{ ONE WEEK BEFORE ATTAG PRINCE MIRAC… }

  It was March 30, 1415.

  “Professor Shirkenn”, as he did almost every Sunday, set out in a royal carriage towards the capital of the Kingdom of Ardorya: Magam.

  There was nothing casual about the choice of his destination or the nervoushat seeped through his gestures, even though he tried to hide it.

  He didn’t veo the heart of the bustling city, with its crowded squares and lively markets. No, as always, he headed towards the outer areas, to the edges of the walls that surrouhe capital, Magam.

  There, where the low poputioy left space for solitary alleys and fotten streets, Krk nurtured his usual hope: to find someone alone, away fr eyes, a his anger on them!

  He didn’t care who they were, nor why they were there.

  Each time, he walked those deserted streets in vain search of any victim, someoo kill and pour out the repressed rage that ed him from within.

  But what had reduced him to this was the nightmare of having lived under Carmen’s relehreats for almost a whole year!

  That stant oppression had forced him to suppress emotions that now boiled up to the surface, ready to explode at any moment.

  I eight months, itting murder had bee almost his weekend pastime, so much so that the rumor of the feared “Sunday Killer” quickly spread throughout the capital.

  Therefore, by now, after spending so much time in Magam, Krk could recall all the maiures of the city by heart.

  For instahe sloping roofs of the houses that stood out against the clear sky, a succession of dark tiles that seemed to blend with the clouds. The facades, a skillful blend of exposed bricks and half-timbered wood, bore the marks of time and the weather.

  The windows, numerous and of varying sizes, were adorned with css that reflected the sunlight in iridest fragments. Refined wooden carvings framed the gss, while flowerpots hung from the sills.

  The houses overlooked cobbled streets, made shiny by a thin yer of moisture.

  Few passersby moved slowly, a slight sense of ay apanying them, yet still enjoying the peace of that Sunday m.

  Despite the rumors cirg about the feared “Sunday Killer,” some still walked those streets, either indifferent to the stories about the dreaded murderer or feeling secure in pairs or small groups, fident they could fay danger.

  “Shit!” Krk muttered through gritted teeth, drawing suspicious gnces from a few passersby.

  Of all people, Krk stood out signifitly.

  He was walking with determined, almost furious steps, his face tense, and his hands nervously gripping the strap of his bck bag.

  “I’ll kill her! I’ll kill her! I’ll kill her!” he repeated, like a mantra he could no longer tain.

  It was just then that, all of a sudden, Krk felt a preseg him in silence.

  From the left side of the street, at the end of a dead-end alley shrouded in shadow, an imposing figure stood out in the dark.

  He was hooded, the face hidden under a bck cloak that seemed to swallow up any trace of light. His rge frame, still and threatening, exuded an intimidating aura, as if the darkness itself had taken shape around him.

  Krk stopped abruptly. His heart ounding in his chest, but not out of fear.

  Instinctively, he grabbed the knot of his tie, ready to loosen it and pull it off his neck.

  It was his way of preparing himself, of brag for his enemies.

  In fact, if that figure had posed a threat, Krk would simply have tightehe fabric to stiffen it and transform it into his usual sword-tie, using it to fight.

  “Who are you?” Krk barked, his voice harsher than even he had expected. There was no fear in those words, only a rage sharp as a knife.

  The hooded figure stood still for a moment. Then, it took a step forward, allowing the dim light to faintly outlihe tours of the hidden face.

  When he spoke, his deep and grave voice seemed to echo against the narrow walls of the alley:

  “It’s been a long time, Krk…”

  Those words, spoken with chilling ess, were enough to freeze the man in pce.

  Krk’s eyes widened, and the tension in his hand loosened, releasing his grip oie knot.

  “C-Captain Dilven?” Krk asked, almost breathless.

  The figure remained silent. No sign of firmation, ure to dispel the mystery.

  He only made an almost imperceptible motion with his head before turning towards the interior of the alley.

  “Follow me…” he anded, with a voice that left no room for obje.

  Krk didn’t hesitate for a sed.

  He gritted his teeth and followed the figure into the darkness of the dead-end alley.

  As they he end of the short dead-end street, the heavy silence surrounding them grew even more oppressive.

  The twilight pyed with the shadows, making it difficult to distinguish the boundaries of the walls and the road. The air was thick, as if the alley itself were holding its breath, waiting to listen to their words.

  The man named Dilven stopped just before the rough stone wall that blocked the passage. Theurowards Krk, who was following closely behind.

  Krk, without hesitation, took the initiative to speak. He lowered his voice, both to ensure no one could hear them and out of the reverence he felt when addressing the Captain.

  “Captain, I’ve been trying to tact you for over a year!” he said, with a note of frustration. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Dilven, the imposing man who seemed to occupy all the avaible spa the alley, responded in a hoarse, deep voice:

  “You know well, Krk. We’ve been busy with preparations. The anizatio move without a pn. Moreover, we sent practically all our men to other secret associations like ours to spy on them and gather the information we need. But anyway, now let’s talk about you!”

  Dilven took a step forward, intimidating Krk, who instinctively stepped back.

  “I see you’ve killed many people in these st few months. I mean… you’re the Sunday Killer, right?”

  Krk barely nodded his head.

  “As I thought…” said Dilven, with an almost imperceptible breath. “Frankly, the Boss doesn’t care who your victims are, as long as they don’t interfere with his pns. But clearly, you were so caught up in having fun iy that you fot about this detail, as well as your mission and the real reason you’re here! So, let me ask you directly, Krk: why haven’t you killed Prince Mirac yet?”

  Krk bravely took a step forward, rage burning in his eyes.

  “That’s exactly what I wao talk to you about,” he began, in a lower but teohere’s another spy in the royal pace besides me.”

  Dilven raised an eyebrow beh his hood.

  “And so? What’s the problem?”

  Krk stared at him incredulously, almost hurt by the response.

  “The problem,” he emphasized, “is that this woman already knew everything! The first day I arrived at the castle, as soon as I stepped into the entrance hall, that woman immediately reized me and showed that she knew my name, our pns, and even the name of the anization!”

  Dilven stiffened.

  “She already knew about the Last Storm?” he asked slowly, as if his mind were sifting through all possibilities.

  Krk nodded firmly, his face rigid.

  “Yes, and not only that: this woman is part of the Demonib!”

  At those words, a spark of fshed in Dilven’s gaze.

  “The Demonib, you said?” he repeated, with a note of disbelief.

  “Exactly,” Krk firmed. “So, as soon as she told me that, I immediately thought there might be a spy in our team as well! There’s no other expnation for how she knew every detail!”

  Dilven took a moment to reflect. His eyes narrowed, as if trying to peer into the darkness beyond the alley.

  “Alright,” he finally said, in a grave tone. “Once I return to the secret base, I’ll inform the Boss about this matter immediately. However, everything you just told me still doesn’t expin why you haven’t pleted your missio, Krk!”

  Krk snapped like a spring, moving towards Dilven with a weak but sudden motion, his eyes full of desperation.

  “Yes, it does! Because this is exactly where the root of the problem lies!” he excimed, his voice crag with frustration. “That woman…!” He paused for a moment, gritting his teeth and g his fists to tain a wave of anger. “That woman said that the Demonib has taken my family hostage!”

  Dilven remaiill, his gaze being cold and analytical.

  “Your wife and daughter?”

  Krk nodded slowly, his hands barely trembling.

  “Yes, Lois ara! At first, I thought it was just a bluff. But then, when she revealed that she art of the Demonib, and sidering that her hair is as red as blood and she already knew everything about me, I realized she wasn’t lying!

  “The same day I arrived, she also told me,” Krk tinued, his voice broken by repressed anger, “that she would harm Lois ara if I didn’t follow two rules: the first, don’t kill Prince Mirac. I don’t know why they want to protect him, but clearly, they’re getting something out of it. And the sed rule…”

  He paused for a moment, once again g his fists until his knuckles turned white.

  “The sed rule was to provide her, whenever she asked, with information on other secret anizations like ours. And I had to obey both rules, Captain Dilven! I didn’t kill the young Prince because I absolutely couldn’t risk putting my wife and daughter’s lives in dange-!”

  “KLARK!” Dilven’s voice abruptly interrupted his subordihe tone so menag it resembled a thundercp.

  Dilven’s already imposing figure seemed to grer, taking on an almost otherworldly presence.

  “YOU’RE A PLETE IDIOT!” he finally roared, his voice as fierce as the growl of a beast.

  Krk instinctively stepped back, raising his hands defensively.

  “C-Captain Dilven, you rest assured!” he stammered, desperately trying to appear calm. “I didn’t tell her anything about the Last Storm, I swear!”

  “That’s not what I mean!” Dilven thundered, cutting off his protests with urained fury. “Krk, your family was never held hostage by anyone!”