wind and the silence behind.

The two left behind said nothing for a while.

Flynn finally muttered, "That pie was good."

Jeff nodded, quietly. "Yeah… it was."

And the city breathed on, unaware that something small and beautiful had just ended.

....

The oil lamps on the walls flickered gently, their amber glow spilling across the wooden table where Mary sat, hunched slightly, a pencil twirling between her fingers. A few sketches were already scattered before her—faces of criminals described by witnesses, half-finished portraits drawn from fragmented memories.

Henry stood beside her, leaning slightly on the back of a wooden chair, his Vanguard cloak pushed back over his shoulders. He said nothing for a while—just watching, eyes quietly observing how delicately Mary's hand moved across the page, building cheekbones from soft strokes, shadows under the eyes, lips pressed in deceit.

"That's... accurate," Henry finally said, gently. "You've got a real gift."

Mary didn't look at him. Her pencil paused. Then she softly said, "I wanted to be an artist. When I was younger."

Henry tilted his head. "Why didn't you?"

There was a stillness in the room. Outside, the wind knocked softly against the shutters. Mary didn't answer right away, as if something fragile was slowly surfacing after years of drowning.

"You're the first person I've told that," she said. Her voice was calm, but the weight behind it was anything but.

Henry blinked, quiet now.

"I never told anyone," she continued, eyes still fixed on the drawing, though her hands were still. "Not my family, not my husband. Not even myself, sometimes. Because… what's the point of dreaming something you can't chase?"

She looked up, eyes flicking briefly to his before returning to the sketch.

"All my life, people told me what I should be. My parents didn't raise a daughter. They raised... a résumé. I had to be successful. Respected. Earn enough to fix everything they couldn't. They said art was a waste. Painting wouldn't feed a family. Drawing wouldn't make my name known. So I stopped dreaming out loud."

Henry didn't interrupt.

Mary smiled bitterly. "Funny thing is... you can't make a dream come true without telling someone. But once you do, it becomes real. Vulnerable. Easy to break."

She looked down at her sketch again and added a final touch to the lips of the face—expression hardened, criminal gaze locked in paper.

"I sometimes wonder if I really ever wanted fame. Or if I just wanted peace. Just... to live. Quietly. Normally. Paint in a small room with the window open. Watch my child sleep. Grow old, unnoticed."

The pencil rolled from her fingers onto the table. Henry reached over and gently placed it back near her hand.

"You know," he said, after a long pause, "if you ever do decide to chase it... the world will try to laugh. But I won't."

Mary blinked. Slowly, her shoulders loosened.

"I'm still figuring out who I am, Henry," she whispered. "I don't know what I want anymore. Just tired of being what others expect."

Henry leaned forward, voice quiet. "Then don't be."

She glanced at him, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

Outside, the lamps on the street began to flicker on, and for a moment, it was just two people in a quiet room, one rediscovering a forgotten dream, and the other watching with respect—no judgement, only understanding.