The smoke still curled in the air like ghostly serpents. Flames crackled against the stone rubble, casting dancing shadows across the once-regal banquet hall. Chaos had reduced celebration to cinders.
And there it was.
The mask.
White.
Damian saw it just beyond a toppled pillar. His heart hammered. He didn't hesitate. His body moved before his mind could stop it. He sprinted forward, eyes scanning through the haze.
He was going to chase Death.
But a hand clamped down on his arm. Strong. Unmoving.
"Don't be stupid," Arthur said firmly.
Damian turned, breath sharp. "He's right there!"
"And we're both unarmed."
The words hit him like a cold slap. Damian looked down. No sword. No dagger. Just his fists.
Arthur's grip loosened, but his gaze remained steady. "Going in like that? You'd be dead before you blinked."
Damian clenched his teeth. The mask had already vanished into the smoke.
Too late.
The smoke had thinned, but the scent of fire and panic lingered.
Damian stood just beyond the great hall's shattered threshold, eyes locked on the body now being lifted onto a stretcher by two royal medics. The noble. The would-be assassin. Identified as Lord Anselm of Merinth, a kingdom that had pledged its loyalty to the king just weeks prior.
The ride back was quiet at first. The moon hung heavy over the cobbled road, pale light glinting off the dark steel of their uniforms. Damian rode beside Arthur, the night breeze teasing loose strands of his hair.
Arthur was the first to break the silence. "You saw it, right? The mask."
Damian nodded. "I did."
"You ever seen it before?"
His mind drifted to that night, the final breath of his late master. "Yes. The night my master died. I tried to fight him. I didn't last ten seconds."
Arthur's expression changed. "He's not just a killer. He's something else."
"So you've seen him, too."
"Three years ago. Northern Province. Same mask. Same silence." Arthur's voice dropped. "He looked smaller than the rest, so I assumed he was a fool, drawing his sword against five warriors. But I watched from the shadows as he fought them, one after the other. He killed every last one."
He paused, then added, "I chased after him. Lost him in the cliffs."
Damian's eyes flicked to him. "So you've been hunting him ever since."
Arthur nodded.
Damian frowned. "Why? Revenge?"
Arthur laughed, quietly. "Revenge? No. Justice, maybe. But even that feels like the wrong word."
He shifted in his saddle. "At first, I thought he was a monster. Five men, executed and gone. But then I looked deeper, learned they were planning a coup. Thousands would've died. Death got to them first."
"Something like that doesn't just happen," Arthur said, glancing at Damian. "Death has to be someone with access... information. someone high up."
Damian watched him closely. "So then why do you want to find him so badly?"
Arthur's reply came without hesitation. "For the fight."
Damian blinked. "You want to fight him?"
"A man who walks into a room full of monarchs, sparks panic, and vanishes without a scratch?" Arthur said, a glint in his eye. "That's not just a killer. That's a swordsman."
He looked up at the moon, voice quiet. "He's probably the most skilled swordsman I've ever seen besides myself. And I want to know if I'm stronger."
Damian raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
Arthur turned to him, serious now. "You ever feel it? That itch in your chest. Like the world's daring you to prove who you are?"
Damian didn't answer.
"There are warriors," Arthur continued, "and there are killers. Death is something else. I want to be the one who meets him on equal ground."
There was no arrogance in his tone. Just certainty.
Damian found himself staring. Not out of disbelief — but awe. Arthur's words weren't boastful. They were... honest. Pure, even.
A strange admiration flickered in Damian's chest. There was no doubt in Arthur's eyes. No need for vengeance, no thirst for glory. Just a desire to test his edge against the sharpest possible opponent.
"You're not normal," Damian muttered.
Arthur laughed softly. "Neither are you. You were going to chase a man into smoke with no weapon."
Damian chuckled, then paused. His tone turning thoughtful.
"You've seen the way he fights. If you and Death were to face each other... who would win?"
Arthur didn't miss a beat.
"Unless Death is more than one man," he said, voice low and absolute, "there is no one alive who could beat me in a duel."
He wasn't bragging.
He wasn't boasting.
He was telling the truth.
A breeze drifted through the street. The silence returned.
They reached the western palace gates. Simple iron and stone, far from the glamour of the Queen's court.
the guards dispersed. Heading towards their rooms. Arthur gave Damian a nod before turning toward his quarters.
Arthur stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "May the best man find Death. i think you'll keep looking for him... but I'll be the one to unmask him and then I'll kill him."
Damian smirked. "So, it's a competition now?"
Arthur didn't answer directly. Just offered a parting nod. "Sleep well. We've got a long hunt ahead."
"Yeah," Damian replied, watching him go.
Damian sat alone in his quarters. The candlelight danced on the parchment in front of him.
He crossed out Arthur.
Not only was Arthur present when death struck.
His pride was too honest. Too reckless. There was no mask behind that smile, no hidden blade in his words. Arthur wanted the masked killer dead because he saw him as a worthy rival. No hidden malice. Just a clear goal to face the strongest.
Damian leaned back in his chair, letting the wooden frame creak beneath him. His thoughts flickered like the candle's flame.
He replayed the events, the scream, the chaos, the noble, the mask.
And then... a name surfaced.
Demetrius.
Where had he been?
Damian realized he hadn't seen Demetrius once since the celebration began. Not during the chaos. Not after. Not even in the crowd.
Not a shadow. Not a whisper. Not even a raised goblet during the toast.
No one mentioned him.
No one noticed his absence.
Damian didn't say the name aloud. But he picked up his quill.
He wrote it out.
He underlined it.
Twice.